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.

Day 51: 5k Run and Shoulders and Arms.

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

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.