P90X: The Depth of Failure

Day 81: Begin Anew, Shoulders, Chest, Triceps.

2010-04-22T15:41:00.002-07:00

Just like how "Rosebud was his childhood sled", "Kevin Spacey was Kaiser Souzai", "Bruce Willis was a ghost", "Pauly Shore was never funny", and "Edward Norton was Brad Pitt", Coachella offered me a profound realization that was always present, always lurking in every scene in my life, but I just had to wait for the 'big reveal'. I was in the airplane on the way home listening to Jonsi, looking out over the large, winding expanse of the Rocky Mountains, when it hit me like a portly fallen angel, I began to cry and, to this day, I am not entirely sure why nor did the dude wearing the Ed Hardy shirt beside me. It was not something theoretically functional, but some fundamental emotional understanding about how much easier this whole thing can be. To explain it would be about as fruitful as telling someone who has never smoked weed, what it's like: you can use some words to describe the feeling, but they are about as useful for the endeavour as trying to dig a hole with a straw or have sex with a condom. Carl Sagan came close, but I am no Carl Sagan. I did, however, write this article on the experience that might shed some light on what the hell I am talking about.

Vague, weird spiritual revelations aside, I got viciously gang-beaten by the four-headed hydra of sleep-deprivation, heat-exhaustion, vodka, and Chef Boyardee.

Step One - Put Can in Searing Hot Sun, Step Two - Wait 15 Minutes, Step Three - Enjoy

I felt like John McClane at the end of every Die Hard going into this work-out. I was beaten, bruised, battered, and the heavy underdog against an evil non-descript foreigner and his platoon of equally foreign henchmen, but I knew justice had to be served no matter what. All my body wanted to do was shakily lift a vodka bottle to my mouth in the peaceful darkness of my bed. It reminded me I was only one small balding man with little to no military training up against a well-organized international group of highly-skilled mercenaries. I, in turn, reminded it that I represent the perfect form of escapism: the age-old story of the down-trodden little guy that stands up to the powerful, accomplishing the seemingly impossible. It's the same ol' story except David had stones, Rudy had footballs, and McClane had beaters, bullets, and bravado by the bushel-load.

Fuck! I should have listened to my body, I should have realized I am not a fictional God-like character like John McClane, I am the 40-something, short balding Bruce Willis. This work-out sucked. My sweat was vodka, my tears felt like blood, my muscles felt like they were being shredded like crumbly old cheddar, my brain felt like it was being pulled out of my ears with pliers, and my anus felt like it was leaking liquidy fecal matter. (Here's a fun game: guess which one isn't a simile!). In any event, I got through it...barely; at the last second I was able to ignite a line of jet fuel that I happened to fall beside by dramatically, but inefficiently tossing my lighter onto the ground, all the while thinking of a clever thing to say to no one in particular as the plane that was carrying all my hopes of finishing P90X attempted to fade away into the darkened horizon.

Highlights: Laying there after the work-out, belly-down, star-fished on the floor, unable to move even though my testicles were firmly implanted in a make shift vise-grip composed of the hard-wood floor and my pelvis.

State of Mind: This work-out sucked. Don't get me wrong. But, I immediately realized it's all worth it after loading my vacation pics. As I put them in my computer I compared some of the pics to last year's Spring Break pics (sorry, this might make your eyes bleed),

This weird creature washed up on the shores of Puerto Plato; he made bad jokes and thrusted a lot

If you shaved my chest I would look like a 9-year old girl (with a gnarly shin-tan). And, yes, I still have the speedo, and, yes, it is an extra-small. Fast-forward one year: same ocean, same pose, but with far less eye-bleeding,

Rating: P77X

Day 80: Back and Bis and Coachella Break.

2010-04-22T15:41:00.001-07:00

My journey of awesome body-rippitude and mass-level clit-boner induction unfortunately has to be put on pause for 6 days. I am going on a music pilgrimage to the Californian desert where I hope to exorcise the wholly unholy ghostly trinity of consumerism, materialism, and only Canadian girls seeing my jism. 140 bands, 4 days, 35-40 Celsius temperatures, searing hot sun, dirt cheap American vodka, 10-15 cans of Chef Boyardee, and a vacation-induced inability to assess risks: my body feels like it is Joe Pesci and being driven to a cornfield. Our P90X instructor who probably uses vinegar as cologne because he is such a douchebag, might be against spending 6 days drowning your liver and colon in vodka and processed food stuffs, but, alas, it would be mentally unhealthy to miss an event of this magnitude. Plus, I don't have to wear a shirt for 6 days.

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?

Day 79: Plyometrics

2010-04-14T22:35:00.001-07:00

This will be our last rendezvous with the beast of cardio-burden known as plyometrics. I can remember our very first meeting with plyometrics - it felt like the wedding scene in Kill Bill. There we were, doe-eyed and excited on our second day, ready to get into P90X shape. The future held so much promise; it was supposed to be a blessed union between the will, the mind and the body. I was finally going to get into shape. About 15 minutes in, the first shotgun blast bounded throughout the room: I was 10 seconds into some sort of ungodly, sadistic squat type and my thighs were hit...hard. I struggled up onto my feet, eyes rolling around in their sockets, my heart crying and pleading for me to stop, and then time-slowed, I tried to warn him, but it was to no avail. Millard absorbed a point-blank slug in the right thigh, crumpling to one side, regaining his balance slowly, gritting his sparkly-white teeth, and continuing on. The rest of the work-out we felt like every person in that quant, Texan, church on that fateful sunny afternoon; taking every shot, every slug, every life-silencing knife wound, but we kept on going like some Terminator Tony Montana. We had the resolve of champions, but the cardio of Roseanne.

Day 79 is a different story. Plyometrics is Carl Weathers in Predator and I am the Predator! It is those poor Iraqis caught in the night-vision of an overhead helicopter and I am the sadistic, scared, 18 year old manning the 80 cal.; it is the Leafs and I am an opposing team; it is a baseball and I am the mysterious monster dog in the Sandlot; it is unsuspecting young gay men in Milwaukee during the early 90's and I am Jeffrey Dahmer; it is constructive, rational political discourse and I am the American political institution; it is John Bobbit's weiner and I am Lorraina; it is Pauly Shore's career and I am the year 2000; it is Kristen French and I am Paul, errr, the point is, we can easily handle plyometrics now.

In my adult life, although many might argue hasn't technically started, I have never been in better cardio-shape. I used to fake orgasms due to my cardio limits. Well, that's not true, I have the Cheddar Bob from 8-Mile syndrome: I shoot myself in the leg before I can get it out of my pants. Point being, in 79 days I have turned myself from a dude that hated walking to the corner store because of how taxing it was on his body to a guy that leisurely runs 13 k. 90 days and you'll be in the 90th percentile for fitness levels amongst your peers...at least.

Highlights: When we did this before it was complete silence, occasionally punctuated by coughs, weezes, and low grumbling "fuck mes". On this one, Millard and I carried on a conversation about the merits of the old G.I. Joe's versus the bunk-ass doll-sized one's that look like action figures from a gay porn called the "Gulf of Tom Kin".

State of Mind: I feel like a strong, powerful, take-no-shit G.I. Joe in the actual Gulf of Tonkin.

Rating: P90X.

Day 78: Shoulders, Triceps, and Chest and Ab Ripper X

2010-04-12T22:14:00.000-07:00

This is our final muscle-growth week, which leads us to the big question, have I grown muscle? Perception and reality rarely ever synch up; actual muscle growth and the psychological urge to think I look more cut, dangerous, and badass than Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon (1973), probably are not walking hand-and-hand. That being said, this is how I feel,

I think my dick got bigger. Seriously, I am not a doctor - but, my dad's a dentist - and this seems totally possible to me. I never thought of taking before and after pics so it will be difficult to gauge, but I definitely think it is a lot bigger and way more cut. Yeah, it actually got cut: it went from being like a mildly soggy piece of wood that had been in a stream for about a week to a rigid, strong, dependable steel-rod. You could hang a fridge on this thing. Bomber, you sound like an idiot, firstly, who hangs a fridge, and, secondly, you're penis cannot get bigger from working out, this is a scientific fact. First of all my dick doesn't believe in science - he's an Episcopalian as well as a Pescatarian - but luckily I do and I can prove there is room for dick growth in science. I'm working on the powerpoint and visual AIDS as we speak, but here are my bulletpoints:

1) Science does not reflect objective reality; it is our best conception, at the time, of what we think it is. The objective world didn't actually change from Newton to Einstein or from Einstein to Quantum Physics - our ability to perceive some of its complexities did. In 1906, we simply couldn't fathom the notion of matter not truly existing - that all matter was an illusion created by energy vibrating at different frequencies. And just like science couldn't grasp the sub-atomic world in 1906, science cannot, today, wrap it's egg-head around the breakneck, badassery that is P90X. I hypothesized that 'P90X' can make your dick bigger, I created this 'P90Xperiment' to test this and I have observed penial growth, and, thus, can infer, and conclude, that "P90X made my weiner bigger". What just happened here? I think it's what we call 'science'.

2) Scientists are weak and flabby and don't work-out like awesome, strong, alpha-males like myself. So, like the scientists that practice this 'science', it has no place in the gym.

3) Dicks can get more cut - i.e. rigid - when you improve your circulatory system. Blood pumps faster, smoother, and easier, which means there will be more to material fill your dick with. P90X is Lorraina Bobbit: it cuts the shit out of your dick.

4) You know how when you shave your pubes, your dick looks bigger? More of the actual shaft is perceptible. Yeah, the same thing happens when you lose weight.

5) Fuck science! What has science given us? Really? The atom bomb? Abortions? Spitting in the face of God's will elongating Dick Cheney's life?* The Tuskegee experiments? Eugenics?** Automated telephone operators? Ford and GM cars for the last two decades? Fuck science. Yeah, sure, it gave us the printing press mass producing knowledge and innovation, but, guess what it also gave us? A Sarah Palin book. So, yeah, science can eat my intuitive, gut-based reasonings' asshole.

It should be pretty clear that P90X made my dick bigger, which is pretty cool. Anything else?

I have these weird bumps of tissue over what used to be my exposed breast-plate; these are pretty cool also. I honestly looked like an 11-year old girl before P90X. I sort of have pecs now - they aren't like big beef-pot pie pecs; more like, quarter-pounder pecs.

I definitely didn't get super-bulked. I lost no weight during this; so I surmize, with the fat loss, I probably gained 4 maybe 5 pounds of muscle. Who knows really. I did gain some muscle mass across my shoulders and arms; nothing too insane: it looks like I'm wearing Gordie Howe's old, barely protective, shoulder pads under my shirt. But, bulking aside, the best results occured in my mid-section. You could grate steel on my abs. If Lex Luthor slammed Superman's head against them, he would be left bloody and unconscious. You could pour water in between them and play boats, pretending you are Cartier sailing up the St. Lawrence river and it's tributaries all the way down into promise land.

Unfortunately, working out does not change your face. I can actually call myself a butterface. But, alas, it is better to be a butterface than a Jofa - good bucket, bad equipment.

In short, I sort of don't look like an extra from Schinder's List anymore.

Highlights: The whole workout went well until Ab Ripper X. Butt-cut is back again and it is killing me. (If you are not familiar with the evil entity that is 'butt-cut' go here, http://bombersp90xperiment.blogspot.com/2010/03/day-59-shoulders-and-arms-and-ab-ripper.html).

State of Mind: I really actually enjoy working out now. It is slowly becoming less of a duty and more of a hobby. This statement blows my mind: I never thought that would be possible.

Rating: P90X

*Cheney has commited less war crimes than he has had heart-attacks.

** Yeah, yeah, Eugenics was unscientific, but, still, the power of scientific validity was used here.

Day 74 & 77: Chest and Back and Kenpo X

2010-04-08T20:44:00.001-07:00

Weekend workouts suck. I'd rather spend a 'Weekend at Bernie's' as Bernie, go to a Nickelback concert, and again suffer through having sex on a trampoline and double bouncing myself onto my boner, being forced to wear the red Power Ranger costume my mom turned pink in the wash, and watching Wayne Gretzky's high-stick on Doug Gilmour go uncalled in game 6 of the conference finals, than struggle through another weekend workout. (Ironically, the last three events occurred at the same time: I was having sex for the first time on a trampoline in my pink Power Rangers get-up, watching the game through the window when Kerry Fraser's unnecessarily giant, taxidermied, head-of-hair caused him to miss one of the most obvious calls in sports - the blood-letting high stick - sending me into a fit of anger inadvertently ruining my perfect thrust rhythm, double-bouncing me into the air and forever changing the angle of my wiener. That's right folks, Kerry Fraser broke my wiener. And shattered my dreams of a Leafs/Canadiens Stanley Cup Final, which, since the conferences have been re-drawn, is now an impossibility. We shall never forget, never forgive).*

But, alas, they have gotten better, the workouts have become easier. I'd just rather drink copious amounts of cheap vodka and talk about whether the demise of Martin Brodeur in both the Olympics and the 5-game rout the Flyers laid on him in the first round, tarnishes his legacy than have to do 298 push-ups in 52 minutes. (For the record, it doesn't tarnish shit. He is the greatest goalie to ever play the game minus Felix Potvin who, like Bobby Orr, had injuries shorten his career making you ask and wonder, 'what if'?**). Weekend distractions aside, we trucked and mucked through both of these workouts efficiently and with ease. But, like I said in the last blog, it's not exactly surprising that after doing these individual workouts upwards of 15 times, we have gotten better. It's a law of human nature: do something a lot and you will get better. (The Leafs' prospects over the last 15 years - Kim Johnnson anyone? - are apparently a glaring exception to this rule.) So, really, the interesting question is, what else has gotten better?

Well, my mirror has officially taken over my computer-screen as the thing I masturbate in front of. So, that's good. I aslo find myself purposely wearing sweaters without a zipper down the middle, so when I take them off it's like a curtain slowly rising, unveiling my gleeming, sparkly, aneurysm-inducing, hard-cheese grating, mid-section. It's like watching Cirque de Soleil on mushrooms. However, we went over the physical affects last blog, the hardware - what about the mental, the software? How do I feel inside my brain, are my thoughts good and stuff, faster, sleeker, sexier, or just the same ol' slow-moving, ranch-dipped, electrical signals shuffling around aimlessly and lackadaisically bumbing into neuronal bundles here and there?

To borrow an analogy I used earlier, I feel like I went from DOS to Windows 7. The speed, clarity, and random ability to access memories and wayward thoughts has grown exponentially. It's like the Windows of my consciousness have been cleaned 7 times removing the grimy, yellow, caked-on ranch-cheese goo. It's not that my RAM has been affected, it's that I have become RAM (Random Analogy Machine). The random thoughts and associations that occur when I'm thinking or talking about anything persistently create these random, yet perfect, analogies. The lanes have been widened, the roads have been cleaned, and there is constant, fast-moving, Autobahn-like, traffic hustling from one neuronal bundle of memories and concepts to another. Throw any acronym at me, and I will turn it into a statement regarding my hotness. DOS? Dildo Obfuscating Sexiness, Dastardly Osiris-like Sensuality, Distant Occular Spraying. MAC? Major Awesome Cock, Mystical Anal Contractor, Mitochondric Anal Capitulator. (Ok, so the last one doesn't make sense, but, I bet, it took a double-take to figure that out).

Other than the sheer processing power being affected, I feel calmer. In many ways I am more mellow, more caught in just being here and now, and not worrying as much about what has happened and what could happen. Don't get me wrong, doing a bunch of push-ups and curls while yelling "extreme" in my basement for 77 days has not allowed me to enter into the effervescent, transcendent world of momentary consciousness; I just feel less pent up and anxious.

Highlights: A group of teenage girls walked by the window as Millard and I were simultaneously karate-chopping the shit out of the air. I've never looked so cool.

State of Mind: Calm and quick. My mind is Bruce Lee.

Rating: C & B: P85X +Kenpo: P87X = P86X

*This didn't actually happen. I was born in 1986 - do the math. I would have been 7 when this occurred. I didn't hit puberty until well into the other Pat's (Quinn) coaching tenure.

** Felix Potvin had no major injuries in his career. And, no, no other person on the planet has ever made the Potvin-Orr comparison.

Day 73: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X

2010-04-07T21:50:00.001-07:00

I could write about today's workout, which I have done upwards of 15 times, and tell you how much better I am at it than the first time I did it. "No way, you did the same thing 15 times and now you're better at it?!" Yeah, it's a pretty basic law that if you do something 15 times, your ability in that particular activity will increase. There are some exceptions to the rule like cricket, which I'm pretty sure you need a P.H.D. in set theory to understand or sex. I can honestly say I have not gotten any better at 'the sexin' than the first time I did it. I'm not insulting myself, I was just that good. You know how some people have a natural, god-given (yes, those can both occur at the same time) talent to do super-difficult math questions and they have no answer for this ability, no explanation, and have not undergone any rigorous training for it. They simply claim that their brain spits out some shapes and they interpret those shapes as representing various numbers and, voila!*, they have their answer to the square root of 999 876 674.7890. I'm like these guys, but with fucking. I'm a sex-savant, a sultry swinger of seduction, a purrrveyor of punani punishment; my brain just immediately spits out all the right answers and moves, directing my hips into some sort of multiple-orgasm-inducing satanic salsa. A few times -- at parties, restaurants, movie theatres and the like -- my powers have been activated by, say, a kiss or that scene in Wild Things**, or Graham's sister or imagining Graham's sister in that scene in Wild Things, and, bam!, I black-out and when I come to it's the same thing time and time again: a gigantic pile of mildly-paralyzed, overly-satisfied women panting, huffing down cigarettes with reckless abandon, and speaking in tongues. If some million-woman march occurs in Washington and starts to get out of hand, send me in. All I need is an Ipod equipped with the director's cut of Wild Things and patriarchy will once again, prevail.

So, yeah, instead of talking about the obvious improvement in this exercise over 73 days, let's dig into something juicier, something more personal and deeper. Let's discuss my self-image. There's a lot to cover here and I intend to work through it during this week's blogs, but, for today, let's just cover the surface, the strictly physical. How do I feel about my body?

In short, I like it and I think you should too. I'm not like Swayze in Roadhouse by any means, but it no longer acts as an obstacle that is conquered by, "well, he's sort of funny". Weirdly enough, I can no longer take my shirt off at parties; before, I was the funny, slightly too drunk guy, with the make-a-wish kid frame and Jewish accountant gut, but now, I would be the douchey guy that has no other positive social characteristics other than triceps you can drink water out of and abs you could grate cinder blocks on. If there is a ketchup bottle in front of me or across the table, I find myself reaching for the one across the table, allowing my t-shirt to ride up on my arm as I flex and crane lift my ketchup to my plate. I refuse to do any social activity where I can't take my shirt off. "Yeah, that sucks man, but I'm going to have to pass on the funeral; it's beach-day bro".

In all seriousness, whenever something occurs in our lives that is socially positive - getting a senior role in a company, getting stronger, getting published, banging some girls etc. - it is very easy to allow that confidence to cede into other areas it has no business being. You can get in really good shape, but that doesn't mean you should feel more correct when arguing about gay marriage, or Quantum Theory, or find your jokes funnier. The same goes for all other things. And, the opposite occurs too. If you, say, feel insecure about your looks or you didn't get the job you wanted, then it is really easy to feel less confident about your opinions, thoughts, abstract ability to reason etc. The better we feel about ourselves as a whole, the better we feel about the parts that make up the whole; this is illogical. These parts are separate entities - how your face looks and your ability to judge sound reasoning do not reinforce or influence each other. Easier said than done, but it is silly to do so.

Point of all this? I have been watching this process occur in myself and have begun the process of building dams, blocking any positive feelings about my physical appearance from flowing into any other areas it has no business being in. (Plus, lifting weights does not help your face). Ego can ruin experience - if you think you're bigger than the world, how can you be in constant awe of it, if you think you are always right or as smart as anyone, how can you learn from people or become excited by their ideas. Humility allows you to take so much 'new' stuff in; with Ego, you just patch these new experiences onto the old-construct that stands to prove you are this or that great thing; with humility, you are allowed to tear down some of this construct, constantly renewing your perspective on things and yourself. The ego-driven person derives pleasure and contentment from their positive self-image, to tear aspects of it down, is to tear down pieces of the mechanism that allows them to be happy, thus, real, powerful, spell-binding new ideas or experiences will be ignored in favour of serving this construct.

Wow, that was so deep, I am truly awesome.

In short, I look better, but I am still the same ol' insecure guy that will pull out his penis if it will make people laugh.

Highlights: Millard staring at his reflection in the window flexing his biceps. I think him and Zak share a storage unit for their self-image in the same building.

State of Mind: I think I am so cool, but not that cool, but pretty cool.

Rating: P90X

*I have gotten manly enough over the last 73 days to be able to say Voila and it still sound cool.

** Do not mistake Wild Things with Where the Wild Things Are. Wild Things has Kevin Bacon and Neve Campbell in it and has no giant, hairy, monsters that represent what our insecurities turn us into, blocking us from attaining the one thing we want, to not be alone, to be loved and cared about. Saddest fuckin' movie ever. I considered putting in Schindler's List afterwards to cheer me up.***

***That's not a Jewish joke...the movie does not actually cheer me up - it's a hyperbole used to underline how sad Where the Wild Things Are is by comparing it to a super-sad movie that powerfully illustrates in grueling, gut-wrenching detail, one of the greatest atrocities in human history. Thought I should clear the air.

Day 72: Plyometrics

2010-04-06T19:24:00.001-07:00

We're rounding the corner, coming into the homestretch, 18 tiny lil' days until the finish line. We've shown the heart, determination, and ability to overcome the odds like the Jamaican Bobsled Team (the movie version with Doug E. Doug, which I imagine is way more inspiring than the actual one), but will we end up face-down, all our hard-work, dreams, and hopes for not having to wear a shirt all summer, scraping away like the black, gold, and green paint from their helmets?

Well, if we can get through the all-out, breakneck, soul-crushing 'total war' on our bodies that was the first 18 days, the last 18 should be like the invasion of Grenada. (By that I mean it should be easy, not a staged, overblown, hard-fought victory of the courageous and good against the dastardly forces of evil that can occupy any dark corner of the world - like, say, a small isolated island of 100 000 peaceful subsistence-farmers - growing and growing into a freedom-strangling, liberty-raping, baby-killing hegemony.)

It should be easy; we have already soundly defeated the Triple-Alliance of chin-fat, meat-bagel*, and running out of breath while masturbating. (The Italians naturally representing the latter, given their rabid libidos and love of all things cheesy and fat, which also explains their deep admiration of Pavarotti). After that, it should be smooth-sailing unless we encounter something comparable to a U-Boat or other sort of poor analogy that allows me to move on to that other total-war we had, WWII.

Our go at Plyometrics today speaks to how easy it should be to complete the final 18. During the first 18, this exercise would gut-punch us, take our lunch money, and then use that lunch money to buy a large dildo to rape any hope of completing this exercise out of us. Times have changed, tables have turned? We are doing the gut-punching, lunch-money stealing, and anal dildo raping? Either way, we can now competently get through it.

But, really, you never know what the next 18 days has in store for us. In the deep, dark, unknown, depths of our consciousness, could lurk a demotivational torpedo heading directly our way. (And, B-Bam, a fully-functional, non-forced U-Boat analogy...eat it, "when in doubt you do not have to use analogies Bomber"; you know who you are).

Highlights: It is becoming crystal clear that we need to institute a rule that forbids inviting people over while we do plyometrics or yoga. You simply cannot look cool doing squat-jacks in matching board-shorts.

State of Mind: I like working out now and it yields super-positive mental results -- however, I have moved far enough away from how I mentally felt before working out to be able to compare exactly how much better it does make me feel. I guess it's like any drug, it's beauty and splendor fades with repeated use.

Rating: P90X

* Scrunch up your stomach fat into a circle around your belly-button, and, that, my friends, is a meat-bagel.

Day 71: Chest and Back and 5K Run

2010-04-05T16:17:00.001-07:00

I bought a mop today. I've been living in my apartment for 6 months and my Swiffer with the one head and and empty tank is being officially retired. I am burying it in the backyard along with the pot with the burnt Sidekick noodles on the bottom and the pint glass with the curdled mystery substance. I also will be throwing out my Kriss-Cross cassette (I bought the CD), poster of Keanu Reeves in the first Matrix, and the hope that Kim Johnsson will grow into a stalwart on the Leafs' blueline (that one's been buried in my closet for a long time). The Brett Hull GT-Racer poster is also gone, but it is in the shop getting framed. As you may have gathered, today is Spring-Cleaning even though it feels like summer outside.

I moved everything off the floor and I was ready to give it an experience it probably has never had - a good moppin'. That sticky spot in my kitchen that has become a graveyard for an entire generation of ants - I imagine inspiring powerful war-time poetry that will be memorized and regurgitated in ant classrooms for generations to come - was about to finally meet its maker...literally. As I grabbed the mop, Millard and his usual outfit of flannel and awkwardly fitting New Era cap busted through my door, "dude, for one, how awesome is my beard, and, two, it's beautiful out, a perfect day to do a 5K". I dropped the mop - the ants can have one more day to mourn the loss of their fellow patriots - grabbed my shorts, and went outside where I put my shorts on. (I mop naked; Millard now knows that).

On the days that I run, I plan out what I eat accordingly - lots of carbs, some protein, and some fats. I didn't have that opportunity today; all I had for breakfast was chicken. Just chicken. I don't know much about stuff, but running with only protein in your system might not be a good idea. The first km of the run, shit was bad: my knees hurt, I was starting to feel a cramp developing, and my wiener was rubbing against the hair on my inner-thigh and, no matter how much re-adjusting I did, it was like a pig's tail, immediately going back to its original position smacking right against my thigh. (And, yes, it makes a distinct 'smack' sound due to its gurthiness). The only fun part was passing Millard on his way back, giving every bystander in the vicinity a reason to think we are super-lame. Whatever, high-fiving someone while you are both completely in the air without breaking stride is not easy to pull-off.

I made it to the LCBO at 10:55, which isn't an awful time considering I only need to beat my best of 21:55. If I kept up my pace, I would shave off 5 seconds. However, I was ruined, flattened, defeated...I had nothing in my gas-tank or reservoir of Nazi-defeating determination. I dug in, pushing back feelings of vomiting, wanting to stop, and wanting throw myself in front of a bus, and made it to about the 4k mark at par with my best time. If the CTV Olympic crew were covering my runs, I would be neck and neck with my digitally-imposed shadow and Brian Williams would be comparing me to Terry Fox.

At this point, my shadow pulled away from me fading far into the horizon. I was done - I looked like a modern North-American Jew on a Tibetan death-march. I could barely lift my legs for the last 100 metres and I think I might have actually began to cry. I literally fell through the finish line. Time?

23:10

I added 1:15 onto my best time. Dejection, disgrace, and shame, eventually ceding into self-pity. The taste of defeat -- tastes like Prince Igor vodka with a cigarette in it and sounds like someone fucking your girlfriend or significant other.

Afterwards, I had to place giant granules of salt directly into my wounded pride, immediately having to do Chest and Back because I had promised some friends I would drive up to their place by 10. Luckily, this exercise is mainly push-ups, which Millard and I have gotten insanely good at due to the ingenious inclusion of push-ups into video-games. I recommend it to all. It adds more competition, and more reward when you force your opponent for an 8th time that game to do ten push-ups on Gaborik's highlight reel 4th goal. Eat it Millard - I own you in NHL 10.

I sloppily stumbled through this exercise, gritting and grinding my teeth and sphincter as I worked through well over 200 push-ups.

Highlights: That last km was a long highlight unto itself. It was like an audition tape for Passion of the Christ. (And, yes, that is the 2nd time in a week I have compared myself to Jesus).

State of Mind: The run was hell - if that was the experience I had the first time I clocked a 5k, I would not being doing them. That being said, it was nice to see that I didn't just say fuck it and kept pushing. If I want to do any sort of high-endurance activities to test my mettle, these are the experiences that will help.

Rating: 5K: P77X + C & B: P85X = P81X

Day 68 and 69: 5K Run and Shoulders, Triceps and Chest

2010-04-03T14:16:00.002-07:00

Weekend-workouts are worse than Mondays. All I want to do on weekends is drink, dance, debauch, and use my liberal arts degree to argue with someone with a B.A. in commerce, until 5am in a hot-tub, about what Einstein actually meant in his theory of relativity and how the non-locality at the sub-atomic level displayed in Quantum Physics proves aspects of it wrong. "I'm sorry dude, but I have 4 back-issues of Scientific American beside my toilet and I take long poos, so they definetely trump your two PBS documentaries on space-time. Plus, I am far more drunker than you, thus, more righter".

The crappiness of the weekend workout is simple, my week of work is over, why do I have to do more? Everyone around me is done and having fun, why do I still have to do stuff?

But, Bomber, these people have real jobs and you only have to workout an hour a day, how does that even compare? Well, what I am doing is a real job. For starters, I make money from this blog - in fact, my last week's earnings bought me a breakfast combo from McDonald's. And, secondly, this whole thing acts as a sort of internship where I am getting the "experience" necessary to get a lucrative, high-paying job...stripping. All I need is a stripper name and a song. They should probably play off eachother. Suggestions would be appreciated in the comments section. I'm thinking 'Bang Bang Bomber', where my thong has a gun on it, and I fire it towards the crowd during the various gunshots in any DMX track.*

After spending two hours, burrito-wrapped in my Grandma's blanket on the beach, re-learning grade 8 geo's concept of the moderating effect of water, bitterly attempting to have a beach-day, I returned home to hit the pavement in search of a new best 5K time. This time I had headphones that you do not buy on an airplane, so that alone put me in good stead to beat my previous best, 22:47. I sat in my basement, eyes ablaze with a firey determination that would have scared the caked-on poutine out of Maurice Richard's bowels, slowly and meticulously lacing my sneakers up, blood coursing through my race-track of a circulatory system, faster, and faster, all the while, Eye of the Tiger, blasted through my ear drums, starting to build, starting to hit its fever pitch. I bolted up my steps like they led to the Philadephia Museum of Art**, making my way to the starting line, a busy, busling Queen street.

Rural Alberta Advantage crackled, and danced through my headphones, into my eardrums, hypnotically demanding my hypothalamus send torrential waves of world-conquering hormonal warriors throughout my body. I made it to the half-way point - the LCBO - at 10:37. If I could keep it up, I would crush my time like a beer-can on oh so many Nascar fans' foreheads. For this, I needed to bring out the big audio guns, the one thing that can squeeze every ounce of hormone-juiced ability out of me - Big Shiny Tunes 2. Yeah, yeah, I know, but we are chained to the nostalgia of our old musical choices; in my best year of hockey, this was the only album we listened to and it brings back all of those teeth-chattering, white-knuckled, heart-pumping, back-hand top-corner moments of pure adrenaline.

Prodigy, 'Breathe', and Blur, 'Song 2', squeezed down on my hypothalumus like a 13-year old touching a tit for the first time. I was about one km out and, 'Semi-Charmed Life', came on - this wouldn't cut it. I frantically punched down on the skip button finding the one song that could get it done: Marilyn Manson, "Beautiful People".

You can't see the forest for the trees, And you can't smell your own, And on your kn - bam! crossed the finish line. Time?

21:55

The scene was filled with jubilation, joy, contentment, pride, and one scared older lady with her dog who had no idea she was walking through my finish line. The sweet, sweet, taste of victory -- tastes like rum and sounds like whatever the fine ladies at Jilly's prefer to dance to.

I woke up late on Saturday, realizing I had to get home for Easter by dinner-time. I quickly ate, summoned up the hangover courage, and plowed through Shoulders, Triceps, and Arms. I clocked out, my work for the weekend was over.

Highlights: Last 500 metres, I came upon a crowd of 6 people blocking the sidewalk, as I popped onto the street, a chunk of phlegmy awfulness shot into my mouth, as I ran by the crowd I attempted to get rid of this pesky disturbance powerfully propelling half of it out of my mouth until it got snagged by the other half, causing it to fling back into my face. So, yeah, I spit on my face in front of a bunch of people.

State of Mind: I will go into more detail in the next blog about where I am now, but, in short, I am at a point where I enjoy working out, it has become as an integral to a good day as a morning poop, shower, great dinner, and beating Millard in NHL 10.

Rating: 5K: P90X + S, T & A: P75X = P82.5X

* And, yes, there was a Simpsons' episode that had a grown-up Bart stripping under the name, 'Bang Bang Bart', but, he did not have a gun on his thong or seamlessly choreograph his gun-shot-thrusts to one of the greatest poets of our generation, DMX.

** The building 'Rocky' ran too.

Day 67: Yoga X

2010-04-03T14:16:00.001-07:00

Yoga...for some this word conveys inner-peace, transcendence, relaxation, calm, and an opportunity to escape the mundane, pain-inducing trivialities of the illusory material world to a place of eternal (non)meaning and (un)truth. For Millard and I, yoga is a place of mind-blowing, olfactory nerve-shattering farts, the awful feeling that comes from knowing we can't tell our dads about this, and mildly homosexual events ("Now, place your asses in the air and exhale slowly", "Ahhhh, that feels soo good bro", "Man, oh yeah, ahhh, yeah, that is it right there, that is the good stuff"). At first, it was just funny. "I can't believe we are doing this, this might be gay, and I'd have to ask that kid with the skinny jeans, $120 flannel shirt, and the look of always not wanting to be where he is that's always in the streetcar/bar/subway/restaurant/clothing store/place where people meet, but I don't think this is very cool. Whatever man, we are strong enough to not care about flaunting the code of cool and the irrational, perpetual fear of possibly being considered homosexual and that's funny." "Exactly Bomber, hell yeah, we don't need to care about the silly, bullshit, insecurity-driven notion of what we should be, we can just 'be' and that makes us cool". "High-five".

Now, we care.

It's gone from, 'this is hilarious we are doing this' to 'what the fuck, we do this every week'. The initial shock that jolted our funny bones has subsided, leaving only two dude's loosening their pelvic floors causing the relaxation of their respective anal-sphincters. Two heterosexual dude's should not be relaxing and delicately opening their anal-sphincters in the same room - let alone, beside each other with their asses in the air as they moan in ecstacy. That's gayer than Richard Simmons' body-butter, glitter, bedazzled things, or a fiercely anti-gay republican. But, it's not gayer than Richard Simmons or bedazzled glitter, which is the apex of gay. So, how gay is it? Well, here's a complete, empirical list of the aspects of a homosexual encounter,

-Sweat

-Moans

-Two or more men present

-Unchristian

-Anal sphincter opening

-Abs

-Penetration

-Orgasm

We cover everything on this list except for penetration. So, science would tell us that we are 7/8ths gay. Global warming, annual increases in toxic particulate matter, the link between cancer and cell phones, and now, me being 7/8ths gay - I hate science.

Some of you may have some concerns about the list. How is Yoga unchristian? Can't you have a homosexual encounter without penetration? These are good questions. Firstly, it is unchristian because it is an activity used extensively in a different religion. As for the second question, it raises an interesting point, does penetration have to be involved in a homosexual encounter? Well, if you walked in on your buddy getting a handjob from a trucker, he probably wouldn't try arguing that it's not gay because there was no penetration and that we should just get on with our trip across Canada because we need to get to his parent's cottage in Parry Sound in time because the other side of the Echlin family will be there in a few days.

So, yeah, I guess we can take 'penetration' off the list. Wonderful, we are officially full-gay (7/7ths). Anymore questions about the list?

I play squash - it has two men in a room, sweating, with abs, and the occasional moan as we lunge for a difficult shot. So, given your logic, it is 4/7ths gay.

And your point is? I asked for questions not declarative statements. Any actual questions? I guess not.

Highlights: I achieved the ultimate yoga position allowing me to reach Nirvana, which is the name of my penis - hence, the orgasm listed above. One of the worst things in P90X history occured today, Millard's testicles fell out of his shorts and, I don't want to say too much, but it was one of the weirdest things I've ever seen - they were like two cute Furby dolls with big, manly beards.

State of Mind: It's like Barbara Streisand in Funny Lady, Liza Manneli, and Burt Bacharach are having a glitter fight in my brain. Burt's there because I'm still pretty manly. "Pretty-Manly": the perfect title for my eventual biopic.

Rating: Next time we do Yoga, i'll explain our short-comings, but we suck: P56X.

Day 66: Back and Bis

2010-04-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

I walked out of my apartment this morning to a beautiful 20 degree Celsius summer breeze washing over my smiling face, people on their porches rocking back and forth pleasantly waving at whoever happens to pass by, a paper delivery boy perfectly arching today's news onto nearby driveways, birds chirping, kids playing, a 55' Ford Thunderbird peacefully rolling by, a picture-perfect day in the life of a good citizen. I was gently pulled from this comforting scene by a friendly lick of my hand, a neighbourhood dog was stopping by to say hello, as I looked down to give him a hearty pet, I was surpised to see I was wearing a baseball mitt, a perfectly pressed t-shirt and slacks, polished shoes, and the most startling of all, I was in black and white; everything was in black-and-white. This weird realization was interrupted by someone calling me for breakfast. But, here's the thing, no one makes me breakfast. "Beaverrrr, breakfast is ready!". It hit me like the Lombardi-led Green Bay Packers defensive line, I was in Leave it to Beaver. In fact, I was Beaver!

This was all very weird at first - indeed, the only thing that has ever happily licked my hand around my house was a homeless guy and we don't have paper-boys let alone driveways to throw the papers on. But, gee golly, I felt great. Not a care or worry in the world - everything was as it should be, the good guys had won the war, America was the benevolent super-power that would usher in a new era of peace, happiness, and rights, and I was an integral part of it; a young boy in the noble nuclear family. In short, the first day of good weather can have a profound affect on one's mental state.

I had to turn away from this beautiful, simple, and weirdly perfect place, descending into my dungeon of damp degeneracy to lift heavy things. The colour came back, which was a relief, but so did everything else in all-too vivid technicolor - a teetering superpower divided in half by those that read and those that enjoy monster trucks and Hooters; an imminent, although never acknowledged, global water crisis; allowing your son to be an altar boy qualifying you as a bad-parent; Detroit making crime instead of cars; Arrested Development being cancelled...twice; 98% of a political movement named after a tax-revolution that demands tax-cuts not knowing that taxes have been cut in the last year; Sarah Palin; Sarah Palin supporters; Sarah Palin wrote a book; people actually believing Sarah Palin wrote a book; the Sarah Palin book becoming a national best-seller; Sarah Palin's family; Sarah Palin's tight fitting leather jackets; and worst of all, the guilt of wanting to fuck Sarah Palin. Cold, stark, brutal realism crashed into my consciousness like a brick through a congressman's window. It was clear that this world was much crappier than the soda-pop version outside, but, I had a job to do.

Millard and I anted-up, bared down, and hummed through the workout like a perfectly fitted fan-belt on a 56' Buick Skylark. It sucked being couped up inside, but once we got our motors running and got out on the highway, we were looking for adventure and whatever came our w...this song is from 68', Leave it to Beaver was cancelled in 63', it makes no sense to force this in here and it sounds lame. You were looking for adventure and whatever came your way? Do you have any idea how gay that sounds? Two dudes, doing Yoga and lifting weights alone in a basement apartment, yelling things like "dooo it bro", "torque it guy, torque it", and "pump it broo, pump it", is bad enough and inches you eerily close to warp-speed gayness. Adding in the fact "you got your motors running and were looking for adventure" may actually break the gay barrier - if Einstein had a theory about the impossibility to reach maximal gayness because of the structure and limitations of the time-space continuum, you would have just disproven it. And, you clearly know nothing about cars - the humming of a fan-belt? Are you kidding me?

Well, what I was trying to say was that we did well and competently completed the workout routine. You raise some good-points and I would like to yield the rest of my time to the floor.

Highlights: Jam-packed with moments of motors-running, adventure-finding, liking smoke and lightning, and exploding into space. Yeah, fuck you.

State of Mind: The weather matches my mental state -- cheerful, breezy, refreshing, and a little cloudy (I'm still sort of sick).

Rating: Hit some failure and sort of wimped out on the final strip-set: P80X.

Day 65: Plyometrics

2010-04-02T13:32:00.000-07:00

My P90X posse is growing like a 13 year-old boy's manhood in the back of a bumpy school-bus, like reality TV after Survivor, like Hasselhoff in Germany, like a war-time economy, like my love for Japanese gameshows, like Glenn Beck's insanity, like Jon Stewart's importance in Amerian political discourse, like the demand for skinny jeans, like vampire-based sexual fantasies, like the lack of care for Haiti, like the ability to think socialism, communism, and fascism are the same thing, like the belief that Barack Obama is fuckin' gangster, like the need to bring back The Care Bears, The Smoggies, and Captain Planet on Saturday mornings, like the need for condoms with lightning bolts on the side, like the need to end this list because I'm not even sure what we are comparing all this stuff to anymore, and like the need for velcro shoes to be considered cool and jogging pants with soccer-balls, foot-balls, or cats on them to be acceptable to wear again.

We had an addition to our workout troupe today - Millard's girlfriend, Stacy. Now, she has worked out with us before, but she has not been officially ordained and brought into the P90X circle of trust. This makes today a special day - we have yet another 'Trial Private' on our roster, which is as follows,

Raj 'PoopyTaco' Gill

LJ 'ThunderGlitter' McCleod

Stacy 'Gruber' Toffan

Like every member of the team, Stacy has a very specifically crafted nickname. Some of you may be wondering if she is nicknamed after the great SNL character MacGruber, but you would be wrong. She is actually named after the greatest Gruber in the history of Grubers. The story behind this prestigious honour is short and sweet. (Just like Stacy? I'm just kidding; Stacy is a fiery ball of twisted steel, sandpaper, jagged glass, and really sharp tacks).

During our workout, Stacy was wearing a baggy pair of joggers and a baggy men's t-shirt. The only thing identifiably female was her flowing blonde locks. For the first 5 minutes of the workout I did not notice her - she was infront of me, but off to the right. When we started to do our first squats I looked over to check her form and bam! I couldn't believe it! For about 3 seconds my brain was wrinkled -- I actually thought the great Kelly Gruber was doing squats in my living room. I almost got my Jays jersey and asked for an autograph. So, she is now referred to as 'Gruber', which is a name I assume she cherishes.

But, Bomber, why would you name a cute, blonde girl after a male baseball player - isn't that mean? Well, like I said, from behind, all you saw was baggy men's clothes and those rushing, flowing, cascading, blonde locks bouncing around. And if anyone has ever seen a shot of Kelly Gruber rushing towards first base like a confident, peaceful gazelle, then you would understand that he had what could only be described as the most perfect, flowing blonde locks. In fact, it's a compliment: Kelly Gruber had really pretty hair. He was honestly my mom's favorite baseball player for three years because she thought Kelly was a chick; his hair was that pretty. Yeah, I know, how could he be mistaken as a chick with a chiselled chin like that, but TV's back in the day were much grainier and weren't able to fully capture Kelly's overtly rugged and masculine features in all their manly glory. All you saw was the beautiful hair and the unisexual name, 'Kelly'. To my mom, he was the female Jackie Robinson. The memory of the day she found out Kelly in fact had a penis - probably a very manly one - still brings a tear to my eye. Why my Uncle decided he had to tell her this, I will never know. Sometimes, mistruths are good and sometimes Uncle's are dumb.

We had PoopyTaco and Gruber along for the ride and they put in one hell of an effort - hair-raising stuff really. They had to take a few breaks here and there as Millard and I put on a clinic of squat-perfection, but they would bite the plyo-bullet and bear down on the next exercise.

Highlights: PoopyTaco followed our newly imposed strict rule of mandatory sportsbras. After the workout, I realized we might need some heavy-duty duct tape for next time.

State of Mind: It's a lot easier to do it with a group of people. The seconds just easily shed away alongside all the calories. B-bam...it felt great.

Rating: Millard and I - P90X, PoopyTaco and Gruber - P65X

Day 64: Shoulders, Chest, and Triceps and Ab Ripper X

2010-03-31T14:44:00.001-07:00

"And why do I know it works? Because I'm also a member". Today, I feel the pride, sincerity, and belief that the great founder and member of the Hair Club for Men felt when he uttered these historic words. During our first P90X workout our peppy, annoying, inspiring and somewhat creepy instructor barked out these melodramatic and sensationalistic words, "we're changing lives across this great country of ours". At the time, I thought this guy was taking himself way too seriously - I imagined this is what the Jonestown leader sounded like. It was truly cult-like, but instead of matching robes they all had on matching muave P90X tanktops. But, now, I see the light, I get it, and it is righteous and beautiful my brothers and sisters. Don't be afraid, embrace the revelation, cover your whole body in the Truth; bask and glow and let it imbue your soul with contentment and purpose. Namaste. Come forth and be annointed. Tony you changed lives across the great country of the United States - don't worry, I've got Canada covered.

Some of you may be confused - doubtful even, but this is all a normal adjustment to understanding the groundbreaking, paradigm-shifting, life-changing, muscle-bulging truth of 'the X'. I beckon, plead, and righteously request you order your P90X tanktops for the low price of a 29.95 down payment - whereafter, you are required to give me all your possessions. Don't worry, where we're going material things are meaningless. The only possession you require are beautiful, sparkling, clit-boner inducing abs...and we will be giving you this great gift in exchange for all of your things.

The point of all this mind-numbing, grandstanding, religio-economic rhetoric is that a few of my friends have decided to start P90X. That's all. I guess I represent a pretty functional motivational tool for some. Before, when my ranch, cheese and beer guzzling buddies and I would see someone who is dedicated to being in shape, we would claim that's just not us, it's not part of what matters to us and that guy is dumb and not smart and we are, so we don't need to compensate by working out. This and other ego-empowering rationalizations were constantly made. But, the fact that one of us - arguably the most ranch and cheese saturated individual - broke off and joined the other side, caused these rationalizations to be liquidated of all their oily, greasy, ranch and cheese meaning leaving only a crusty receptacle of sorry excuses. Quite basically, 'if Bomber can do it, why the fuck can't I'.

I found the biggest motivator to do this program came from writing about it. It allowed a bunch of my friends to know I was attempting it, creating more expectations and therefore greater failure if I did not finish. Great expectations are the material the strongest and urgent motivations are made out of. In that spirit - the spirit of trying to help - I will list the names of my friends that are taking the P90X plunge. If you know them please send them messages saying that you know and you are watching them. Here are the following cadets of the P90X program,

Mr. Graham 'Grandpa-Chest' Echlin (What was the war like Graham?).

Mr. Oli 'The New World Order is Upon Us and Will Kill Your Babies' Squire. (I think everything Al Gore said was correct, what do you think?).

Mr. Eric 'Is a Fart Art?' Shulist (I want my art-theory book back dude).

Good luck and godspeed cadets! You will need it. Be vigilant, be aware, be alert, be strong, be willing, and above all, be 'Me'.

We had some new additions to our work out today. They are not new cadets because they have not yet decided if they want in on the Truth. They are currently considered 'Trial Privates', which is way less weird of a name considering they are not male. We have a returnee Trial Private - Raj 'PoopyTaco' Gill - and a newbie to the beat - LJ 'ThunderGlitter' McCleod. The workout was tough, unrelenting, and sweaty. The trial privates did good.

Highlights: With all four of us in the living room/kitchen, we did not have a lot of space. At one point Raj was behind me and I got hit upside the head. At first I thought she must have accidentally smacked me with her hand, but I realized this wasn't possible because we were doing squats with our hands down at our sides. Then the awful, heart-stopping realization hit me and prompted the creation of the first rule of P90X: Trial Private PoopyTaco has to wear a sportsbra - preferably with duct tape fastened around it...at all times, no matter what. I washed and washed the back of my head, but the damage was done; I will never be the same.

State of Mind: Indoctrinated righteousness with an unflinching faith in the universal truisms contained in the P90X.

Rating: We almost did every exercise, but hit failure here and there - P82X.

Day 60 and 62: 5k Run, Chest and Back, And Extreme Sickness

2010-03-29T21:57:00.001-07:00

Simon and Schuster; Batman and Robin; Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin; Riggs and Murtaugh; Amos and Andy; Republicans and Racism; Hate and Ignorance; Evil Dictators and Mustaches; Tiny Chicks and Big Tits; Catholicism and Hypocrisy; Glenn Beck and Inane Chalk Diagrams; Politics and Theatre; Drunk Chicks and My Dick; Nerf Guns and Good Times; Taco Bell and Intestinal Regret; George Washington and John Adams - these are all great bedfellows, they all work incredibly well together. Being sick and drinking, however, do not. Throw in dairy, and you have a biological axis of evil, a triangle of tyranny, a trifecta of tumult, a cadre of cruelty, a cavalcade of consternation, a shut-the-fuck-up-with-the-lists-and-get-on-with-it-and-I-don't-think-consternation-works-in-this-context-nevermind-I-looked-it-up-and-it-means-a-state-of-paralyzing-dismay-my-bad-but-please-move-on-because-this-is-beginning-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-my-eyes-although-I-am-technically-a-non-existent-persona-used-as-a-tool-for-interactive-dialogue-with-the-readers-so-that-doesn't-really-make-sense.

In short, fuck.

I can't even tell what parts are the hangover, the sickness, or that suspiciously cheap burrito I bought at the gas station the night before. All I know, is I would donate bone marrow and half-an-inch of my penis to get rid of this feeling. It's like every cell in my body is being creepily humped into painful submission by that smelly, yellow troll from Sin City. (And, yes, cells have receptor sites, so they can be 'penetrated' by unwanted entities). Mentally - 'paralyzing dismay; physically, my body feels like it's being slowly broken down into a gelatanoues slime that will slowly slip and slink into a nearby sewer. I've never missed a P90X workout, will today be the first?

The weather outside matched my emotional state - cold, sad, and dreadful. Today was a cardio day so I decided I'd sub-in a 5k run instead of the regularly scheduled workout, Kenpo-X. I was not in the mood to imagine myself vanquishing various sorts of henchmen with upper-cuts and high-leg kicks. I just needed something to put my head down and drive through - running was the perfect option. I put on my all black outfit of jogging pants and hoodie - a great idea especially at night - laced my sneakers up extra tight, grabbed my mp3 player, switched on the only thing that could get my mucous-saturated juices flowing - Eye of the Tiger - and laid back down on my couch, napping for another hour. That was my first attempt. I awoke, groggy and pissed of at myself, with Eye of the Tiger still on loop, which produces the most intense I-against-the-world dreams I have ever experienced. Fortunately, the resonating emotional context of these dreams would provide the necessary motivation for me to actual go through with this.

I peeled myself off the couch, muttering 'fuck it' underneath my breath, and ascended from my dungeon of dank misery, making my way to the starting line, Queen street. I prepped myself, slowly exhaling a mixture of air and phlegm, looking on with burning embers of determination in my eyes and napalm in my heart, all the while slowly pulling my hood over my head. I slammed down on my stop-watch, lightly growled, and took my first step. It was weak and unsure and landed atop a chunked-up piece of gravel, causing me to slightly trip, and shoot out my right hand to regain my balance. As I was getting back up, Survivor's wise and powerful words of encouragement crackled through my WestJet headphones,

Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive

I hit full pace right as the last line began to roll through my headphones. This may be a cheesy moment for some, but, for me, it was heart-palpatating, knee-knocking, vein-expanding, mind-gasming, sports-movie-montage perfection. The run was crappy, the weather was crappy, but all of these awful colliding factors made it enjoyable in a weird way. Not to overdo the Rocky theme, but I felt like I had no business making every step like Rocky had no business stepping into the ring. Simply put, I felt the high of overcoming the underdog status.

My best time so far was 22:47. I had no designs on making this time, I just wanted to post something in the ball-park. I rigamaroled* through the finish line at 24:22 - respectable considering the circumstances.

As a result, I decided to celebrate that night.

I woke up sweating vodka, rum, and regret out of my pores. Comparing the way I felt yesterday to today is like comparing gonorrhea to full-blown AIDS. It had to be done, I had to reschedule - on Day 62, I, Eric Bombicino, missed my first P90X session. I stayed in bed until the next day where I prompty got up and moved to my couch where I would stay until 9 o'clock. I, then, rigamaroled through Chest and Shoulders and went back to bed. Determination, grit, stupidity -- call it whatever, but I paid my dues to P90X and now we're all square.

Highlights: A light dabble of teeth-clenching, white-knuckle perserverance atop an ocean of rigamarole.

State of Mind: Temporary mucous-induced labotimization.

Rating: 5K - P83X (It was over the best time, so it can't be the full score) + C & B - P90X = P86.5

*Rigamaroled is not a proper conjugation of the adjective 'rigamarole' and if it was it is not being used in the proper context. However, I am using it as an onomatopoeia - so, I'm going to go ahead and say it's still within the bounds of proper english.

Day 59: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X.

2010-03-27T22:39:00.001-07:00

Back with a vengeance. Lazarus returns! Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Allow me to reintroduce myself. Here's Johnny! Just like a sadistic Jack Nicholson poking his head through the bathroom door, my arch nemesis has axed his way back into my life, from the grave, from retirement, and onto the top of my butt. That's right people, the gregarious, annoying, evil, torturous, snarling, pain-inducing bastard is back: my butt-cut has returned. Bigger and blacker and not nearly as entertaining as Chris Rock.

Some of you may have some questions like how can a cut on your butt be gregarious? Or, I understand how it could be bigger, but how did it get blacker and why was it even a lighter hue of black in the first place? These are important questions and I intend on answering them. Gregarious? The first thing that comes to mind is Tony the Tiger. That guy is the pinnacle of gregarity (not a word - it should be gregariousness - but it sounds way better so I'm officially adding it to the English language. And no, YOU can't do that, but I can). He's in a word, engaging - constantly, demanding and getting your attention. He is outgoing almost to a fault. When my sweat drips down the deep, muscular channel known as the small of my back - that, really, at this point, small children could water-slide down - and into my butt-cut, it engages and grabs my attention in a way a lovable, but clearly coked-up Tiger never has. So, yeah, its 'gregarity' outpaces what I once considered the 'pinnacle of gregarity' - and that's a lot of gregarity. Thus, it is gregarious.

OK, Bomber, fair enough, your annoying yet engaging explanation proves that your butt-cut can be gregarious. But, how can it be black and then even blacker? For that matter, how did Chris Rock get blacker? He followed that stand-up with 'Head of State', 'Down to Earth' and 'Osmosis Jones' - that shit is white-washed formulaic hogwash. Yes, hogwash - and, further, it is clear that his gritty Def Jam comedy days were his blackest, so how the fuck can he say he got blacker? He's following the Eddie Murphy trajectory.

For one, he's only following the Eddie Murphy trajectory in the sense that he's a great, edgey, black comedian that has been given the deserved opportunity to make movies. And, granted, 'Head of State', was a failed attempt at lightly underlining and satirizing the instutionalized racism embedded in the very fabric of our system, but at least he's not making movie after movie about shuffling kids around in mini-van from one crazy, unforeseen situation to another. And, he's still, to this day, respecting the craft that got him there - standup. Kill the Messenger was vintage Chris Rock. You know what vintage Eddie Murphy is? Delirious and Beverly Hills Cop - both of which were made when Reagan was still President. And, what the hell does this have to do with working-out or my butt-cut? No one likes long-winding, what the fuck are you doing right now, tangents, that seem to lead to nowhere, but mediocre punch-lines. You're writing is like a bad episode of Three's Company. Stay on point...why the black butt-cut?

Well, firstly, do you remember elementary school art class? When you mixed dark red and brown together you would get black. Well combining that knowledge with the fact that I wipe up, should give you your answer. (Some of you who are sticklers for colour theory may be thinking that to make black you really just mix a bunch of colours together. Well, my butt-cut also has some yellow, purple, and blue around it, so there you go. But, really, if you're sitting there contemplating whether the proper fundamentals of colour theory are being pursued in a joke that involves me wiping poo into an open wound, then you may be missing the point).

Moving on, I had to start the workout later today. I was at my parent's house trying to get my 12 pounds of monthly laundry done and by the time I was finished, hit the road, braved rush-hour, and sufficiently rocked out to Florence and the Machine, it was 9 o'clock. So, there I was, 9 at night, nose-dripping, throat 87% clogged, about to begin my workout. You can't say I'm not commited. I wrassled Shoulders and Arms to the ground and made it bow to my will. I immediately moved onto Ab Ripper X, but as I wrote above, another foe entered the ring, laying down a bullshit tag-team while the ref wasn't looking. "What are you doing ref - come on! - really, yelling at a fan for 5 minutes? That's just not believable". As I sat down, I realized he was coming, drapped in his ominous black-cape with Hell's Bells blasting through the speakers, powerful pyrotechnics rocketing up into the rafters, he entered the arena.

I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain.

I'm comin' on like a hurricane.

My lightning flashing across the sky.

You're only young, but you're gonna die.

.......

I'll give you black sensations up and down your spine

If you're into evil, you're a friend of mine

The powerful, the evil, the scary, the gregariousss...BUTT-CUTTTT. I braved the onslaught of tag-teamed pain - thank god - but this song describes every aspect of what I feel when butt-cut is around. Read it - from the top - that is my emotional state in the form of a song.

Highlights: The V-up, roll-back (a sit-up where when you come down from it you rock back up, touching your toes) exercise was a lesson in the almost bottom-less depth of pain a human being is willing to withstand in order to do what they beleive in. Mel Gibson should make a movie about what happened here today. I was like William Wallace and Jesus Christ rolled into one. It was truly amazing.

State of Mind: I feel a wave of bloodthirsy rebelliousness washing over me like grains of jagged glass. I want to usher in a new era of political freedom or an entirely new conception of God. I am not sure which yet. I am unemployed, so maybe I'll do both.

Rating: P90X.

Day 58: Plyometrics

2010-03-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

Blood-curdling screams, torn appendages, mashed digits, decapitated heads, exposed brain stems, crushed femurs, obliterated knee-caps, unravelled intestines, punctured lungs, and a few badly stubbed-toes -- this is the fate of the fallen White-T-Cell warriors on day 2 of battle on the plains of my throat. Fuck...Me. I feel like John C. Holmes skull-fucked me in my sleep all night with a Louisville Slugger; his python-dick would have been a welcome guest, not leaving what feels like giant, deeply-imbedded cedar slivers in my esophagus. But, Bomber, Louisville Sluggers are made out of pine. Well, for one, it feels like cedar and, for two, that's your biggest realism-beef with the above sentence? Not the ghost of a methed-out porn star force-fucking my mouth with a bat, but that the bat couldn't possibly be made out of a certain type of wood? What's wrong with you? Paint-chips may have the word 'chip' in them, but they are not an acceptable snack.

In short, I feel horrible. If my shower wasn't the size of a phone booth, I would have laid down in it and probably had enough energy to finish masterbating. Coughing up what looks like mashed up cheese-peach-corn chunks while realizing you can't get a boner doesn't even make the top 10 worst moments of my day. (Wow, 80% of this blog so far has been about dicks - even this sentence. Whatever, Freud was a coked-up lunatic; repressed homosexuality - ha! - I'm going to go ahead and deny that as a possibility). After my shower, I was able to make it my couch where I camped out for the rest of the day, staring ominously at the TV like a drunk pedophile at a park while watching Sportscentre highlights so many times that by the end I could mouth Dan O'Toole's and Jay Onrait's hilarious, whimsical, and teleprompted dialogue in its entirety. Those guys are hilarious, I have no idea how that come up with that stuff!

I awoke from my slumber, hearing a distant bell toll - Millard must be home. He entered into my dank, dungeon of a basement apartment and looked down at my prone body like a civil war priest giving a soldier his final rites.* "Uhhh, dude, ummm, do you want to work out now or would you prefer I placed these coins on your eyes"? "P90 brooo, cough, phlegm-shot...I'm in it to win it bro".

I didn't actually say that -- I do not have enough chest hair, hair-grease, raging insecurity or Ed Hardy clothing to pull that line off. Either way, I rolled out of my casket, resurrected with the sense of body-ripping purpose that has kept me chugging along all these days. Our smug, peppy, generally annoying fitness instructor with triceps you could drink water out of, reminded us once again that plyometrics was the "mother of all P90X workouts". It's pure cardio assault.

The first 15 minutes were god awful; there's no way around that. At one point, I would have considered main-lining draino instead of having to continue on. But, after the first 15, and once my heart rate had been sufficiently elevated, I started to feel better. I know that working-out can crush a hangover, but I had never experienced the sick workout. Now, granted, I felt much worse than I normally do throughout this, but I starting to wake-up, clearing out my brain of all the slow, moving mucous and phlegm that was impeding the speed and flow of the electrical signals shuffling around important thoughts about, say, possible dick jokes. Now, I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that this isn't an accurate view of our how a cold affects our neuro-systems, but, that's what it subjectively felt like.

Mother of all P90X workouts while having early on-set ebola-aids with no breaks? Chiggidy-check.

Highlights: The first 15-minutes I looked like a zombie from the Thriller video doing squats and aimlessly shuffling around.

State of Mind: Phlegmy, but functional.

Rating: P90X

*Yes, people, you get dick jokes AND Hemingway references.

Day 57: Chest and Back

2010-03-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

Woke up this morning with what felt like a prickly, melted ball of cheddar cheese in my throat and a fever that would have put me in the 'brown-acid' tent at Woodstock. Fuck...I never get sick. I have an impenetrable immune system - my doctor told me I probably don't need to wear condoms it's so good. Deep in my genetic make-up there is probably the cure for Aids and poverty. What happened? Why the depressed immuno-response? It couldn't have been the fact I slept a grand total of 8 seconds this weekend, which happened to be on the 403 on my way to Niagara Falls. Or the fact, the only thing I ate since saturday was beef. Amazing, braized, gravy-saturated beef my Uncle made for my Grandpa's 85th (which is why I was driving to N.F.). If human flesh happened to taste like this I would support the death penalty and the proper utilization of this meat (with all the proceeds from it's sale, naturally, going to the victim's of these twisted, awful people. I should consider a job in politics with trail-blazing, visionary ideas like this). He sent me home with at least 2 lbs. of the stuff and I love him dearly for it. It made no sense to eat anything else but beef. I am no Doctor, but only having beef-based nutrients in my system for 3 days, seems fine to me.

Either way, I felt like I either wanted to jump in front of a bus or had been hit by a truck. I gathered my strength, ambled to the fridge, and made myself a beef sandwich. It was delicious, but it did not make me feel any better. I slept for three hours, woke up, dragged my feet to the fridge, and was saddened to realize I was running out of beef. I made my last beef sandwich and laid back down. I fell asleep - at 5:01 I was dreaming I was under a gravy waterfall as lil' tasty beef children ran around. At 5:02, Millard shook me awake and told me "it was time". I was groggy, out of it, sick, and just wanted to sleep. I received these words like a suicide bomber prepping for his big date with 72 virgins. "It was time"...I had to man up and do my duty.

This week begins a new muscle growth week where we are starting with 'Chest and Back' - an exercise we did the first three weeks of the program. Actually, it is the first P90X experience we ever had. Here's what I wrote 56 days ago,

"The rest of the work-out felt like various enhanced interrogation techniques. P90X does not fuck around. If someone is ever forced to do P90X, I don't care what sort of complex legal justifications you want to make, it is fuckin' torture. It throws all sorts of different push-ups at you: diamond, wide-set, standard, decline, dive-bomber, gut-wrencher, soul-crusher, colon-cleanser etc. It did not go well; I am just proud that neither of us black-outed for that long. We probably did a good solid P32X. The rest of the 58 generally consisted of us rolling on the ground yelling "extreme". "

Today's workout was a slight improvement. And, by 'slight improvement', I mean a difference from what Patrick Swayze looks like right now (RIP) to what he looked like inRoadhouse; from Eddie Murphy in the 80's to Eddie Murphy in Norbert; from going down a skirt to find a weiner in your hand to going back in time to when you spotted that hot girl across the bar giving you eyes - point is, the difference is huge. We did every single exercise for every single rep. And our arch nemesis the diamond push-up that easily beat our asses 56 days ago, was left lying on the ground in a bloody, pulpy mess. Even though I felt like I was in the early stages of ebola-aids, it was an amazing experience to see the improvement that can occur in 56 days.

Highlights: It was all a long highlight reel of extreme push-up fortitude. But, about 3/4s into the routine, the diamond-push up reared its ugly head. We were hesitant and nervous, having no idea what we could do. I settled into the position, moving downwards until I reached the bottom, the moment of truth: could I push back up? Here's the dialogue that ensued right after this moment, "OH my god, I'm doing it Millard, bam, bam, bam, bam", "Dude, I know, yeah, extreme!!", "Extreme!!! dude", "We did it man", "I fuckin' love you dude", "sniffle sniffle", "Millard are you crying? Don't be a pussy", "I can't help it man, I have seen the top of the mountain and it is glorious", "I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about - we are in my basement".

State of Mind: I have 3 lbs. of phlegm in my face and 3-4 lbs. of beef in my bowels, but I feel great and satisfied after today's workout.

Rating: P90X.

Day 54: 5K Run

2010-03-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

My posts have become the length of a 1st year liberal arts paper - so, I promise this one will be short, sweet and sexy just like that girl in my 1st year polisci class that I almost talked to once, instead opting to play the suave 'hard to get' card, making zero eye contact as I fearfully fumbled my extra pen over to her. (Which happened to be my only pen that would have come in handy during our quiz). This particular strategy is long-term so If I happen to run into her now - 6 years after the fact - I'm definitely in. Chess and pimpin': they ain't that different. The rules might be slightly dissimilar, but the strategy of foresight - knowing what your opponent is going to do 6 moves/years from now - is the same. That's why I go out to bars - there are many women that I have been waiting in the lurch, strategizing, calculating, ready to entrap; I have made the proper moves 6 years ago and now I just need to check-my-mate all over them.

Moving on, today was a cardio day so I decided to sub-in the 5K run. If you haven't been reading along, I have been timing 5k runs while scaring the hell out of people on Queen street. It's a race against the clock as well as my old self. Every time I run, I demand some improvement on my earlier times. My last time was 23:06. No matter what stood in front of me, I was going to beat that time. Doug Gilmour could have asked me if I wanted to drink beers with him and hang out in his rec room with Dave Andreychuk and Wendel Clark and I would have kept on running. I was a man possessed. 23:06 rattled through my consciousness, hissing, and taunting me. Fuck you 23:06, you are just numbers, I decide whether to personify you and allow you to hiss and taunt me - I am your creator, bow down to me!?

I made it to the half-way point - the LCBO - at 11:37. 23: 06 rose from the ashes of my consciousness like a cunty phoenix, ascending under the sheer power of its flapping labia. (I think I have unresolved issues when it comes to women). After seeing the time, I bared down and dug-in, but so did my blood-deprived nub of a wiener right against the stitching of my jogging pants. It had weaseled its way out of my underwear flap and was now sending powerful, pulsating, pain impulses directly to my brain. My wiener must have been in cahoots with 23:06 because it simply does not have the balls to do this alone. I was not going to be beaten - like I said, I was a man possessed. With many people around me, no time to spare, and without breaking pace, I summoned up the courage and jammed my hands down my joggers, recklessly and desperately adjusting my penis downwards and, first, attempting to fasten the button on the underwear flap, realizing it was not there, then moving onto tugging the underwear to the side. This move took way to long; about 4-5 seconds total. It should normally not take longer than 2 seconds, but I was panicking just like all the people I was approaching on the side-walk as I did this.

After layers from the tip of my penis were no longer being worn away, the run felt great; almost easy. I starting tearing up the pavement. I was as determined as any time before, but there was no yelling and spitting and chortling, just a silent face of gritty resolve. I sprinted the last 500 metres, making up some time, but would it be enough? Bam! crossed the finish line, looked down at my watch...

22:47.

This is why I put myself through throbbing lung and dick pain - for moments like these. 'Triumphant Ecstasy' is the only way to describe it.

Highlights: The best highlight was the wiener episode covered above. But, some cop with a sick mustache gave me a man-nod of 'I like what you're doing'. So, that was alright.

State of Mind: These runs are fun; I haven't run against the clock since I was 15. It is hands down the best and most exhilarating way to run. I do, however, worry that 22:47 is a super hard time to beat. I've yet to experience the defeat of not shaving some time off. So, we'll have to wait and see if I still am in love with timed runs if and when this occurs.

Rating: P90X

Day 53: Core Synergistics

2010-03-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

Most days your body is willing to respect your requests and do what you want it to do. Today, was not one of those. It was bad - if I was famous I would have probably had to skip P90X today to do a telethon with Michael J. Fox. (Belittling the struggle and plight of one our most beloved actors stricken with an unfair, call-the-existence-of-God-into-question degenerative muscular disorder is not funny Bomber. I get it, you're somewhat witty, but some things you think of you do not have to write. I disagree. That is all).

You see, today is March 18th making yesterday March 17th, which is the one day of the year you set an alarm to drink: St. Patrick's Day. This is a day where you excessively drink, make a wide range of generally illegal decisions, and, if you're lucky, attempt to shuve your unprotected flacid penis into a warm-hole like a magician shuving a scarf into his fisted-hand. So, naturally it is named after a Roman Catholic Saint. St. Patrick was his name and I imagine this motherfucker knew how to party -- like an incredible non-stop, party Transformer composed of parts from Jon Belushi, Rick James, Lil' Jon, and every one's ambiguously gay Uncle with the moustache. I can, with courage and conviction, say that I did his honour proud. I drank a lot - 14 hours of it to be precise. This is apparently something to be proud of; a badge of honour that is only given out on one day of the year. I am not sure why, but I have no complaints on feeling good about myself for exhibiting 9 out of the 10 signs of alcoholism. (The 'drinking alone' one doesn't apply - there were people passed out at 4am in the dark living room I was drinking my rum in as I mumbled about how obviously gay Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek are together).

14 hours of drinking (mainly hard liquer) + Core Synergistics = shitty-cock-balls. The 'shitty-cock-balls' classification is the unofficial highest level of shittiness that can occur. As such, I do not use it often - almost never in fact. The only two other times I used it was when I was forced to watch the 'Miracle of Birth' in health class in grade nine. At the time it was horrible, but more recently it has become a super functional image in my life helping me ward off the evil being known as premature ejaculation. Try it sometime -- and if you need more 'oomph', combine that image with the one on tubgirl.com. I will not post it here because it is not appropriate. And, the second time I used it was when I thought I had gonorrhea and had to have a large jousting-sized Q-tip jammed deeply into my urethra by what I can honestly say is the weirdest man I have ever met in my life. So, yeah, in short, today was as crappy as these two situations.

We had a new addition to the troop - Raj Preet other wise known as Raj Pretzel or most commonly, PoopyTaco. She did really well for someone that is nick-named PoopyTaco. I was super amazed at her determination and unwillingness to respond to my nickname for her, PoopyTaco. Ironically, I felt like what could only be described as a PoopyTaco the whole time. But, alas, we trucked through it and totally synergized the shit out our cores. Poopy Taco!

Highlights: With the three of us, there wasn't much room. This became painfully apparent in one move - the Superman-Banana. You keep your hands and feet in the air either on your stomach, back, or sides and you switch positions every 5 seconds. I was facing left, away from Raj, we were told to move to another position, I spin over and bam! I am looking right down the gullet of what can only be described as PoopyTaco - Raj's butt, 3 inches from my face. In an amazing feat of perserverance, I lasted the 5 seconds. P90X versus PoopyTaco - the battle to end all battles - and P90X wins with convinving ease.

State of Mind: I feel like a leprechaun vomited in my brain. But, given that, I am proud that I went through with the workout.

Rating: We did it all: P90X.

Day 51: 5k Run and Shoulders and Arms.

2010-03-19T10:23:00.000-07:00

This week is a recovery week - as such, P90X wanted us to do yoga. Fuck that. You can't yell and scream and tear the shit out of muscle fibre and send rushing waves of dopamine, endorphins, and testosterone crashing into your consciousness with Yoga. It's 80 minutes and all it produces is gas and constant giggling at how gay it is that we're actually doing Yoga. So, we subbed in shoulders and arms and I decided to add a 5k run earlier in the day considering how badly I am going to treat my body tomorrow on St. Patty's Day. But, really, a 5k run to compensate for 14 hours of drinking is like adding a diet coke to your Blue Cheese Baconator combo. Let's see..can I get 3lbs. of grade d meat, embalmed cheese, and sodium-riddled bacon sandwiched in between two flimsy buns and a side of greasy fries and, ahh, you know what, I better watch my weight, can I get a diet coke with that? (They don't even try to trick your brain into thinking you might be eating one thing that's not god awful for you like lettuce or tomato. It's just meat, cheese, bun.)

I geared up for my run - jumping up and down, bobbing my head, letting Florence and the Machine light up my ear cavity; I was like all of Team Canada in the dressing room before overtime. I was ready; a sprinkling of nerves amidst a general calm feeling that comes from knowing exactly what you have to do. I ran a time of 23:57 before -- so, I had to beat that. I took the first step onto the blacktop and it felt good, confident and powerful. I made it to the halfway point - the LCBO - in 11 1/2 minutes. If I kept up the pace, I could beat my time, but the way back is a much more difficult beast to tame. Fatigue, normally the most obvious and biggest obstacle, took a backseat to dumb people that do not know how to walk on a sidewalk. "I saw you see me, I'm the maniac panting and spitting and constantly murmuring, 'fuckin' doo it', yet you stay in the middle of the sidewalk with your shopping bags bowed out. Fine, I'll go around you...what are you doing?! You saw me coming from 50 metres away and you wait until 2 metres to make your move to the side. Ahhh, ok I'm going the other way then, don't go-damnit I told you not to go...BAM! Yeah, I just body-checked you...P90X bitch!"

Body-checking people while you run 5k significantly slows you down. That being said, I kept chugging, my heart and my will growing with every breath, chug!, chug!, 'c'mon', 'dooo it', 'don't give in', 'you are the best', 'fuck yeahhh', 'bring the pain', 'hardcore from the brain', 'lets go inside like astral plane'.

Bam, Method Man and I crossed the finish line at...

23:06.

Fuck yeah. "I be hectic, and comin for the head piece, protect it."

I chilled for an hour and then Millard and I ripped shoulders and arms. When we first did this exercise, we hit failure at the half-way point and struggled through a lot of the exercises. I laugh, point at, and pity my old self - we hit every exercise for every rep and even started lifting 30's instead of 20's. Bam! 'I'm sick, insane, crazy, drivin' Miss Daisy'.

Highlights: The last kilometre of my run highlights the depth and power of the human will.

State of Mind: Seriously realizing I ain't nothin' to fuck wit.

Rating: P90X

Day 47 & 50: Shoulders and Arms and Core Synergistics

2010-03-16T12:29:00.000-07:00

Between Friday and Monday, the skies parted and the giant hand of fate appeared, handing me my life's mission statement. What did it say? Become a veterinarian? A taxidermist? Kill Andy Dick? Make life-like dolls of celebrities with your pubic hair and sell them on eBay?

It is none of these -- sadly, I realized last year that it would take decades to bail enough pubic hair to complete what would be my life's work: a life-like pubic replica of the Jonas Brothers. The powerful irony of this piece would have taken the artworld by storm. This is a band that has sold over 8 million albums and not a single penny spent on these albums came from people with pubes. Remarkable irony. Sadly, the decades required to compile the materials for this piece were too much; in 16-20 months, no one will know who the Jonas Brothers are, let alone, in the 16-20 years required for the necessary pubic accumulation.*

But, I digress...what is my life's mission statement? The epiphany occured on Saturday night while a 35-year old brown man was dancing on my back.

I, Eric Bombicino, was put on this earth to Krump. If you are not familiar with the greatest form of dance known to man, then, A), what is wrong with you, and, B), here it is:

This is tight eyez and J. Slaught - they are like the Lemieux and Gretzky of the Krump scene. Why not the updated analogy of Crosby and Ovechkin? Well that wouldn't make sense, because that role is currently being filled by Millard and I. We are on the verge of taking over the Krump game. Gretzky, you have arthritis; Lemieux, you've had cancer twice - please step off the stage.

Krump is the shit. It's as simple as that. It is the most aggresive, ballin', therapeutic, split-your-wig and simultaneously crack-your-dome dance form out there. Therapeutic? Yeah, any repressed anger, stress, hate - anything negative - you can bleed it all out - all of it - in one ballin' ass krump. One, that's it...and you won't hate your dad anymore, hit your wife or resent your child for ruining your once perfectly-fitted vagina.** In couple's counselling they have foam bats for venting suppressed rage - fuck that, foam bats are outdated 90's psycho-nonsene. If these middle-aged cracker-ass couple's that have 300 dollars to blow a session, got up and Krumped to some early DMX, they'd save their marriage. Done - one session with the therapist. And, any other domestic squabbles could be quelled by flippin' on some Roughriders, pulling back the hand-woven oriental rug, and Krumpin'. "Krump Saved My Marriage": I'm printing the bumper stickers and t-shirts as we speak.

Bomber, what the fuck does you and Millard practicing Krump in your backyard and annoying your neighbours all week have to do with P90X? I'm glad you asked. You need P90X to be able to rock a legit Krump, son. This is true for numerous reasons. There's the physical side: I plan on rockin a lot of 'ground tactics' when I krump - aggrressively poppin' to the ground and instananeously bouncin' back up. You need incredible core strength to do this. P90X has given me this. Also, Krump is super-intense - it requires high-levels of cardio and strength; without them, you will fail. But, all the physical reasons aside, P90X has given us the most important thing to maximimize your Krumpitude: a dog-like determination. Sometimes, Millard or whoever else I let in my Krump group, will get out there and bust a ridiculous Krump, sending shockwaves of jubilation, disbelief, and frenzied mania throughout the crowd. How the fuck do you follow that up? A non-P90Xed will would buckle and crumble under the pressure. Not mine and not Millard's. We were trained to rise above any adversity, no matter how troubling and boot-quaking it is.

In any event, shoulders and arms on friday finished off our second phase of P90X. This week is a recovery week - hence, the core synergistics yesterday, which is tough, but it doesn't beat you up like some of the muscle-growth exercises.

Highlights: Saturday night at the RedBull DJ Battle ran like a series of highlights. This is the night I stumbled upon my destiny while a lovely brown-man Krumped the fuck outta my back. Which, can be seen here:

At a bunch of points people turned from the stage to surround us and watch some of the most mind-obliterating, hair-raising, goose-bump percolating, epic dance-battling that they've ever seen. Shit son, we ran that d-floor.

State of Mind: Pure, unadulterated, strangle a baby with a lamp-cord, Krump aggression.

*Unless, YOU, the reader, are prepared to help out. I will get a large P.O. Box if neccessary.

**Like the chair Martin Crane on Fraser sat-in. I spent years working this thing to perfectly contour to every nook and cranny on me and you come busting out all willy-nilly, head, shoulders and all, ruining my perfect fit. Fuck you. I hate you. Good luck getting to 6am hockey practice, I will be drinking all night.

Day 45 and 46 - Back and Bis and 5k Run

2010-03-15T12:55:00.000-07:00

So, we are officially at the half-way point. I have grown 4 abs, little tufts of muscle on the underside of my arms - I believe they are called "triceps" - and an iron will. Thank you P90X. But, the real question is, 'how do I feel'?

I could go into a long, winding, complex and convoluted answer about how P90X has taught me to seek challenges and the immeasurable awards that come along with them. But, instead, I can provide you with an actual example of what P90X has taught me.

This is going to sound absurd, silly, downright illogical and, yes, maybe, just straight up "Simpoo Jack" fully-retarded... but, I might attempt to do a triathlon in July. I will repeat that, I, Eric Bombicino - yes, the same I am going to dip this bread into a bowl of ranch for dinner Eric Bombicino - am going to compete in a triathlon. Now, this is not for sure. It is still all very preliminary. There are many obstacles to overcome. But, the point is, I want to do this. It will suck, but it will be amazing at the same time. P90X has created a fuel-injected, virile, go-get-em' beast that wants to put the whole fuckin' world in his bis-and-tris meat-fest of a headlock.

First major obstacle - I don't know how to swim. This is going to make the 750m swimming portion of the traithlon difficult. Let me clarify, I can swim, but I have never competitevely swam. I know no technique and have no idea if I could do it properly. I am going on thursday to a pool and we will see. If I can do it at a moderately functional level, there is only one more obstacle to this thing,

I need a bike. (So, thus far, I don't know how to swim and don't have a bike.) I have a Supercycle Canadian Tire mountain bike with some sick-ass shocks on the front, but no road-bike. The 'Supercycle' is still an option and, really, represents the iron-will to succeed I am talking about. Considering the ol' ranch-and-cheese Bomber, If I do a traithlon, I can do almost anything. But, If I do it with a 76-dollar bike from Canadian Tire - jesus, I should probably be given the 'Order of Canada'. Seriously, if I do this, I wouldn't be surprised if Wayne Gretzky and Sidney Crosby show up at my door with the highest accolade a citizen can receive in Canada.

In any event, if someone has a bike or knows where I could get a cheap one, leave some suggestions in the comments box.

I did Back and Bis yesterday. It's the hardest workout in the P90X circuit. It launches a full scale air, land, and sea war on your biceps. It creates such devastating levels of muscle failure, that when I drink my shake afterwards, I have to amp myself up to get it to my mouth. Nevertheless, we trucked through it.

Today was a cardio day - Kenpo-X, to be specific. In light of this traithlon nonsense, I decided to sub-in a 5k run instead. I used to run when I was a kid and I jog a little in the summer, but that's about it. I had no idea going in what sort of time to expect. I spoke with some people and surfed the web and the consensus was there was no way an amateur runner like myself could break 30 minutes. Millard went so far as to say my time would be 37:59. Patricia, that cruel hooker-slute cock-goblin of a tramp, said I couldn't do it in under 40.

I saddled up to the curb, popped in 'Florence and the Machine' on my Sansa (Ipods suck...when you can't afford them) mp3 player, and hit the pavement. I didn't consider that Queen street has traffic lights. Waiting for the light to turn as precious seconds tick away was painful, but that's about the only thing that was. I was a man filled with a powerful symphony of neuro-fireworks: testosterone bursting in the air, dopamine exploding across the horizon, endorphins rocketing and screaming across my consciousness...running, 'it's a hell of a drug'. I made it to the half-way point (the LCBO) in good time. But, I didn't know if I had enough in the tank to keep up the pace. I didn't consider that I have a reserve tank of pure, unfiltered determination. I kept pushing and pushing. I had made it to the last kilometre, I was tired and weakening, but gathered up the will and warped into a zone of desperate determination. I wanted this so bad. I felt like I was in a Rocky montage - scrap that, I felt like the entire conglomerate of every sports movie montage was in my head concentrated into emotional form. In short, I scared the shit out of every one on Queen street in my final kilometre. I was barking, chortling, shooting sweat from my mouth, snot from my nose - I was a man possessed by the spirit of conviction.

I sprinted through the finish line. Time?

23:57.

Yeah. Fuck you Millard.

Highlights: Some lady looked at my flopping penis in my shorts and smiled. But, this wasn't a positive smile. You see, when you work out or do something active, your body rushes blood as fast as it can to your extremities. Thus, it will take blood from where it is not needed - like, say, your penis. Because of this, when I run, my penis is mind-bogglingly tiny; your muscle fibre is as deflated and tightly packed together as it can get. So much so, that your penis actually feels kind of hard. So, yeah, some lady laughed at my tiny penis. Whatever, if she knew my 5k time, she would not be laughing.

State of Mind: Running is an incredible high - especially, when you are competing against the clock. This traithlon thing is still in its infantile stages, but I am excited that I actually want to do this stuff.

Rating: B & B (P65X), 5k run (P90X) = P77.5

Day 44: Plyometrics

2010-03-11T10:54:00.000-08:00

We're approaching the half-way point - making it a good time for a little reflection and possibly some pictures, but we'll have to wait and see about those. I have enough buddies who are far too ambiguously sexually-oriented, to feel completely comfortable with hot pics of me out in cyberspace. (I'm mostly talking about Csaba). I don't know if I am totally uncomfortable with, say, posing for TeenBeat or some magazine like that and having the possibility that random gay men are making god sad to it. That's part of being a sex symbol. But, there's something exponentially grosser about some closeted gay buddy crying to your picture with his dick in his hand. "Why was I born this wayyy. Goddamn you Bomber and your unnecessarily chiseled features!". I think it's like the opposite of the naked-pics-of-girls-you-know affect. Yeah, there are many hot pictures of naked women on the internet, and god knows I've tried to see them all. But, lets face it, we would trade any of them for a picture of a hot girl we know. There's just something much more wicked-sexy about that. (Reason being, you know them, you get drunk and look at their cleavage and concoct fantasies involving said cleavage and maybe mustard or a real-life wax statue of George Clooney or whatever and all of this builds, making you more and more curious. You have wanted to see it for so long, plus, quite simply, you've seen them in person and talked to them, so the image itself becomes that much more real).

Alas, I am straying from the point, half-way reflections is the theme of this post and probably the next. I'll unload a few now. My butt-cut. I have not mentioned this yet. I've talked about procrastination, bad weekend habits and so on as being my biggest obstacles. This is not true - my butt-cut has by far been my biggest obstacle. "But, Bomber, whatever do you mean by butt-cut?" Well, I have a giant cut on my butt. It's at the very top part of my crack where it straddles both cheeks and dips into the ravine that leads to pleasure-town. I got this cut the first week doing P90X and yes it should have healed by now, but every time I do Ab Ripper X, I slowly rip, gouge, and tear away any semblance of a scab that was growing. I do Ab Ripper X three times a week evenly spaced-out. This gives my body just the perfect amount of time to create a nice, new layer of scab and then, bam!, I tear it off yet again. (Scab, tear, repeat). Almost all my underwear has blood in it. Do you know how weird that looks if a girl ever sees blood in your underwear. Let alone, all your underwear. I have 2 pairs of black underwear, those are what I wear when I go to the bar. The butt-cut will not heal until I am done P90X, which means I only have to deal with it for 46 more days. Fuck! You cannot say I am not committed.

Moving on, Millard and I, yet again, dominated Plyometrics. I have written about it before, but to quickly summarize, it is apparently the "mother of all P90X workouts". It's mean and relentless. The first month was torture. But, now, we can whip through it with minimal grimacing. We have made some serious strides in these 44 days and we should be proud of it'. Congratulations Millard. Way to go Bomber.

I'll leave the rest of the reflections for tomorrow. I've got, if I decide to go through on it, some earth-shattering news about my future plans. This will leave your jaw on the floor. (And, no, it's not about an upcoming TeenBeat spread. Ha! 'TeenBeat Spread', that sounds really hot).

Highlights: Quite simply, a series of beautiful, synchronized, and perfect moments of plyo-domination. It was like aggressive ballet.

State of Mind: I'm feeling good. It's nice to know you are in much better shape, it opens a lot of doors in terms of stuff you've always wanted to do.

Rating: P90X

Day 43: Shoulders, Chest and Triceps and Ab Ripper X

2010-03-10T12:48:00.004-08:00

My biggest stumbling block to insane-o body-rippitude is best summed up by the soulful and revealing lyrics of the greatest R&B singer of all time: R. Kelly,

Sippin' on Coke and Rum, I'm like so what I'm drunk. It's the freakin' weekend baby, gonna have me some fun [and so much fooood, I'm so fuckin' dumb.]

My body is starting to achieve so many accolades and love, but every weekend I go and piss on a bunch of really hot 16-year olds. And why not, I deserve it, I've worked so hard and achieved so much, why not tinkle a lil' on some tasty tots. This is bad reasoning. I know it, R. Kelly knows it. Kobe might not know it, but my body has not achieved Kobe-level awesomeness. My body simply will not progress and get as huge as Hasselhoff in Germany if I treat it like this on weekends. I eat and drink like Jon Belushi and Chris Farley rolled into one. I simply don't know how to fix this.

It's like trying to quit smoking while drinking; when I drink, copious amounts of cheesy, greasy food becomes necessary. It's a scientific fact that eating before bed is not a good idea - it will not get burned off and will be stored as fat. However, as the great Aziz Ansari elucidated, a recent in-depth scientific study shows that eating a burrito at 3 am is delicious. This is an incontrovertible fact - so, the science is fuzzy at best.

Either way, I know I need to not eat all this whorey, greasy food on the weekends. But, I also need to drink - it makes me better-looking and funnier. Everyone would agree. This is a conundrum. I do not have any answers. If you do, please leave them in the comments section.

That being said, I ripped myself from the greasy-fogginess of my hangover, pulled my furniture aside, and flipped on P90X. Millard would not be my wingman for this one - he had some family issues to tend too. He probably doesn't want me saying anything about this, but apparently since around the time he hit puberty, his urethra has been expanding, slowly growing outwards. As it grew, it caused the top of his penis to slowly roll down, further and further, creating a flap that the doctor referred to as a "labia". Apparently it has gotten so bad, that he needs to pee sitting down now. I hope he and his family can get through this tough and trying time.

My condolences go out to Millard's girlfriend also. But, really, I don't think it's that big of a deal. Girls like Millard because he's gentle, cute, and non-threatening. Lets face it, they're already half-lesbians anyways. At that point, what's another half? Get off the fence and be who you are. So, Stacey, congratulations on being a lesbian.

Highlights: Well, today's highlight when Millard gets home is probably going to be a punch in the face. And by a 'punch in the face', I mean a sulky face. But, the workout's highlight was me wailing my head of a 20 pounder as I came down from a sit-up (v-up roll-back to be specific).

State of Mind: OK, so I am doing this. It has become routine. That is good. But, my mind does not reflect this - it is a tangle of contradictory thoughts and insecure doubts about actual results. Either way, I am doing it, and I should take solace in that fact.

Rating: S & C & T (P60X) + AbRprX (P85X) = P72.5

Day 40: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X

2010-03-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

Anger today. Intestine-crushing, teeth-gritting, Chris Brown plus Bobby Brown, 'what the fuck did you say bitch' anger. And it's not the form of anger that helps you workout - the confident, deep, testosterone-pumping, I am taking on the world anger complete with the shaking, methed-out stare of a Norwegian-Death-Metal lead singer. That's not it. It's a weaker, more pathetic sort of anger. One of insecurity that leads to frustration and then to exasperated anger.

Why? Maybe, expectations falling short. When I started I was not in good shape. And, in a short period of time, with resolve and spirited conviction, I started getting bigger and stronger. Expecations were soaring on the heals of numerous decisive and pronounced victories. Now, I expect more when I workout, but I am not achieving it and my heart is clearly not in it. P90X is putting up too much resistance and I feel like I am getting worse, it is taking back some of my earlier gains. I went from a confident, well-oiled war-machine to an insecure, frustrated, white-flag-waving wreck. I feel like Hitler in the Spring of 1945. It all started out so well. Initially, I was in a state of disrepair and alienation where I just didn't have the follow-through or organization to make things better. Something had to give. I had to put aside my inefficient and lazy ways; I had to storm the Reichstag of my mind and take over the controls instilling discipline and organization. A new era of 'Bomber' had dawned and within the first week I had seized the Sudetenland. A minor victory for some, but a symbolic one for me - I was moving in the right direction, I was pursuing my genetic destiny (I always knew if I worked out, I could see some serious results).

Over the next 30 some-odd days, I grew and grew - my confidence and size was at an all-time high. I am half-french and half-italian - so on one side, I like to smoke, laze around, and drink all day and on the other, I like to eat delectable, cheesy foods, high in carbohydrates all day while being racist and beating my wife. These are some serious obstacles - I immediately rolled over the French side. I allied with the Italian initially: carbohydrates are a necessary part of a succesful workout regime and wife-beatings are like bonus reps. But, alas, I realized the constant cheese-eating and need to eat at all hours of the day, even after large meals, was not an ally of mine at all. The Italian-side eventually turned on me, but, for the better, I did not need it. It would only make me stronger - indeed, this was my real genetic destiny: total body-rippitude.

I had victory after victory. I owned the home-workout theatre. My friends - we'll call them the allies - had seen enough. Their own identities could not take me - lil ol' decrepid Bomber - getting this big. In the end, the weight of my own expecations and hubris, caused me to buckle today. I just expected too much and stretched myself out too thin. I simply cannot do a set of slo-mo push-ups on one front and then expect to be able to do one-arm pushups on the other. A two-front P90X assault is not something I can handle.

Today was a devastating day - D-Day for short - where I realized I need to tone down my delirious expecations and allow my confidence to build from realizable goals.

Nevertheless, I trucked through Shoulders and Arms and immediately did Ab Ripper X - that is commendable and something I should take pride in. Granted, maybe I am not getting all the reps in and wussing out on a few here and there, but, at least, I'm still on my cold, fake-hard-wood floor grinding it out.

Highlights: Jumping to Ab-Ripper X, after getting completely assaulted by Shoulders and Arms (Soviets in Arms?). Thus proving, for once and for all, I am better than Hitler - a two-front war is sustainable.

State of Mind: Covered above. I just need to get to a more relaxed, less frustrated state. Maybe, I'll take my frustrations out on a weak, defenseless home workout routine. Hey, it worked for Chris Brown...he's doing great now.

Rating: (S & A) P70X + (ABRprX) P85X = P77.5X

Day 39: Kenpo X

2010-03-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

I told a friend I haven't seen in a while that I was basically on day 40 of P90X. His immediate, overexcited and mildly homosexual reply was, "are you jacked now"? I, on the off-chance my old drinking buddy (who I have spent countless hours with in his mom's hot-tub and recently broke up with his girlfriend) was making a homosexual inquiry, responded evasively and vaguely: "it's a long way up from rock-bottom". End of conversation, we moved on to him wanting to become a firefighter (I know, purple-yellow-blue-green-red flags going off everywhere). But, after the conversation, I got to seriously thinking about the question.

Am I jacked now? 'Jacked' is a pretty high and prestigious category for the male body to reach. Brad Pitt in Seven or Fight Club was 'jacked'. So, was Swayze in Roadhouse. Or, Mark Wahlberg in Three Kings. 'Jacked' to me is the highest level of ripped before you enter into 'huge' or 'bulked up' territory, which I do not want to enter. 'Jacked' is the goal. Have I reached it yet? Well, if I looked like Swayze in Roadhouse, I would not be writing this now. I would be fucking...everything. No one would be safe; nor would they want to be. OK, maybe, I'm exagerrating a little for effect. I probably wouldn't be fucking right this instant - I'd most likely have my dick dipped in a pint glass of calamine lotion due to the awful friction burn from all the fucking. But, Bomber, just because you have a really, excrutiangly, keep-me-up-at-night-tossing-and-turning-and-periodically-rubbing-the-shit-out-of-my-clit-boner, hot body, doesn't mean all women are going to automatically sleep with you.

First of all, have you seen Swayze in Roadhouse? Why they haven't made statues or monuments or national holidays for what occured in this movie, I do not know. This was the historic high-water-mark for male-body perfection. Nothing, I mean nothing, beats Swayze in Roadhouse and it never will. If, for whatever reason, a mob of angry gay people start rioting and pillaging, you just need to put Roadhouse on a giant screen and everything will stop immediately. If we needed to round up the gays to bring them to a fun camp, we would not have to break into their homes at night and forcibly round them up (god knows, they might get turned on and he also knows they are immoral savages). We just need to show them a picture of Swayze in Roadhouse keeping it just barely out of arms reach, like a carrot to a donkey, and they will follow. At the gay porn awards, Roadhouse, has won for the last two decades. If you are a woman and Swayze in Roadhouse walked up to you and said, "I will sleep with you know", and you decline, then just hand in your vagina because you aren't using it properly. I don't care if you are a lesbian, it's fuckin' Swayze in Roadhouse. In Donnie Darko, an older Patrick Swayze plays a motivational speaker that's also a pedophile. If this character was Swayze from 15 years prior, I would have been jealous of those children.

Point being, I am not 'jacked' yet. I hope to, at the end of this program, sneak into the bottom rung of the 'jacked' category. Making it to the upper-Swayze-echelons, is something so far away, it is unspeakable. But, do I look better? Things are shaping-up - let's put it this way, I am moving towards that picture of Swayze. I am not sure what I mean by that, but I am looking better. I just need to stop brutalizing my body on weekends as much as I do. On saturday morning, I had eggs benny and a veal sandwich for breakfast. Pretty sure, that's not in the P90 nutritional guide.

Highlights: Today's workout was sweet. Lot's of power-packed upper-cuts, jabs, kicks etc. I was beating-up imaginary henchmen like a picture of Swayze beats the hope out of any men ever to look that good.

State of Mind: Today was a lot of fun, but I am having doubts that this program is going to make me look that much better. I want results - I will attempt to channel this into more workout motivation.

Rating: P85X

Day 38: Back and Bis and Ab Ripper X

2010-03-05T11:51:00.000-08:00

We are stronger and the workouts are becoming easier, but they suck more. I'm not entirely too sure why. They're just not as exciting; they're tedious and I simply just want them to be over. I watch the clock, count how many exercises we have left, and basically have the future time when I finish in my mind throughout the entire workout. We used to revel in the simple act of lifting weights - that moment of burn when you tear apart muscle fibre like a Soviet child from his political dissident parents used to send waves of endorphins and adrenaline rushing to our brain. It's like we don't believe in our beloved Mother Russia anymore - the propaganda has been stripped away, exposing the naked truth of a delirous state hell-bent on territorial aggrandizement. Why do I need to expand my territory? I don't need to be any bigger; I am happy with my current size and general condition. I'm funny and smart, I don't need to be big. Being big is the refuge of those who did not develop personalities as an insecure youth. I'm like Japan - I have enough innovation and savvy to be more than competitive within the (vagina) market.

But, maybe, I'm missing the point. If it was in the best-interest of the state, wouldn't Japan expand its territory? Wouldn't it clean up its environment? It's not about expanding territory so other countries fear you and give you things and make alliances with you. It's about becoming healthier and creating better conditions in which to live. At the start of this, I was living in an overpopulated country with little to no sewage infrastructure and almost no environmental regulations. I was Rwanda. Now, I eat healthier, have almost quit smoking, and have seen my cardio and overall strength increase substantially. I've cleaned up my act and have begun developing - I am like Singapore now. There is still much work to do, but the future is promising.

Why this paradigm shift? Why have workouts gotten tedious and crappy all of a sudden? I think the first 1/3rd of this program we we're amazed every time we did it. It was like I was proving something to myself and everyone around me. I was an underdog and through sheer perserverance and will, I tackled this monster of an obstacle. I was Rudy, I was Rocky.

But, Bomber, those are our most beloved fictional characters that represent the indomitable will, hardwork, and perservance man has within. You doing an hour of homeworkouts, 5 days a week, might not stack up.

For one, it's sometimes 6 days a week and, two, this person has clearly never met me before P90X. Mine was a road of procrastination, slovenliness, and general degeneracy. I had a will made of peanut brittle (and then I ate it). I had never really done anything that required discipline and hardwork (except for maybe my maroon belt when I was 8. Sensai Jim graduated me a week earlier than most (on the account we were going on vacation to Florida)). I think, I am officially over the hump of ol' degenerate, never-see-things-through, Bomber. So, now, that amazing feeling of "I can't believe I'm doing this" has subsided, leaving only "fuck, we do this everyday, this sucks".

Apparently, others are also over the hump of "I can't beleive he is doing this". They assumed I'd crap out eventually and their initial inclinations would be proven. The fact, I am really doing this, is sending a whirlwind of motivation through people as far as 5000 km away. If Bomber, fuckin' Bomber, is working out everday, then I have no excuse. I am the ultimate workout motivation. I'm like Terry Fox. In terms of willpower and discipline, I was always standing on one leg, and yet I am running across Canada. You have no excuses. Put up or shut up.

A group of friends that I lived with in Whistler for the summer, are experiencing a gut-wrenching imposition of spite-fueled motivation. Via their facebook posts, it is apparent they are starting P90X. Not, because they want to be healthier, feel better mentally and physically, and live longer, but in the words of my old creepy Swedish roomate, "lets git mor ripped then bomer". I am glad that my P90X venture has dug a deep insecure-hole in your identity that can only be filled by muscle and protein-powder. Good luck gentlemen, I will actually be pulling for you and wishing you the best. Also, good-luck having to workout with Csaba in his euro-trash, 100% nylon, fuschia and flower-print-laden workout gear.

Highlights: I worked out alone today and it was difficult. This exercise attacks your biceps, one exercise after another. The question of soul-shattering muscle-failure is not if, but when. I gave er' my all and then immediately popped on Ab Ripper X. One hell of a workout. Eat it, flabby Whistler cheese-infused loserfags. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

State of Mind: I explained the change in how I feel when I workout above. But, this new 'Whistler-Challenge' may have added the spark necessary to relight the firey abyss of bomber-body-rippitude.

Rating: P55X (B & B) + P85X (ABrprX) = P70X + 5 for doing em' back2back = P75X

Day 37: Plyometrics

2010-03-04T12:01:00.000-08:00

The first month of plyometrics, I absolutely dreaded it. I would have rather given birth to a 2 year-old, had an Alien burst through my torso, or undergone a colonoscopy with an old garden-hose than have to suffer through the gut-punching doom of plyometrics. All three of them in row? Wash the hose and bring it on, I fuckin' hate plyometrics.

A new era of cardio-fortitude has begun. I man-handle plyometrics now - hell, I could do it while strangle-borting that baby with the garden-hose and head-butting the shit out of the alien that sprung from my torso. Millard and Patricia (Millard's sweaty beard) too. Those two silly bastards laugh in the face of the monster known as plyotron. The fire it used to cause in Millard's legs is easily doused with a quick ringing of Patricia. They are an unstoppable team that perfectly compliment my gun-slingin', lone-ranger approach to P90X. It's like I'm Superman and they're Batgirl and Robin and our arch villain is the presumed-dead U-Boat Captain Freidrich Flab. And let me tell you, imagining Patricia in that Batgirl outfit shoots sextricity up and down my spine. New Batgirl movie: early 90's Michelle Pfeiffer, Halle Berry, Megan Fox; they all take a back seat to Patricia. The thought of those flowing, luxurious locks shooting forth from that tight leather-outfit is almost too much to handle.

Highlights: We are mid-jump squat, when a few people we do not really know come in the front door. Judging by their attempt to hold back laughter, I'd say home-workouts in matching board-shorts is not ready to be taken seriously by the general public.

State of Mind: It's become a recurring theme, but again, it's clear, I have the cardio and strength of an 8-year old boy. We are getting better at the weight-lifting routines, but still, they are a serious problem. You look at my determined stare, new and bigger arms replete with fat, sexy, veins pulsating through the granite-like tissue and you assume weight-lifting would be no problem. It's like watching Superman walk-up to some dumbbells and struggle - it makes no sense. But, little, do you know those weights are made out of Kryptonite. And, that is exactly how I feel about them - for the time being, they are my Kryptonite. But, that will change, soon enough.

Rating: P90x

Day 36: Shoulders, Triceps, and Chest

2010-03-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

Deep Impact. Today, I had the most worthwhile, deserved, necessary, but devastating hangover of my life. Monday March 1st has become the unofficial National Hangover day. Greasy spoons from coast to coast were ladling lard, eggs, and sodium-laced pork product in numbers that would make an Alabaman grandma proud. The 2010 Olympics in Vancouver were declared a success today, as well as our national sewage infrastructure - toilets from Cole Harbour to Moosejaw to Victoria were as overworked as an 11 year-old Nike employee. En masse Canada felt like John Daly does everyday. All that being said, we wouldn't have it any other way.

The moment Millard and I awoke, we began discussing the impossibly painful prospect of having to do P90X. (The last sentence might lead some to an awful, heart-wrenching vomit-inducing conclusion; let me clarify, we actually began discussing this after we got out of our respective beds which we have not and do not share with each other).

Around 7 o'clock we finally anted-up, grabbed our puke buckets and descended into my extremely versatile basement apartment, which operates as a living space, a workout area, and, today, a rape room. I my as well have put a ball-gag in my mouth as I turned the TV on. We were simply too hungover and dehydrated (mostly from tearing up the 782 times the greatest goal in Canadian hockey history was replayed). In, short, we have never been less prepared.

To say we struggled through today's workout would be like saying Battlefield Earth is not one of John Travolta's best movies: it's a massive understatement. I am convinced it wasn't a seizure that caused Travolta's son Jett to hit his head on the bathtub, but the hand of karma getting redemption for making us sit through this aborted fetus of a movie. (I apologize for the latter sentence - 'aborted fetus' is an inappropriate comparision since this would probably be a compliment to Travolta considering the fact he and Tom Cruise most likely devour worchestshire and dijon slathered aborted fetus at sundown in order to rid themselves of dead-alien souls).

Point being, it was tough. However, we were able to hold off the vomit long enough to work our muscles into failure. So, yeah, P90X raped us today, but we didn't cry and whine about it; we beared down and asked for a reach around. (I am not sure what that means, but we did good).

Highlights: "Great googley moogley, these boys are some sad sacks of shit. But, by golly, they take a licking and keep on ticking; take a beatin' and keep on needin'...more and more. The world could use more boys like these." - Wise black janitor from Rudy.

State of Mind: If we can drag our sorry asses to work-out on today of all days then our commitment can simply not be doubted. We will see this through and eventually be able to look good in see-through (fish-net?) shirts.

Rating: P45X

Day 33 & 35: Shoulders and Arms and Extreme Olympic Celebration

2010-03-01T12:09:00.000-08:00

I woke up marooned on an island known as my bed this morning, pleading to the gods to send pizza and juice. Although, I was hungover, my body felt alert and weirdly responsive like I had just run a marathon. This is probably because I ran a marathon through the streets of Toronto last night while clutching a Canadian Flag in one hand and a 2-litre bottle of toxic-rum-pollutant in the other. When I arrived at the finish (Yonge and Dundas) I did not collapse like some pussy-ass Kenyan with a make-a-wish kid body; I proceeded to double my lifetime high-five count and bear-hug thousands of large drunk men. This is intense cardio, plyometrics, and weight-training all rolled into one exercise.

Shoulders and Arms is in the top-five of difficult P90X workouts, but Extreme Olympic Celebration heads up that list. Why? Adrenaline and Alcohol-fueled madness allows you to work well past your usual breaking point. You become a fire-breathing loon filled with love, the need to show it, and an endless amount of maniacal energy. Lifting 200-250 pound sacks of beer, meat, and bones for 3 hours straight after sprinting well over 5 km is definitely not something someone can do without a symphony of Crosby lit neuro-fireworks exploding in their head. There should have been a camera in my cranium for the closing ceremonies, it would have blown people's minds (it did mine). Most intense workout of my entire life - if the leafs ever win the cup, I will probably die of a hybrid brain-aneurysm, dopamine-induced seizure and general exhaustion.

Highlights: I'm bent over exhausted, exhaling chunks of rum-covered phlegm when Kabir steps out onto the street yelling "let's get fuckin' drunk" as a speeding SUV approaches 5 metres away. I gather up all the strength I have and lunge and jerk back this 200 pound flag-draped alcohol-fueled retard, saving his life and the future lives of his children and grandchildren (who could very well discover cold fusion, thereby, eliminating the majority of the pollution that threatens to kill off the human species). For this act, I receive a mumbled, "thanks dude".

After our marathon sprint through the streets of Toronto, 3 hours of extreme high-fiving and large drunk men bear-hugging, Millard and I gathered up the strength and resolve to get unnecessarily angry and proceed to throw Apollo Creed-killing hay-makers at each other in front of a group of 40 cops.

Hey, you two!, cease and desist. It's ok offizzzerrers, he's my friend. I don't care, that doesn't mean you can assault him.

State of Mind: Elated, frenzied, mind-gasming Crosby-lust.

Rating: P87XXX

Day 32: Kenpo X.

2010-02-27T12:16:00.000-08:00

I would go to a Kenpo X party. Twister, Pictionary, Spin-the-Bottle, Flip-Cup, Midget-Lesbian-KY-Jelly Wrestling: none of this would be as fun as Kenpo. I love watching Kung-Fu films; we all do (or at least should if we consider ourselves good, respectable people). Kenpo X has all the glory, ass-kickery, and martial arts wizardry of a Kung-Fu film, except you are Bruce Lee, you are the nimble, powerful purveyor of beat-downs and flying Karate chops. It's like you're a kid again, in your backyard, with your mom's hot-pink bedazzled belt tied around your head beating the hell out of imaginary henchmen. It can be anyone or anything. Today, we beat up Republican Nazi-Zombies. It was a bloodbath of Rambo-trilogy proportions. They never stood a chance against us. My swift, powerful and devastating upper-cuts and side-kicks coupled with Millard's confidence-obliterating, rabbit-cough-death-scream, creates an unstoppably dynamic duo of destruction. In short, if you are immature and lucky enough to have an equally immature buddy, this exercise is quite simply 'the shit'.

I don't see how I could have more fun at a party. I could be orgasming all over newly-minted 18-year old sorority girls while the ghost of Kurt Cobain injected me with high-grade bolivian black-tar heroine as I bite down into a piping-hot Veal Parmigian sandwich imported from Sicily, all the while listening to Neil Young play 'Old Man' in the corner of the room, and it might not even compare.* (OK, that might stack up, but it'd be a photo-finish).

Highlights: 12 million dead Republican Nazi-Zombies.

State of Mind: A place of calm, relaxed, murderous trascendentalism.

Rating: P90x!

*A lot has been said about "going to your happy place". We've seen it in Bill Madison and we've seen a variety of therapists, hypnotists and hippies suggest it. It often involves a sunny beach and frolicking. This is my ultimate 'happy place'. If I could train myself to visit this place, no horrible event in my life would be insurmountable. You could ram a hydraulic-powered steel umbrella in my rectum and flip it on, and I'd still be ok.

Day 31: Back and Biceps

2010-02-25T20:38:00.000-08:00

After this workout, I sat on my couch in silence, sweat dripping from my brow and crashing against my floorboards. Defeat? Dejection? Disgrace? None of these describe what I was feeling. My brain was empty, not a single, solitary thought in sight. Just a general numb physical sensation all over my body like I was immersed in still cold water. I lifted my head and was startled by a faint, distant voice that slowly starting to come closer and closer. I could almost make out what it was saying and then bam! the 8 dollar Casio keyboard-driven beat kicked in and there was my answer to what I was feeling...

Back to lifee, Back to reaality; Back to lifee, Back to re-allityyy.

There is no statement, person, song, movie, or story that could better describe the sinking realization that rolled into my psyche than the early 90's R&B supergroup that overshadowed the sexiness and edge of Salt n' Pepa and that to date has sold more than 3 times as many albums as Nickelback (which is, sadly, a lot): En Vogue.

For the last 4 and-a-half weeks my outlook on my sex appeal has been soaring. Sure, there had been some ups-and-downs, but the general trajectory had been through the roof. At some point in this absurd growth of self-confidence I should have foreseen this windfall; I should have put in place the proper safeguards; I should have realized that this sort of reckless ego-inflation could not go on forever, but it felt so good. Foresight and responsibilty did not matter. My self-worth was as big as it had ever been. But, a lot of this "worth" was based on false returns - sure, I had gotten somewhat bigger, but not nearly big enough to support this over-inflated self-evaluation. The bubble bursted today. It was my Black Tuesday. I came back to life, back to reality. I desperately need a bail-out. My future plan is to make sure my self-image matches my actual physical growth. (And, yes, I just compared a proper self-image to how a succesful and efficient capitalist economy should operate).

(Do you remember in Garden State when Natalie Portman was showing the aloof and lovable Zack Braff how she likes to feel unique by doing a weird sound effect and dance that no one has ever done? Well, I just did that with the above paragraph: I am willing to guarantee you no human being on the planet has ever compared their self-image to both the recent economic crisis and the 90's R&B supergroup, En Vogue.)

Needless to say, the workout did not go super-well. I gave it my all. I enjoyed, but hit a wall; muscle fatigue settled in and would not leave. This routine was much more intense than the earlier ones, which rotated between three muscle groups so as not to bog each group down. This routine attacked your biceps like a flesh-hungry Nazi-Zombie. In the last half of the routine, I was able to push out a mind-boggling 1-2 curls for each exercise. Either way, I will get better at this exercise and it will rue the day it ever crossed my path.

Highlights: We were doing strip-sets at the end - you start on the highest weight and curl it to failure and then move down a weight and so on. I started on 30's, pumped out a 1/4 curl then went to failure; moved on to 20's, pumped out 1 with Millard spotting me; moved onto 15's, shook them against my hips a little; and, lastly, moved onto 10's and pumped out a mind-boggling 4 1/2 reps. Badass.

State of Mind: In the initial chunk of muscle growth exercises we sucked...bad. We eventually saw some serious progress, which is the lifeblood for workout motivation. The same will occur with this one in due time - it merely represents even more motivation to become a beast of a human being that overpowers woman's inhibitions and destroys men's egos.

Rating: There was nothing extreme about this effort so we can throw away the 'x': P32.

Day 30: Plyometrics

2010-02-24T14:15:00.000-08:00

According to our crystal-meth infused workout instructor, "plyometrics is the mother of all P90X workouts". I arrived at home keeping this in mind - I had not eaten and knew I needed some fuel to get these burly appendages in motion. I was out of peanut butter, so my usual pre-gamer of pb toast was not an option. I had a big pile of prosciutto and cheddar cheese. I put these inbetween what used to be a bun, but has since then succumbed to freezer burn. I gobbled this down and prepared to sit on the couch and let it digest for the next hour. I did not realize it was 6:15 and the hockey game was on at 7:30. The workout is an hour, so we had to start.

I generally do not have many pearly nuggets of wisdom to impart, but, I strongly advise, not eating a large amount of salted Italian deli meat and cheese before you do the "mother of all P90X workouts". It felt like a large cinder block of meat and cheese had formed in my stomach. Every squat caused it to hit the top of my stomach and crash down against the bottom sending a meat and cheddar echo boom of a gas bubble up my esophagus and out my mouth. This continued for 15 minutes. Eventually, the sheer force of the half-digested cinder block impacting against the bottom of my stomach must have forced it down into my intestine.

After these 15 minutes of meat and cheese induced pain, we just killed it. Normally, there's a lot of huffing, hawing, complaining, and the occasional eyeball rolling back into the head. This time around, there was an eery focussed silence punctuated by perfectly-patterned breathing. Millard and Bomber ceased to exist for 45 minutes; they we're replaced by well-oiled, precison-engineered squat machines. No breaks; no complaints; only picture perfect execution. It was such an awe-inspiring physical feat, it could be included in Cirque de Soleil. If the IOC saw a video of us doing this, they would consider making it a demonstration sport in the summer games. If someone ever asks me to prove why I am better than them, I will just do plyometrics. (But, realistically doubting if I'm better than you is like doubting gravity - It's a law of nature).

Highlights: The quesy I-think-I-have-ebola look on my face during those 15 minutes of meat-cheese hell.

State of Mind: Even with all the salty meat and cheese in me, I was able to rip through the whole thing. The improvement from 5 weeks ago is insane. In short, I feel great.

Rating: P90X

Day 29: Shoulder, Triceps, Chest and Ab Ripper X.

2010-02-22T20:49:00.000-08:00

Last week was a recovery week, which gave us the weekend off. Most people that are willing to put themselves through this gauntlet of ridiculous abuse would take the time to eat well and look after their body. I, for a daunting number of mostly negative reasons, am not like most people. My weekends attempt to undo all of the sexy, stunning, early Beatle's scream-inducing hotness that occurs during the week. Essentially, 3/4ths of my week is outraged at the 1/4 that ate 5 cheeseburgers* and drank well over 20 pints (2 of those being Whisky). It is ruining my general hotness. My weekends are Ringo Starr: 1/4 that ruins the overall sex appeal. Oh well - I eat super-well and work crazy-hard during the week, so I should be able to burn all the big-nosedness and lack of musical talent away. I am super commited to this program - in short, I am Yoko-proof.

This week is a "muscle-building" week. I don't know what the hell we were doing before, but apparently we're ready to build muscle now. We had to start a little later than usual. I was busy working at the "HomeShow" offering something that has the power to reverse thousands of years of socialization and civility: free stuff. It tears away the paper-thin decoration of morality, care, and civility that apparently makes us better than any other organism, revealing the snarling, cheating, lying, fece-throwing, monkey-animal core that will push over a baby for a free sample of a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Naturally, the stress from the illusion of our 'humanity' being wiped away like permanent marker with a Magic Eraser, drove me to spend 2-and-a-half hours drinking 1-dollar red wine samples, which is convenienty placed next to the indoor putting-green booth. This would prove to be a costly error.

I arrived home drunk - not, David Hasselhoff drunk, but nicely buzzed - busting through the door. Millard asked me if I was ready and then looked at me like I just asked him to split a "fleshlight". (By "split" I mean paying for half of it; the other meaning is quite possibly the worst image known to man). Nevertheless, we descended into my dungeon of debaucherous douchebaggery ready to wreak disaster and destruction upon our unsuspecting muscles.**I quickly gobbled down my usual peanut-butter toast pre-gamer, put my board-shorts on, and stood in front of the TV looking on like some poor schmuck in a firing-line. This was going to be a our toughest workout - I could sense it. And I was completely not ready for it. I was worried it was going to be like my first hockey fight when I was 12 years-old: I was dog-tired after a long shift and some dude that looked like my Uncle decided it would be a good time to fight me. I had nothing in the tank and was easily trounced by this bearded 12 year-old.

But, honestly, after the first 15 minutes, which consisted of red-wine and peanut-butter burps, I was feeling much better.

However, there's no mistaking it; this exercise is hard - especially, when you're filled with cheap wine. P90X has somehow upped the ante. The first four weeks we were sitting at the 5-10 table acting like we were Big Daddy Kane and Jay-Z. Now, we have officially arrived at the big-boy's table. This exercise shatters any illusions you have of being able to handle P90X. Allow me to re-introduced myself, my name is P! 9 -to-the-O X! But, now I gonna break backs like Bow-Flex! (Listen to it and sing these lyrics).

We struggled through it and, at times, it felt like our very first work-out. But, those, "I am-dying-moments", felt good this time and we were able to break though them and keep on pushing. We reacted like men to a hard situation and we immediately put on Ab Ripper X afterwards. Sometimes, you can be in over your head, but it's how you react - we held our heads high, unflinchingly staring and gritting our teeth at this beast of a workout.

This manly moment makes up for the ubar-gay one that occured two hours later while I was watching the Ice-Dancing finals (and no that's not only it). It was the end of the Canadian's Moir and Virtue's dance; bodies pressed firmly against eachother; hands clasped; music fades out - I begin to mouth the word "beautif...", but it is interrupted by a weird mouth shiver, followed by what can only be described as 'sextricity' rushing up my spine and a slight eye-watering. For the record, I did not cry, but this could still make me gay. You be the judge...

Highlights: The most epic yelling we've ever busted out. No gay jokes here - the yelling was the epitome of hedorosexual manliness. If you closed your eyes, you would honestly believe Mel Gibson and a bunch of skirt-clad crazy men we're running across a field towards you.

State of Mind: We got beat up; the English were just too much. But, damn, we left it all out there and wiped that cocksure smile of their bloody ugly mugs. Regardless, we loved every minute of it and you simply cannot doubt our heart.

Rating: P63X + 7 for 'heart' = P70X

*If you recall last weekend I had a McDonalds orgy, which consisted of 4 burgers. So, I'm averaging 4.5 burgers every Saturday and Sunday.

** The only book in my bathroom the other day was the Dictionary, so I paged through the 'D' section.

Day 25: Core Synergistics

2010-02-19T15:18:00.000-08:00

My last few entries have been long and have had almost nothing to do with working out. So, this one will be short, sweet, possibly sexy, and to the point. I will not discuss Tiger Woods and how weird and telling it is that the whole world stops what they're doing to hear from a guy who hits a ball with a stick and feels bad about banging a lot of women. I will also not bring up that 40 years ago, less channels covered a man named Kennedy discuss the impending threat of total nuclear annihilation. I will also not raise the interesting question of 'what if both of these events occured at the same time'? Or ponder about whether we'd be interested in the possibility of indefinite cold nuclear winter or Tiger Woods? And, lastly, I will not answer the latter question by launching into a fake newscaster dialogue regarding this matter, which would look like this:

Well, Bob, how do you think cold nuclear winter and Tiger's sex scandal will effect his game? Jim, I think Tiger is so mentally tough that he will be able to ignore all these distractions and we've seen him excel in all sorts of weather conditions - so, this cold nuclear winter shouldn't pose a problem. Given what we've seen from him, a deep, dark, zombie-wasteland of lifelessness and misery is but a mere bump in his path to total world, err, golf domination.

In summation, all of these grueling exercises are making me feel great - mentally and physically.

We did core synergistics today, which works the whole body - different push-ups, tri-cep exercises, squats, curls etc. - with a focus on the core. It beat the shit out of us. I was left crumpled on the ground gasping for air like a right-wing newscaster trying to prove water-boarding isn't toture. But, the funny thing is, I felt great. Not just afterwards when my body got a chance to calm down, but right at that exhausting, fetal-position inducing moment. I enjoy it, I thirst for it; blood-pumping, veins expanding, endorphins rushing. It's like sex without the complaining. At first, I'd feel awful and whine and cry like a baby after these viscious beatings, but not after today's. I have gone from a whinny battered wife to a full on sado-masochist in 25 days. Remarkable.

Highlights: Filled to the brim with roughneck, blitzkrieg, 'I don't give a fuck about how I feel tomorrow' moments.

State of Mind: Working out has definitely effected the speed, quality, and clarity of my thoughts. It's like I went from DOS to Windows 7. (Fuck Macs, they should come with horn-rimmed glasses, skinny jeans and an arrogant air of indifference). I also have more energy and a general want to be productive. I don't just want to sit around playing videogames. It's making me some weird-being that is responsible and doesn't just wait around for things to come to him; it might be making me an adult. I honestly, went to Home Depot today to buy drywall plugs and then stopped by Zellers to look at area rugs. (I actually did this).

Rating: We almost did absolutely everything, but some of them just sent our rugged cores into failure. P81X.

Day 24: Yoga X

2010-02-18T11:30:00.000-08:00

Time to unpack some emotional baggage; come along and help if you would like. With this work-out program and this blog, I've been forced to monitor 'how I'm feeling' and, sometimes, push deeper than simply what the emotion is and down into 'why' I am feeling that certain thing. I know that sounds gayer than a Hugh Grant movie (except Love Actually, which was actually pretty cool; I'm being serious - watch it, it will touch you in ways family members only dream of and gym teachers named Mr. Feeny have).* Keep in mind, I'm opening this messy, mucky, turbulent, and terrifying emotional vortex for you, my faithful readers. In short, you are my Oprah - so, at least, pretend to care.

So, as you can see, I've been doing a little self-reflection. This involves not only looking honestly at what you think about yourself, but also, being open to what others think; noticing the tiny details that you normally pass over. In the last day I have realized that I am two pretty horrible things. There's a lot to explain here - I'll try to be concise, here goes.

So, I was playing with the local children at the park. (This is not a good start). Let me explain, I have an outdoor ice hockey rink near my house. I was shooting the puck around and all of a sudden I am surrounded by little kids that I am much better than at hockey (and, I imagine, most other sports). Naturally, I stuck around. I out-skated them, out-shot them, and just generally out-played them; it was embarrassing. One of the kids even brought a juicebox into the rink. We made fun of him; it was wicked. At the tail-end of Bomber's Hockey Clinic, I taught the kids about the importance of the off-wing one-timer and how it allowed Brett Hull to score goals by the bushel. They had never heard of Brett Hull and did not know what a bushel was.

As the clinic ended, I took off my skates and decided to talk to one of the parents about their inability to educate their children about great people in history and varied forms of measurement. She was super-nice, but in a weird way. Like how medal presenters at the Special Olympics interact with the athletes. She asked me where I was "staying". I said just down there and pointed towards my house. This struck me as odd. I walked home passing by the shelter that I live by trying to figure out why she was so nice to me. I looked down at my clothes - ripped jogging pants, haggard shoes, and an old, grungy sweater - and then looked over into the shelter window and saw the reflection of my gross, dishevelled beard-covered face (I'm growing a P90X beard). Like a giant tidel wave of urine and used syringes, it hit me: she thought I was homeless. Someone actually thought I was homeless; not the somewhat grungy university student with potential and vision, but just a grungy, homeless man.

As for the second horrible thing, I had work this morning and this nice Asian girl said she would drive me home. When we were done, I walked alongside this nice Asian girl and said, "I'm ready. Take me home". Turns out it was the wrong girl. So, this girl thinks I'm either creepy and have the worst pick-up lines of all time or I'm racist, which makes for a less-than-comfortable workplace environment. In all fairness, they had similar jackets and after looking at her terror-filled face, I realized it was the wrong girl. I don't know, you be the judge. I, personally, don't think I'm actually racist - at least, no more than the next guy. (What I mean by that is we clearly live within an oppressive cultural structure and, if we are not super-vigilant about these pressures, we can be imbued - consciously or subconsciously - with faulty, bigoted, and ignorant prejudices).

Thanks for letting me get that off my insane-o pumped chest. Alas, we did Yoga today. It's super-hard and 80 minutes long. You sweat more than a _________ (insert joke here, if I try, it'll probably just come off as racist). We're getting better, but it's definitely our most embarrassing routine. We generally fall, fart, and fail. However, we are noticing better levels of flexibility, which provides all the motivation necessary to continue. Plus, I may eventually be able to do the ultimate yoga position - it allows you to reach Nirvana, which is the name of my penis.

Highlights: Pretty much that joke above. I'm not very funny or smart, but that joke, apparently, does not know that.

State of Mind: It's the exercise I least look forward too, but it's motivating to see some increased flexibility. I'm also excited to put my dick in my mouth.

Rating: P55X

*Can someone tell me the rules on where the period goes after the bracket. (And, no, I am not discussing the details of the Feeny-Weeny events).

Day 23: Shoulders and Arms and Kenpo X

2010-02-17T08:32:00.000-08:00

Mornings are different now. I wake up feeling great, energized, and with an overwhelming sense of purpose. I don't really know what this purpose is considering my days consist of an hour of working out, twenty minutes of writing, and 10-13 hours of Olympic watching. I spent an hour-and-a-half watching the powerhouse Russians take on the Finns in women's hockey in French. To put it in perspective, I spent more time watching a horrible bastardization of the sport I love in a different language than being productive. I'm addicted - if you could boil down the Olympics into a solution, I would inject it intravenously. If for whatever bio-chemical reasons it could only be made into a hockey-puck sized suppository, bring it on. Get Crosby to slide a perfect pass over to Iginla and one-timer it in there! If anything, the hockey-puck sized suppository would be more fitting (and, no, that's not a cheap and predictable pun about my sloppy yoga-stretched butthole. I am referring to the prominent role hockey plays in these Olympics). But, Bomber, that would be a highly ineffective technique to apply the suppository. Nonsense, if you watched the game last night you would have seen Crosby and Iginla easily threading needles and picking cherries; my butthole would pose no problem. In any event, I don't really know why I am so obsessed; maybe, my hour workouts from home allow me to understand the training these athletes have to put in.

The second my eyes fluttered open this morning I was awake and it was 9:30 in the morning. In the last week or so I have been getting up between 9 and 10. For the average person, this is "sleeping-in". For me, it's a foreign beautiful place: actual morning. In the Ranch and Cheese era of my life I could sleep-in for a whole day and not even realize it, which really screws up your day and class schedule. In third year of university, I woke up once before 10 am and that was to drink (it was St. Patty's day). Granted, I love to sleep-in, but, now, once my eyes open, I am energized, ready to roll and full of piss and vinegar.*

I did two workouts today. I still feel guilty about the weekend, so I am giving my increasingly-ripped and action hero-like body another present. I added the most sexifying workout, Shoulders and Arms. Almost every action-movie poster has a dude holding really heavy guns with giant thigh-like python arms. As of yet, I don't think I could hold those heavy guns and my arms barely even look like male arms let alone male arms that look like thighs. So, the addition was an easy call. It went well. Although, I wasn't super into it; normally, I yell and scream and make all sorts of manly grunts. But, nevertheless, I trucked through it.

I finished the workout just before Millard got home; awful timing. I would have to do both workouts basically back-to-back. Whatever, Rambo fought an entire country's army and won, so this shouldn't pose a problem. We did Kenpo X, which is like Tae Bo except extreme and not gay. This one fits in perfectly with my action-hero aspirations. Once you get the arms, you need the moves. It's also wicked fun with a partner. High-kick, low-kick, hook, upper-cut, followed by "hahhhh", "arghhh", "you die now", "hadukkin", "there can only be one highlanderrrrr". This initially annoyed the shit out of Millard, but he caught on. It reminded me of when I was a kid and had just finished watching a sick action movie with my brother or buddy. As the credits for Operation Condor rolled, you would pull back the couches, and assault every enemy couch cushion with a myriad of deadly Chan-like maneuvers. It's a lot of fun and I highly recommend this exercise especially at parties.

Highlights: Near the end of the first exercise, they asked us to grunt after our punches. I let out a manly, caveman stay-away-from-my-territory-and-women grunt so I couldn't hear Millard at all. During the next punch, as I was about to grunt, my throat sort of stiffened so I couldn't let anything out, which allowed for one of the funniest things I've ever heard: Millard's man grunt. It sounded like a Rabbit coughing. Or a three-old getting the wind knocked out of his lungs. Or a gay-butthole wheezing. It was ridiculous. The exercise had to be paused for 5 minutes because I couldn't stop laughing.

State of Mind: I think my body might be getting less gross. I was touching myself today and after about the first hour I made my way down to my abs. Jesus Christ! No, seriously, I thought I was touching the Son of God they felt so amazing. I just need to eat a little bit better because there is still a little layer fat - nothing insane - that blocks these awe-inspiring slabs of muscle. It's like having the greatest show on earth blocked by a curtain. It's time to pull back the curtain and amaze the audience.

Rating: S & A (P79X) + Kenpo (P85X) = P82X

*Although, I would much rather be full of essential vitamins, proteins, and carbohydrates than urine and vinegar. Who are these people that derive energy from being filled with urine and vinegar? Anything you eat vinegar with is filling, makes you tired, and has little nutritional value like French Fries. So, either you're eating a large amount of things like fries or you're just chugging vinegar, which, I have never done, but I don't imagine it would make you want to play soccer afterwards. And who derives energy from being full of urine? Even if you were some sort of evolutionarily advanced being that could synthesize and derive nutrients via the bladder, wouldn't you rather be full of the actual stuff that urine-waste comes from? And, who would want to do energetic things with a full bladder - marathoners piss themselves in front of millions of people because it sucks so much being full of urine. I am boycotting this phrase until someone explains it to me.

Day 22: Core Synergistics

2010-02-16T06:52:00.000-08:00

P90X is a 5 or 6 day-a-week program. On your 'rest' days they expect you to eat well and, you guessed it, rest. I finished my workout on friday with this in mind. Fast forward to 5 am Saturday morning in London: I am double-fisting McDonald's burgers; simultaneously shoving one into my sauce-splattered face while dipping the other in a bowl of McChicken sauce and Hellman's mayonnaise. (So, a bowl of mayo). McDonald's burgers - in this case, a Big Mac and Double Cheeseburger (and, yes, they deserve capitals due to their culinary awesomeness) - are considered by many to be one of the worst things you can eat. Dipping every bite of 'one of the worst things you can eat' in a fat paste we have decided to refer to as "mayonnaise", probably doesn't smack of the decision-making of someone committed to a work-out program. However, this is as far from the truth as possible. How far from the truth Bomber? Well, since you asked, it's as far from the truth as saying Jay Leno is funny, Jean Chretien didn't make Canada look mildly retarded for 8 years, Keanu Reeves has acting range, and that K.D. Lang is hot. (Who would you rather, K.D. Lang or Jean Chretien or the pile of vomit that just shot from your mouth? I'd personally rather fuck the vomit that shot from your mouth than K.D. Lang or Jean Chretien. If the two cared about national security, they'd make a porn tape. Now, that is an effective enhanced interrogation technique. Plus, how entertaining would it be to have Mike Duffy and some conservative debating whether the Chretien-Lang sex tape constitutes torture).

The mass beer and mayo intake from the weekend created a big pulsating ball of guilt in my stomach as well as a dying turd baby in my bowels. This guilt has made me more committed; it made me realize how important this thing is to me. It's like when a guy cheats on his girlfriend and buys her a gift. The incredible pang of guilt he feels makes him realize how much he actually cares for this girl and that immediately turns into fear of losing her for various reasons (all circling around the fact he knows he deserves to be dumped). So, to ensure he won't lose her, he buys her a gift.* I bought my body a gift. On Sunday I went to the grocery store and bought every vegetable and fruit I could possibly eat. For Lunch today I ate a salad (the recent Yoga sessions with Millard combined with this, definitely makes me full-gay). I also feel super-guilty and, as a result, I will pay way more attention to my body, listen to it, care for it and pretend its irrational ramblings amount to something sensible.

Every three weeks the program changes. We had gotten accustomed to the videos, knew what to expect, and could mentally prepare for the tyrannical onslaught of pain. Now, we have no idea what's coming, which, I think, is unfair. Before, a fighter goes into a ring he knows his opponent, his strengths and weaknesses, and generally knows what to expect. Today, we're fighting blind. This 4th week is a recovery week. We weren't sure what that meant, but it led us to believe today's exercise - Core Synergistics - would be an easy victory like the old guy in the first level of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.

Instead, we got Mike Tyson. Sans face-tattoo Tyson; young, angry, blood-boiling, Terminator-arms Tyson; I wanna eat your babies Tyson. This exercise combined with the weekend, made me feel worse than the time I ate that bucket of expired potato salad. (Yes, Dad, I also thought as long as potato salad was in a sealed bucket it could last for 6 months.) It was, in short, unexpected and painful. (Just like those chicks that don't know their pregnant on TLC. Have you seen that shit? How do you not know you have a growing human in your stomach? I can tell what brand of salsa I've eaten by how it feels in my stomach).

In any event, it works your whole body with a focus on the core. 60 minutes with two 30-second breaks. And, no, I am not referring to sex with me. It was awful. And, yes, I am referring to sex with me.

Highlights: Millard hobbling around yelling "my groin, my groin" as I lay face-down, star-fished on the hard-wood floor. (Just like the weekend. Kidding. Seriously, we're not gay).

State of Mind: The weekend guilt has re-focused my commitment. Simple and plain, from Europe to Spain, I am doing this. That is all.

Rating: P64X.

*I am not saying this is a logical move, but neither is drinking 30 beers and dipping greasy cheeseburgers in a bowl of mayo.

Day 18 (catch-up day): Ab Ripper X, Shoulders and Arms and Yoga X

2010-02-11T09:11:00.000-08:00

I was speaking with someone today that did not know me, but had read this thing. It became apparent that some people - considering all they know about me is that I workout and would probably make a great life partner - think that I might actually be a fit person. This is not true - I'm as fit as a person as Paul Bernardo is a good baby-sitter. (But, I'm trying to remedy this, rehab it, just like Paul - maybe, one day he will become a good baby-sitter and I will have abs. Only time will tell). Nevertheless, I am skinny and hopelessly unfit. I could body double for Keith Richards in a new 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movie. The fact I am doing this defies the comprehension of every person that I know including my mom and probably God. If I complete this workout regimen it will most likely disprove determinism. That's a lot of pressure: the ability to end arguably the longest standing and most frustratingly abstract philosophical dilemmas in the history of man. Plus, if, in doing this, I defy the comprehension of God, then this being cannot possibly be God. So, I'd also have that under my belt. All that being said, the most important thing to have under my belt, is abs; beautiful, shiny, clit-boner inducing abs.

I had to skip thursday's workout so I had to play catch-up today. I spent my day either working out or watching olympic coverage about the upcoming coverage of the olympics. (If the Haiti disaster occured during this week, what do you think would get more press: the plight of an entire nation literally buried under the rubble of their fallen infrastructure or the coverage of the eventual coverage of the actual olympics?). In any event, today casted any doubts aside that I am not 100% commited to total boby-rippage and mass-level clit-boner induction. Around 10 a.m. I slammed my bagel down sending sesame seeds of ab-ripping hope everywhere. I beared down on Ab Ripper X and made every exercise my little bukkake princess (read: I did most of the exercises perfectly). But, alas, there was one finnicky, stubborn bitch that would not cowtow to my awesome muscular authority: the v-up roll back. You basically do a sit-up with your legs flat on the ground and then as you come back down you bring your straightened legs to about a 45 degree angle. At which point, you crunch up against the downward force and touch your toes without changing the angle of your legs. It's mega-difficult, but not completely utterly insane like the diamond push-up, which would laugh at its inferiority.

Considering what I'd done to the Ab Ripper Princesses, one might think I'd have nothing left in the tank. Those naysayers would be wrong. I bent over Shoulders and Arms and sprayed it down with determination, heart, grit, muscular perserverance, fortitude, and a little bit of urine. Shoulders and Arms, naturally, made me a sandwich of my choosing afterwards: tuna with perfectly-sized chunks of pickles.

I let the sandwich settle and digest, I put on a new pair of underwear, and I was upstairs awaiting my third and final session of the day, Yoga X. I'm fairly certain yoga is supposed to be a peaceful, relaxing, and, for some, transcendental workout. P90X is about war, physical and mental stress, and worrying about the future reality of your body. In short, it is the opposite; a yin to yoga's yang. Yoga X reflects this distinction - it is probably the most difficult exercise to do move for move. It will take time to master this routine and any progress will have to be spoon-fed to me. Although, apparently, "there is no spoon", so I don't know where the fuck that leaves me.

Highlights: You stretch muscles and tendons around your hips and pelvis that you did not know were even there. This relaxes everything in that area producing some of the more epic farts known to man. I almost farted for an entire hold-and-freeze position.

State of Mind: I still have the body-structure of somewhere in between Ellen Degeneres and a 1982 Woody Allen. Although, Ellen is banging Portia De Rossi and Woody pulled George Clooney-like pussy in the 80's. In short, I mentally feel good, but physically appear the same.

Rating: Ab (P85X), S & A (P80X), Yoga (P50X) = P71.66666X

Day 16: Plyometrics

2010-02-10T04:21:00.000-08:00

According to our oftenly douchebaggy and generally encouraging fitness instructor, "plyometrics is the mother of all P90X workouts". It's pure cardio and leg assault. It leaves you drenched in sweat and begging for mercy. The amount of sweat you produce during this workout almost seems humanly impossible. I'm seriously concerned for Millard's neck when we do this; Patricia (Millard's sweaty-beard) bloats like a sea-monkey. It must weigh ten pounds. It looks like he has half of a hairy life-preserver wrapped around his face. That being said, everytime we've done plyometrics we come prepared, but inevitably have to take a few extra breaks.

At 5:30 I believed that giant penis-shaped cheetos existed. At 5:31 Millard shook me awake from my nap (my phone was on vibrate). I groggily dragged my feet upstairs and we began. About 1 minute in Millard lets me know he made me a peanut butter toast. We've already started, there's no turning back. So, there I am doing leg raises, eyes glazed over, still trying to figure out if these giant penis cheetos are on the market, eating a peanut butter toast. Needless to say, this was the least prepared I've been for plyometrics.

But guess what? We bent over plyometrics sending cheeto dust everywhere. We did it! This is an absolutely amazing achievement. I understand how the Jamaican Bobsled team felt walking their sled past the finish line, how Rudy felt being carried off the field, how Rocky felt beating Draggo and avenging the loss of his friend, how Obama felt winning that thing, how Matt Damon felt winning the Rugby world cup and uniting a nation (I haven't even seen Invictus, I'm assuming they win)* and how Oprah feels everyday. No breaks! The mother of all P90X workouts! Kill me now, I've reached my peak.

Highlights: I had to workout in front of Millard because everytime he turned his head, a splash of sweat would squirt from Patricia. Patricia squirting on you is gross (get it? HA! vaginal excretions!! R-R-R-Raannndddyyyy**).

State of Mind: Again great cardio and awful strength. Still in 8 year-old boy territory.

Rating: A first for us, P90X!

* How much better would it be if Morgan Freeman was Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama for that matter?

** If you don't get that reference your life is much worse than it could be. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSS5Tr0UHZQ Randy is a few minutes in.

Day 15: Chest and Back and Ab Ripper X.

2010-02-09T06:27:00.000-08:00

I hate this routine more than I hate period blood. It's a bloody mess and a total confidence-shatterer. Any feelings of strength, manliness, or sexiness you have built throughout the week are viciously squeezed out of you like a meal on a Caribbean vacation. (Wow, period blood and mind-blowing vacation diarrhea in the first three sentences; I clearly cater to the high-brow demo). It's just absolutely insane. There's more different types of push-ups in this routine than I've had sex, than Kennedy's in government, than people who want to punch Michael Landsberg in the face, than reasons to feel guilty when watching Miley Cyrus etc. Point being, there's a lot. My personal nemesis is the diamond push-up. Just saying it, makes me cringe and shiver. Whoever invented these clearly never tried to do one - they're almost impossible and only bring pain and regret into this world. If I had the ability to go back in time and either uninvent the diamond-pushup or the nuclear bomb, I'd have to sit and think about it for awhile. I know some of you are thinking a nuclear bomb has clearly brought more pain and regret into this world than a type of push-up. To those, I ask, have you ever done a diamond push-up? I have and, although I've never been in a nuclear explosion, I don't see how it could be worse.

Highlights: Our douchebag instructor told us to set our goals for diamond push-ups beforehand and that he was going to do 30. You have 40 seconds for this particular section. In that time, I was able to crank out 1 girl (on your knees) diamond push-up where I went down 2/3rds of the way. Jacked-Town, population: me.

State of Mind: I'm 1/8th of the way through this program and if I keep up at this pace I will end up looking the same with slightly larger triceps and a beard. I don't see much of a difference. However, I still feel great and, that alone, provides enough reward for doing this. I think. I hope.

Rating: P35 + 5 for unneccesary manly screaming = P40X

Day 14: Ab Ripper X and Shoulders and Arms

2010-02-07T22:20:00.000-08:00

As I write this, I am inhaling leftover cream-cheese rolls, wings and half-empty beers. I may not understand or like football, but, goddamn, I love the Superbowl. Normally, when you invite people over to your house they only bring a mess, just enough alcohol for themselves, and bad jokes. The SuperBowl is a whole other ballgame - it makes your friends better people to have over. It's like Christmas, but without disturbing and smelly old people that you are forced to listen too (Madden is gone now). Since my TV makes my roommate's moving image screen look like an etch-a-sketch, my depressing, dungeon of masturbatory hopelessness was nominated as the party spot. It worked out well. Every person played an integral part in creating the most heart-stopping, boner-inducing smorgasbord of delectable grease-infused treats that I have ever seen. I've never been happier to hang out with inferior people. Without me saying a word, some guy I've never met in my life cooked and served a platter of 52 wings. (I later found out that he was Adam's brother).

All of this plus the fact I apparently missed Friday's workout might lead one to think my odyssey of body-rippitude is coming to an end. To those, I say nay! I had to skip my Friday workout because I had to write the LSAT on Saturday. (Apparently, no hot girls or guys for that matter, want to be lawyers. This makes me not want to be a lawyer - mostly because according to my unnecessarily absolute statement above, I could not be good-looking, which is absurd). So, I subbed in the workout today. And killed it. With my new Wal-Mart weights in tow, I viciously assaulted my muscles. They should be placed in a Yellow Brick home. Although, I ate enough grease for a small-man to slip on and drown in, I am happy I had the willpower to fit in a workout beforehand.

Highlights: General ass-kickery and mega-pumpage.

State of Mind: I watched Rudy the other day and his lack of determination makes me laugh. I am seeing this shit through no matter what.

Rating: P83X

Day 11: Ab Ripper X and Yoga.

2010-02-04T20:45:00.000-08:00

I felt tight, strong, and lean today. All day I just wanted to lift heavy things. I didn't even bother to put on a shirt until well into the afternoon. I woke up this morning wanting to get things done - I immediately tackled the giant, precarious pile of dishes in my kitchen. At one point some soapy water splashed against my stomach. I went to wipe it off, but everything turned slo-mo, and Barry White's voice echoed throughout the room - "Ohhh yeahhh" - as the water trickled down my tan, olive-skinned washboard stomach ever so gently dribbling into my perfectly-sized belly button and beyond. I think I might be developing a more positive body image. I also tried to go grocery-shopping, but apparently you need a shirt to do that. "Sir, can you please stop lifting the watermelons and leave the premises". In short, I'm starting to feel better about myself.

We started with Ab Ripper X, which I actually enjoyed. At first, this whole working out thing is painful and it sucks and you only do it because you know you should. But, after a while, it starts to feel great and you actually look forward to it and want to do it. For all those girls reading, this is EXACTLY like butt-sex. I know know, it seems gross and even insulting to your vagina, but if I, of all people, can do P90X then you can do butt-sex.

We moved on to Yoga, which was 80 minutes, but worth it. And, somehow, I'm crazy-good at it. I'm like an 8th level Yogi master. At one point, I sunk into a deep meditative state and ascended to the next-level of consciousness. It was on a cloud and Chris Farley was there. All in all, this was actually a great workout and stretches out some areas you didn't even know existed. It also would have been very relaxing and calming if Millard didn't laugh the entire time.

Highlights: Millard and I, in downward dog, with our asses pushed high in the air, simultaneously exhaling and moaning, "oh that feels sooo fuckin' good". I actually think we might be half-gay for that moment alone, which combined with the time Millard slept-walked naked into my room in second year, probably makes us full-gay.

State of Mind: A transcendent level where the material world and even language does not exist, which makes it hard to explain. To understand: take mescaline and watch replays of Ovechkin's goals.

Rating: P80X

Day 10: Shoulders and Arms

2010-02-04T14:37:00.000-08:00

I had a negative experience this morning that left me feeling stressed-out and downright awful. This made for the best work-out I've had...ever. I was mean, powerful, and bloodthirsty. I was like a bulked-up, bad-ass bull getting his balls squeezed to the point of bursting. I was Robert Deniro, Jake Lamotta; I was a raging Italian bull. (Seriously, it was badass - at one point I ripped my shirt off and yelled out "Adriaaannee". Apparently, I was an older version of Jake Lamotta that had seen 'Rocky').*

I've stumbled upon The Secret to working-out and it is negative thinking. I came in hating myself -my brain housed the entire spectrum of negative thoughts. Oxygen, glucose, lactic acids, ATP: fuck all that noise - stress is hands down the best muscle fuel. I was pumping insane amounts of iron as punishment and it was extremely pleasurable. I know that sounds creepy and it is.** But, it works.

From now on, in the morning, I am going to sit and visualize all the negative things that I want in my life and maybe even make a collage of them. And with the power of consciousness via the vibrational energies that surround us, I will be able to actualize these quantum potentialities of awful, esteem-crushing things. Or so I've been told.

Also, if you are a friend of mine, I need you to help me. Write me, talk to me in person, whatever - just let me know why I should hate myself or reasons why you hate me. Don't hold back, anything will be helpful. "You think you are smarter and funnier than you are". "Your beard looks like male inner-thigh hair". "I had sex with you once and your balls were gross and orange". Whatever it is, from the big to the small, anything will help. Just text HATE and the charge will show up on your...too soon?

Highlights: Chock full of moments involving ass-kicking and the taking of numbers.

State of Mind: I felt powerful and virile like a raging stud-bull. I definitely have never felt more fertile.

Rating: I did almost everything - P85X.

*It is becoming increasingly clear to me that I am only capable of connecting with reality through scenes in famous movies.

** If you've been reading this blog, you might be wondering why I keep bringing up BDSM. I am not sure why and I don't think I deserve to know why because I've been bad and should be punished.

Day 9: Plyometrics

2010-02-02T22:45:00.000-08:00

Plyometrics makes you sweat out any reservations you have that P90X is not one of the most bad-ass, extreme workouts you can put yourself through. It feels like you're at a gruesome football-training camp - all that's missing is Denzel Washington barking commands and representing the unity required in racially segregated suburban communities in the 1950s. (And, yes, I did see 'Remember the Titans' this weekend and, yes, Denzel Washington is more thugging than the entire genre of Gangster Rap).

That being said, we fuckin' dun' did it. Bang! Bang! Bitches. (Read: we competently finished our exercise-routine today). Millard and I just killed it. We were like Rambo, John McClane, and the whole A-Team rolled into one, fighting against the formidable foes of communism and healthcare reform (or whatever foes one may consider formidable).

My cardio is at a really good level. So, combining yesterday's knowledge with today's, we know now that I can't lift heavy things, but I can run around a lot. I'm basically your average 8-year old boy. This, to many, would be a very depressing realization, but not for me. How many 8-year olds do you know that have lost their virginity? That shit is ballin'. Plus I can drive and sometimes even smoke cigarettes. I also own the most feared pog-Smasher and have the most unstoppable deck of pokemon cards. (Can something be the 'most unstoppable? Whatever, I'm 8). So, yeah, this isn't disheartening or soul-shattering or watch-John-Cusack-movies-while-simultaneously-eating-cheetos-and-touching-your-balls depressing or anything like that.

Highlights: Patricia was as sloppy as people at banquet halls in Kincardine today. (For those of you who don't know, Patrica is Millard's sweaty-beard and Kincardine is the hick town that he is from).

State of Mind: I am very pleased with my cardio. It was grueling, but fun today. Unfortunately, I have become fully aware that I have the muscular fortitude of the kid from Jerry Maguire.

Rating: We did it all with an extra 3 short breaks, P80X.

Day 8 (6 & 7 were rest days): Chest and Back and Ab Ripper X

2010-02-02T00:57:00.000-08:00

Today, I woke up trying to be happy and positive about my lot in life. Look on the bright side, enjoy everyday, be one with the universe in all its infinite beauty et al. I grabbed a steaming cup of coffee, ascended my stairs in my moldy cancer-inducing dungeon of a basement apartment, and was immediately assaulted by bitter cold, cloudy skies, and the all to familiar odour of homeless urine. This would be the best part of my day.

Fast forward three hours: I am in my underwear, hopelessly attempting to put in some hours for my LSAT prep, and watching Sportscentre for the fifth time around. "Ahh good try Kypr, 5 times now and you still sound like an idiot". I either can look down and trudge through some LSAT q's, look up and see Kypr drooling on an over-priced shirt, or left to my ever-growing pile of dishes. This would be the second best part of my day.

Fast forward to just after P90X: We are finished, but I feel no sense of pride, only the sting of sweat dripping in my eye and the crystal-clear epiphany that I am fucking weak...as shit. It was ridiculous folks; just downright pitiful. Call it a moral victory if you please, but that's about as meaningful as saying there is a "winner" in a Leafs'/Oilers' game. It was like all the school-yard teasings and esteem-shattering occurrences in my life were concentrated into one 60-minute video. "Alright, time for diamond push-ups, I am going to do 30". "I can't do one; not now, not ever and I think my ears are bleeding". I absolutely hate the P90X guy, he's so smug and unnecessarily peppy and always hitting on hot sweaty girls. I have no energy, hate myself, and have no hot sweaty girls near me; only Patricia, which is what I named Millard's sweat-soaked beard. That thing must absorb at least a gallon of sweat each workout. This was the worst part of my day.

Highlights: Patricia looked gruesome today. My apartment floorboards aren't nailed in, so they float around as you slide and grunt on them. I think it adds a new extreme(ly sad) dimension to the whole thing.

State of Mind: I have a fierce eagle-like commitment to this whole thing. I am not giving up on these home workouts - although, I may just switch to the Chuck Norris tapes. Kidding - I have a rock-solid, unwavering determination to see this thing through. I just don't think I'll look that good after.

Rating: P32X

Day 5: Kempo X

2010-01-29T21:42:00.000-08:00

My body is empirically the same as it was before; yet, through the distorting lens of my perspective it looks rock-hard and unstoppably fuckable (as opposed to doughey and unstoppably unlovable). I have no idea why - it may be that I am anticipating my future marble-statue physique. I actually believe in the potential of my body to not look shitty anymore. I have been pouring over possible scenarios in the spring where I can take my shirt off. Most of what I decide to do in late-April and May will be based on the likelihood of being able to take my shirt off. I am going full-McConaughey. Costume parties, cottages, brawls: I am down. Weddings, BarMitvahs, Baby Showers, establishments with shirt policies: total waste of my time. If you are my friend, plan things accordingly.

I went solo again today. And I fuckin' killed it. Maybe this specific routine is fairly laid back or I am getting better, but I got through every exercise like I was in a 'Rocky' montage. I am buying a grey tracksuit tomorrow.

Highlights: Did not take a single unalotted water-break. I also did not remember that a blender works better with the top on.

State of Mind: I feel great - there was no hesitation today and I breezed through it. (However, I have to write the LSAT in a week and working out for an hour everyday has cut into my time; whatever, last time I checked you don't need a law degree to become a physical fitness instructor).

Rating: P90X!

Day 4: Shoulders and Arms

2010-01-28T19:47:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning with every muscle-fibre in my body screaming in pain. If I hadn't been doing P90X and woke up feeling like this, I would think I was dying. Nevertheless, I gathered up the courage and stumbled into GNC walking like a complete weirdo. I looked like either I had a bone-growth disorder or was really thugging. I bought a big ol' jug of Banana Berry Blast Whey Iso Burst protein powder. OOOOhhh Yaaaa! Apparently, this stuff will totally rip my bod' or at least that's what the lady at GNC told me. She also told me I needed all these other sorts of vitamins and supplements that if I bought, I would have to put on lay-away or sell my car, which my dad owns making it sort of tough. So, that didn't make sense plus I just couldn't take health advice from an out-of-shape middle-aged woman with her gut hanging precariously over her belt just waiting to bust through her shirt and slap her thighs. There was also a giant bull-moose of a man that worked there - whatever he told me to buy, I probably would have bought. "If you think this 85 dollar slab of GNC-approved cheddar cheese will work, I don't see why I shouldn't buy it". In any event, I waddled out with the protein powder - $55.85: I am officially pot-committed.

Millard had to bail on the work-out today. I brought some weights from home - 40s, 30s, and 20s. Unfortunately, the heavier weights weren't going to be of any use for most of the program that consists of, as per usual, a crippling onslaught of different types of curls and tricep exercises. They're simply, at this juncture, too heavy for us lil' dudes. He also had to leave for Vermont at 8 - so, no demerit points. Alas, I trucked on solo...a lone ranger ready to get his guns-a-blazing.

Highlights: I smacked my blood deprived nub of a weiner with the 20 pound weight, but completed the set. Isomax Whey Burst Extreme!

State of Mind: I was basically at par (read: mildly sub-par) for the first half of the workout. I started to have some serious muscle fatigue in the latter half and some lighter weights would have helped. But, I crunched out 4-5 reps, which, in the end, might be even more helpful. I don't feel sick, I don't feel like quitting; I feel like a virile stud-bull ready to sow his seed. That is, I feel strong and sexy y'all. Well, not categorically 'strong' and 'sexy', but 'stronger' and 'sexier' than I once was way back on Monday.

Rating: I kerfuffled (read: quagmired) some of the work-outs and experienced some disheartening muscle fatigue, but I fuckin' gave er' all I could Captain. P60X + 5 for extreme effort = P65X!

Day 3: Ab Ripper X and Cardio X

2010-01-27T18:51:00.000-08:00

In the last two days I have not been able to shower anything above my nipples. I applied deodorant on to my lower ribs this morning. It also took me 15 minutes to get out of my new bed, which is my couch that I become stranded on at night. Every movement I make hurts; the idea of masturbating is as nauseating as eating a mayonnaise sandwich. But, by far my biggest enemy is clothes. I spent the entire day in my underwear studying for my LSAT until 5 when I had to get dressed for my work-out. I painstakingly applied my board-shorts and Moosehead t-shirt and trudged upstairs to Millard's place. Upon entering his place I realized P90X is my 'Undertaker' or 'Hulk Hogan' and I'm some schlub with a generic name like 'Scott Thompson' clad in a plain red speedo stumbling into the arena with no music, smoke or hope.

Our wine-jug weights wouldn't cut it for our scheduled Arms and Shoulder X work-out so we made some last minute changes and subbed in Cardio X. We had a new addition to our work-out troupe. Her name is Stacey and she is Millard's girlfriend. She came prepared and scared the hell out of us with her grunts. If you closed your eyes it was like you were watching a female tennis match.

Highlights: Millard's cute, petite, blonde, bubbly girlfriend is much stronger than me. (And Millard). She also looks mildly retarded when she attempts to do squat-runs...it's like she is seizuring while drowning.

State of Mind: The pain I bitched about earlier is a good pain. In my last entry I called these work-out routines BDSM sessions. That statement accidentally included a lot of insight into this whole process: it is extremely painful during and after, but it is a positive pain, a pain I welcome, a pain that reminds me I am doing my job properly. In short, I feel good.

Rating: It was like a recent Eddie Murphy movie: all-around sub-par effort, but you can tell there is a lot of untapped talent there because you've seen it in action before (I used to be an amazing cross-country runner, soccer player, hockey player; you name it, I was good at it). P53X.

Day Two: Plyometrics

2010-01-26T19:28:00.001-08:00

Fuckkk. That's all I want to scribble down right now and, honestly, it sums up everything about day two. However, I want to write this thing within 30 minutes after every BDSM session I have to go through; so I will squeeze out some precious sentences for my throngs of eager readers.

Millard arrives home from work at 5. At around 4 o'clock I started to feel the fear - fear I haven't felt since I was suspended from Junior Kindergarten and had to wait til' my Dad got home from work to tell him. (Not to liken Millard to my father; even though they both have beards and are unnecessarily cute). Each tick of the clock made my new tendinitis stricken elbow (injury from yesterday) swell with anticipation. I couldn't handle the fear - it came down to a decision: fight or flight. The fight instinct was smothered by a lack of available planning - tackling Millard as he got out of his car probably wouldn't solve anything. So, I did what I normally do when the stress of life and expectation becomes to much: I went to Loblaws, pretended to shop, and ate free fried chicken. As I chomped down on my anti-anxiety medicine and pretended to contemplate the advantages of Lavender Lilac laundry detergent versus Spring Morning Dew, I realized the era of procrastination and fear that has thus far defined my life was over. I was ready. It was go time. Goddamnit, I love the smell of fried chicken in the afternoon.*

I blasted through the door with a purpose. Millard could tell I was ready and, oh boy, I could tell he was too - the kid looked like he had fire coursing through his veins and had a look of determination that I can only imagine matched the look Nelson Mandela had as he stepped out of his prison cell. We donned our matching boardshorts, moved the furniture back, took our socks off and slammed down on the play button...together. The first few minutes is a basic warm-up: we easily got through that along with all our roomates calling us 'gay'. Immature peons, this is the work-out routine of the gods. After that it was a tyrannical onslaught of every sort of squat known to man: jump squats, jack squats, rock-star squats, leap-frog squats, monster-tire lift squats, fuck-your-shit-and-want-to-go-back-into-your-mom's-uterus-squats etc. And then you do it all again, backwards. Just fuckin' water-board me; this shit is awful. It was insane, but we made it, and we're better people for it. You know how they say that 'war bonds people together for life'; well, P90X probably bonds you well into the afterlife.

Highlights: I actually blacked-out...and kept going. I blacked-out in the air on a 180 jump squat, landed, looked at Millard empty and bug-eyed, came too, shook it off, and just kept rolling. Epic commitment. I already feel more courageous than almost everyone I know and it's only day two.

State of Mind: It was tough, but we felt really good afterwards. Granted, Millard's eyes were so bloodshot that lil' drips of blood were almost coming out, but, all in all, we rock n' rolled n' only slightly stumbled through day two.

Rating: Did it all with an extra 4 breaks: P75X.

(Millard said he wanted to add to this whenever he can. This is what he sent me, "I have blisters and they suck".)

*Far-reaching reference no one will get.

Day 1: Chest and Back and Ab-RipperX

2010-01-26T19:10:00.000-08:00

Millard comes down as I polish off my pre-game meal of eggos with peanut butter and black coffee. He looks high, but claims he is prepared. I offer him a one-a-day vitamin before we begin; he declines noting they expired in August of 2008. I take my fourth of the day. We begin with high knee-slaps and giggle at how gay we must look in our matching board-shorts. 10 minutes in and we feel fuckin' great. Our work-out instructor then claims that the warm-up is over and we are ready to begin the actual work-out. We look at eachother confused...

The rest of the work-out felt like various enhanced interrogation techniques. P90X does not fuck around. If someone is ever forced to do P90X, I don't care what sort of complex legal justifications you want to make, it is fuckin' torture. It throws all sorts of different push-ups at you: diamond, wide-set, standard, decline, dive-bomber, gut-wrencher, soul-crusher, colon-cleanser etc. It did not go well; I am just proud that neither of us black-outed for that long. We probably did a good solid P32X. The rest of the 58 generally consisted of us rolling on the ground yelling "extreme".

Highlights: I have low-celings in my apartment and when the workout began with some jogging on the spot, Millard smacked his head and spent the next three minutes being totally unextreme on the ground. We also had no weights, so we filled some wine jugs with water that probably topped out at a mind-boggling 4 pounds.

State of Mind: Surprisingly, I feel great. It was slighly embarassing, but fun. Doing this with someone exponentially raises your chances for success.

Rating: P32X