So , what do you do to prepare your body for this physical devastation? I hear blueberries are good, so I have been eating a lot of them lately - they make my toilet bowl look like a Teletubby graveyard. I also have notified all the significant people in my life that I love them and who gets what in case I die following a naked Indian through the desert alongside the portly ghost of Jim Morrison (he died looking like Val Kilmer does now; ahhh symmetry). Although it will be slim-pickings considering all the major things I own (i.e. my ballin ass 4-cylinder Toyota) are not in my name due to some legal reasons mostly circling around the fact I do not actually own them. I technically can only lay claim to a pellet gun, the complete 91-92 set of Upper Deck hockey cards, and an abstract painting done by my ex-gf. They will all go up for auction with all the proceeds going to fulfilling my dieing wish: having Doug Gilmour do my eulogy while Wendel Clark jerseys Zak Lester.
In short, there really is no way to prepare. I've worked my ass of for 80 days; I'm sure it can handle 6 days of abuse. The best I can do is send it off into the treacherous unknown as well-prepared as possible. Today's task: beat the hell out of my back and bis like a pedophile stealing my 91-92 complete set of Upper Deck hockey cards. (What? Bomber that analogy makes no sense. Well, I don't know about you, but, I am not a big fan of pedophiles and would like to hurt them. I also want to hurt people that try to steal the best thing I own. So, if a pedophile was stealing the best thing I own, he'd be in for an Undertaker on Manking-like beat-down. Again, Bomber, wtf?, who the hell do you expect to get that analogy? Contrary to the way you think the world should be, you are among the few and far between that own and have read the Mankind auto-biography and understand the awful devastation the Undertaker rained down upon him at WWF's King of the Ring when he tossed him off the top of the cage onto the announcer's table causing his teeth to mash up through his upper lip embedding themselves deeply into his nose. At which point, he didn't run to the bench like some pussy-ass NHL player, instead, he got up and tapped the motherfucking Undertaker out!* Jake the Snake, Charles Bronson, Rambo, General Lee, dude who cut his arm off with a pocket-knife when it got wedged under a boulder: eat your candy-ass hearts out, Mankind is all that is man; he is the universal benchmark for manliness; his jaw is made of granite, his facial hair is steel wool, his fists are like cinder blocks, and his heart is made out of the souls of vanquished foes. Fair enough Bomber, you are right...if you have not purchased a copy of Mankind's auto-biography and care about not being a candy-ass pussy, then go here: http://www.amazon.com/Mankind-Have-Nice-Blood-Sweatsocks/dp/0060392991)
With all our stuff packed in the living room, people bustling around excited for what could be one of those formative experiences you carry with you like an unearthed treasure or an epi-pen, Millard and I gathered up the focus and bared down on our increasingly-chiselled back and bis. This exercise still sand-blasts our egos with a healthy dose of humility, peeling away all those layers of false-bravado, that-chick-whose-line-of-sight-I-entered-wants-my-shit-bad-bro, and collar-popping cock-sureness. The other muscle-growth exercises either rotates between two or three muscle groups, allowing them a chance to rest and recoup. Not back and bis, it doubles up the bicep exercises, gnawing away at them like a methed-up Nazi zombie. No matter how many times we do this, muscle failure is inevitable. The only change since we started has been our rebound time: before, we had to make sure we had straws in the house the day after because the process of lifting a cup became a two-man job with a lengthy preparation round of "git' er' dones" and hyper-ventilation. "Hooo, Hooo, Hooo, lift brooo, lift, shit, shit, we're two far right, fuck brooo, you're spilling apple juice on my new Ed Hardy...fuck guy! you owe me your new Tap-Out shirt."** Now, the next day is like any other...filled with Sportscentre, naps, and fears about the impending global takeover by the illuminati/hours of Internet time.
Highlights: The last exercise is a strip-set: max-out on a certain weight then do the same with a lighter weight and so on. After shaking the 30s around at my waist, jerking the 20s around, and actually lifting the 10s, I picked up the cute, light green 5 pound weights that women jog with. There I am, directly in the middle of our giant bay window, grunting, snarling, and sweating with my whole body visciously shaking attempting to curl these beastly 5-pounders when I lock eyes with a group of people passing by. Needless, to say I looked pretty cool and about as physically intimidating as a sleeping kitten.
State of Mind: Coachella! Coachella! Coachella! Try not to do acid! Seriously, you hate drugs, don't do acid!
Rating: P80X (still some failure).
* Undertaker actually won the match, but Mankind got back up and put up one hell-of-a-fight (perfect analogy for the upcoming Philly/Chicago series?).
** If Tap-Out shirts had collars, would they come pre-popped?
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