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

"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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.