The weather man called for rain all weekend. Relying on the weather report I put the newly acquired 10'x20' canopy up on the deck. After I got it all set up I stood back and looked at the monstrosity; it was pretty freaking big. But, if it was going to rain, my ass would be more than covered.
It sprinkled a little bit on Thursday, nothing too serious. It didn't rain again till Saturday morning and then it only rained for three hours. I had brought my matress out from my room and had slept outside so I was thankful for the shelter. It leaked a little bit but what can you expect for $180. I bought some silicone sealant on Saturday and doused the canvas seams.
I didn't see a cloud in the sky after noon on Saturday. I could have been basking in the sun catching some rays but no, the weather man fucked me over. I could have taken the canopy down but it was an adventure putting it up for the first time. I wasn't exactly ready to go through the process of taking it down after having it up for just two nights.
It seemed to get dark sooner since the canvas was dark green. Apparently candles really are made just for women and gay guys because I burned the fuck out of my thumb trying to light four of them. I was doing fine until I got to the last one when my then hotter than hell lighter decided to make contact with my thumb. It hurt like a bitch right off the bat. By Sunday you could see the patch of skin that was turning white. It looked like it was pretty deep. Not good.
Monday afternoon it was ready. The skin was hard and dead, just ripe for the picking. I used my teeth and knawed at the tip of my thumb like a rat. A piece of skin a half inch long peeled off like butter. I figured it was better to get the dead skin off sooner so it could heal faster. What I didn't plan on was having this piece of raw meat exposed right on the tip of my thumb. There wasn't much left. I could squeeze my thumb and the raw skin would bow out like a balloon. I went to the cabinet at work and grabbed a Band-Aid to cover it up just in case.
Later in the afternoon I had to use the bathroom. For some reason I missed the 11:30 crap and had held it all the way till 4:00. I immediately realized that wiping my ass was going to be a problem with a Band-Aid covering most of my thumb. I went down for the first swipe without any problems. I went in for the second swoop and came back with a fecies smeared sheet of toilet paper that was stuck to the Band-Aid! I tried to flail my hand but that just made the toilet paper unravel and (yuck) graze the stall leaving trace evidence. I had to use my other hand to get the toilet paper off of my thumb. It went like this for every other wipe. Not much worse than having a poopy piece of toilet paper stuck to your thumb in a confined space.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Goodell Offed Upshaw
Was Gene Upshaw too white for a black man or did Roger Goodell just rub him out to get one of his boys in there as head of the NFL Players Association?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Not Happy
Puppy peed in the parent's house, the Renter left the back door open all afternoon, she wanted to put up the new 10x20 canopy (it's freaking 10x20! and it wasn't raining!), and the Brewers are losing. And with the parents selling the house I have to help set up a rummage sale tomorrow. Not a happy camper.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Mr. Compliance Manager
Me: Can you make the next systematic in September for (dollar amount you don't need to know). Gotta play a little market timing here with the down market.
FA: Done. It will now remain at $600/quarter until you instruct me otherwise…
Me: A systematic 3-mo market timing tool, kind of like varying your bets on the blackjack table!
FA: Compliance must love you when they review my emails…
Me: Double down, mother fucker! (That won’t raise any red flags, will it?)
FA: I have a blackberry now. Using it right now… Now I can send and receive email from anywhere!
Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor is emailing me from the bathroom. There has to be some code of ethics regarding that, right? I mean, it’s almost like I can smell it.
FA: Ur one sick puppy…
Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor has a phone with a full keyboard and yet he sends me emails with “Ur” in them. Seriously, if my advisor is gay he has to fully disclose that, correct?
FA: What am I to do with you?
Me: I don’t know, sugar, what would you like to do to me?
FA: Done. It will now remain at $600/quarter until you instruct me otherwise…
Me: A systematic 3-mo market timing tool, kind of like varying your bets on the blackjack table!
FA: Compliance must love you when they review my emails…
Me: Double down, mother fucker! (That won’t raise any red flags, will it?)
FA: I have a blackberry now. Using it right now… Now I can send and receive email from anywhere!
Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor is emailing me from the bathroom. There has to be some code of ethics regarding that, right? I mean, it’s almost like I can smell it.
FA: Ur one sick puppy…
Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor has a phone with a full keyboard and yet he sends me emails with “Ur” in them. Seriously, if my advisor is gay he has to fully disclose that, correct?
FA: What am I to do with you?
Me: I don’t know, sugar, what would you like to do to me?
Friday, August 15, 2008
$3.99
I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I got duped. I had to order new checks today. I asked if they got cheaper if you bought more. Ended up getting three extra boxes because they were only $3.99 a piece. I now have 900 checks coming in the mail, enough to last me 12 years. Not exactly sure what I was thinking. Sometimes being tight isn't all that practicle.
The Simple Life
No, I’m not talking about that stupid reality show with Paris Hilton and that bug-eyed ET looking chick. Although I must admit, I did watch that show a couple times just incase a certain someone’s skirt was a little too short and might reveal something but alas, it was network television. No ass. No beat off. I quit watching.
Last weekend I went to the old roommate’s parents’ cabin in the Oshkosh area. It was about two hours away, not that far driving wise but good golly, what a change in surroundings.
The first thing you noticed when driving through Red Granite, the closest “big” town to the cabin, was that “big” meant it had a gas station with saran wrapped sandwiches in it. Stop signs/lights were few and far between; so were the dilapidated barns and farm houses. For some stretches all you’d see would be trailer homes with the requisite 1989 Pontiac Firebird/Chevy pickup parked out front. I used to laugh at those kinds of people all the time. Now I’m wondering that they might have the right idea.
Don’t get me wrong, there were some very nice homes on the lake. I don’t need that. All I need is a log cabin. You can buy a wooded lot for $20,000 and build your house on that. You could come out with a nice little piece of property depending on how much you wanted to spend and how much you could do yourself. All that would be left would be to find a modest job (fun job out in the country!) or a job that you could work from home and you’d be set. Minor mortgage costs, little transportation costs if you worked from home, and the great outdoors in your backyard. Sure, you’d be going through cases of mosquito repellant and you’d have to buy a gun (watch out, mother fuckers) and a boat (pontoon boat would be just fine, with a secret hiding spot for the gun), but living a very modest lifestyle you could get by on $800 a month. $800 a month! And that includes a certain someone’s little drinking habit (ehem, b*llsh*t).
Now, I’m going to go way out on a limb on this one (and please don’t check my math). Say you had $200,000, you made 7% on that ($14,000), you paid a mixture of long and short term taxes (25%) (I’m not sure on that, Turbo-Tax does my taxes) which leaves you with $875 a month to spend. Of course your investments won’t always make 7% and a negative return year would have you running to the store for toilet paper every day but hey, my monkey math certainly makes it look possible. It would be a lot easier if you had $400,000 or $600,000 stashed away or if your roommate serviced half the town (male and female) in exchange for food. I’d die of a heart attack before my little wee-wee would make me any money.
All this non-sense talk is getting me excited. To think that, with revised savings techniques in the appropriate investments, this would all be possible in ten years has left me with a boner for the past two hours. Ten years is a long ways away. I don’t know how many hours that is but I’m sure it’s more than four hours. Better get on the phone with the doctor shortly here.
Last weekend I went to the old roommate’s parents’ cabin in the Oshkosh area. It was about two hours away, not that far driving wise but good golly, what a change in surroundings.
The first thing you noticed when driving through Red Granite, the closest “big” town to the cabin, was that “big” meant it had a gas station with saran wrapped sandwiches in it. Stop signs/lights were few and far between; so were the dilapidated barns and farm houses. For some stretches all you’d see would be trailer homes with the requisite 1989 Pontiac Firebird/Chevy pickup parked out front. I used to laugh at those kinds of people all the time. Now I’m wondering that they might have the right idea.
Don’t get me wrong, there were some very nice homes on the lake. I don’t need that. All I need is a log cabin. You can buy a wooded lot for $20,000 and build your house on that. You could come out with a nice little piece of property depending on how much you wanted to spend and how much you could do yourself. All that would be left would be to find a modest job (fun job out in the country!) or a job that you could work from home and you’d be set. Minor mortgage costs, little transportation costs if you worked from home, and the great outdoors in your backyard. Sure, you’d be going through cases of mosquito repellant and you’d have to buy a gun (watch out, mother fuckers) and a boat (pontoon boat would be just fine, with a secret hiding spot for the gun), but living a very modest lifestyle you could get by on $800 a month. $800 a month! And that includes a certain someone’s little drinking habit (ehem, b*llsh*t).
Now, I’m going to go way out on a limb on this one (and please don’t check my math). Say you had $200,000, you made 7% on that ($14,000), you paid a mixture of long and short term taxes (25%) (I’m not sure on that, Turbo-Tax does my taxes) which leaves you with $875 a month to spend. Of course your investments won’t always make 7% and a negative return year would have you running to the store for toilet paper every day but hey, my monkey math certainly makes it look possible. It would be a lot easier if you had $400,000 or $600,000 stashed away or if your roommate serviced half the town (male and female) in exchange for food. I’d die of a heart attack before my little wee-wee would make me any money.
All this non-sense talk is getting me excited. To think that, with revised savings techniques in the appropriate investments, this would all be possible in ten years has left me with a boner for the past two hours. Ten years is a long ways away. I don’t know how many hours that is but I’m sure it’s more than four hours. Better get on the phone with the doctor shortly here.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
And It's Official...
Parents' divorce papers were filed yesterday. Just found out about today, on the internet of all places. Good thing I only had five beers yesterday, will certainly make up for that tonight.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Pure Evil if You're Anal
Drove up to my buddy's cabin this weekend. 140 miles one way. Took the Renter's new car since it has more room than the Wrangler. The Renter's Liberty is thd Limited edition which means it has all those bells and whistles your average person does't need, like the digital readout that show's you the average miles per gallon. I'm anal. I needed that number to be as high as possible. I don't know what I was keeping more track off, the average miles per gallon or the road. I got it up to 24 mpg but it took a lot of finessing the pedal to get there. Just glad my Jeep doesn't have that shit on it.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I’m Guilty, Arrest Me
In the wake of all the people being indicted lately on sports-related gambling issues, well, I’m guilty, come and get me.
You see, I used to run cross-country track back in grade school. I wasn’t all that good at running back then; even worse now. I was probably 5’10” and 170 lbs in eighth grade, not even close to your prototypical long distance runner. You might think 5’10” and 170 is normal for a typical man. For a typical man, sure, but I was a 14-year-old who liked to eat. Muscle tone, yeah, none at all. I think the most I could bench press back then was 100 lbs in my parents’ basement with those really old plastic covered cement weights. I couldn’t even jump and touch the basketball rim. I didn’t really blossom (if you can even call it that) till my high school and college years.
(However, these years back in grade school turned out to be the climax of my sexual prowess – with myself. With the internet just coming out and all the available porn sites out there, man, not a day went by without a good beat-off session. I liked to think of it as a reward after finishing my studies. I was a good student back then usually only getting a B in art class or something totally gay like that – but I was a much better beater-offer. Sure I learned more as I got older but I’ll never forget fantasizing about Brian’s older sister in the bathtub (she was hot!) or using whatever kind of lube I could find around the house to aide in my quest (note: WD-40 does not work well and may even burn a little).)
So it was eighth grade and we had the final meet at the end of the year. I remember it pretty well. It was cold out and I had sweatpants and a sweatshirt on to keep warm. As with most fieldtrips we got there about an hour early and pretty much froze out butts off till it actually started. My dad showed up after work along with one of his co-workers (wonder what Dave “The Wave” is doing nowadays?). They tried to get me prepped and fired up for the run. I’d done this stuff before but usually it was just me out there running along with everyone else; not anywhere near the front of the pack and not near the stragglers. I was maybe the fourth best male runner on our team.
Our best runner was Paul. Paul had the build for running long distance. He was 5’3” and maybe 120 lbs with his coke-bottle glasses on. Paul was a nerd. Paul was a dork. But Paul was freaking fast. He was a grade under me and I used to pick on him a bit. If he was running next to me I’d push him into a tree or stop sign. He used to come over sometimes in the summer and I’d block every one of his shots at the hoop. But there wasn’t any way to catch him over the five or six miles we used to run.
Just before the race was about to start my dad told me he’d buy me a new radio controlled car motor ($80 back in 1991!) if I were to beat Paul. I used to be big into that kind of shit and would routinely kick guys’ asses who were twice as old as me and who spent twice as much money on their cars. I probably had more talent doing that than anything else in my life (well, besides the aforementioned beating off). I knew exactly which motor I wanted: an 11-turn single that would totally blow everyone else away.
Knowing that the possibility of me beating Paul was somewhere between slim and none I did the unthinkable: I approached Paul. I approached Paul and offered him $10 (two weeks worth of allowance) if he would let me beat him.
Right away I knew it was wrong. Its not that he accepted the offer or that the fix was in but it still felt wrong.
With my dad and Dave strategically placed around the course for support I somehow managed to beat Paul and everyone else on the team. Out of 400 some kids I came in at 43rd. I remember they had a chute at the end that they wanted you to file into as you crossed the finish line so they could keep everyone in the same order that they finished. At the end of the race my brain did not comprehend this. I kept running as hard as possible till I felt a very strong arm grab me around the stomach that halted me in my tracks and pushed me towards the entrance. I was spent. I barely made it to the end of the chute where they gave me the pink ribbon. Yeah, pink, thanks.
I didn’t get a congratulation from the coach. Paul had a big mouth and I’m guessing my proposition had gotten around to her. I tried to stay away from her as much as possible. It was my last year in track, wasn’t like I’d be running for her again. Now that I think of it that might have been the last time I ever saw her. Huh.
You better believe I got some high-fives from my dad and Dave. At first I had no idea where I had placed in comparison to my classmates – including Paul. Later I found out that the 2nd and 3rd best runners had stayed together and saved too much for the end sprinting past a number of weary runners on the home stretch. Paul came up lame with a side ache and finished in the middle of the pack. Dad and Dave said I did great but I didn’t really feel all that great after what had transpired earlier. My most memorable moment in grade school track was overshadowed by the thought of fixing the race.
But I got the motor. I used that motor for a good two years and won many races and trophies. It’s the motor that’s currently sitting in the radio controlled truck in my parents’ basement. I used to do wheelies off the line on a dirt track with that motor (which back then you never saw – guys would always ask me what I was running). Did I mention I was 14 and at the top of my game? I was like the fucking Doogie Howser of the radio controlled car circuit. And just like Doogie I got tired of helping sick people and turned gay. Wait…
Paul asked for his $10. I punched him in the side. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
You see, I used to run cross-country track back in grade school. I wasn’t all that good at running back then; even worse now. I was probably 5’10” and 170 lbs in eighth grade, not even close to your prototypical long distance runner. You might think 5’10” and 170 is normal for a typical man. For a typical man, sure, but I was a 14-year-old who liked to eat. Muscle tone, yeah, none at all. I think the most I could bench press back then was 100 lbs in my parents’ basement with those really old plastic covered cement weights. I couldn’t even jump and touch the basketball rim. I didn’t really blossom (if you can even call it that) till my high school and college years.
(However, these years back in grade school turned out to be the climax of my sexual prowess – with myself. With the internet just coming out and all the available porn sites out there, man, not a day went by without a good beat-off session. I liked to think of it as a reward after finishing my studies. I was a good student back then usually only getting a B in art class or something totally gay like that – but I was a much better beater-offer. Sure I learned more as I got older but I’ll never forget fantasizing about Brian’s older sister in the bathtub (she was hot!) or using whatever kind of lube I could find around the house to aide in my quest (note: WD-40 does not work well and may even burn a little).)
So it was eighth grade and we had the final meet at the end of the year. I remember it pretty well. It was cold out and I had sweatpants and a sweatshirt on to keep warm. As with most fieldtrips we got there about an hour early and pretty much froze out butts off till it actually started. My dad showed up after work along with one of his co-workers (wonder what Dave “The Wave” is doing nowadays?). They tried to get me prepped and fired up for the run. I’d done this stuff before but usually it was just me out there running along with everyone else; not anywhere near the front of the pack and not near the stragglers. I was maybe the fourth best male runner on our team.
Our best runner was Paul. Paul had the build for running long distance. He was 5’3” and maybe 120 lbs with his coke-bottle glasses on. Paul was a nerd. Paul was a dork. But Paul was freaking fast. He was a grade under me and I used to pick on him a bit. If he was running next to me I’d push him into a tree or stop sign. He used to come over sometimes in the summer and I’d block every one of his shots at the hoop. But there wasn’t any way to catch him over the five or six miles we used to run.
Just before the race was about to start my dad told me he’d buy me a new radio controlled car motor ($80 back in 1991!) if I were to beat Paul. I used to be big into that kind of shit and would routinely kick guys’ asses who were twice as old as me and who spent twice as much money on their cars. I probably had more talent doing that than anything else in my life (well, besides the aforementioned beating off). I knew exactly which motor I wanted: an 11-turn single that would totally blow everyone else away.
Knowing that the possibility of me beating Paul was somewhere between slim and none I did the unthinkable: I approached Paul. I approached Paul and offered him $10 (two weeks worth of allowance) if he would let me beat him.
Right away I knew it was wrong. Its not that he accepted the offer or that the fix was in but it still felt wrong.
With my dad and Dave strategically placed around the course for support I somehow managed to beat Paul and everyone else on the team. Out of 400 some kids I came in at 43rd. I remember they had a chute at the end that they wanted you to file into as you crossed the finish line so they could keep everyone in the same order that they finished. At the end of the race my brain did not comprehend this. I kept running as hard as possible till I felt a very strong arm grab me around the stomach that halted me in my tracks and pushed me towards the entrance. I was spent. I barely made it to the end of the chute where they gave me the pink ribbon. Yeah, pink, thanks.
I didn’t get a congratulation from the coach. Paul had a big mouth and I’m guessing my proposition had gotten around to her. I tried to stay away from her as much as possible. It was my last year in track, wasn’t like I’d be running for her again. Now that I think of it that might have been the last time I ever saw her. Huh.
You better believe I got some high-fives from my dad and Dave. At first I had no idea where I had placed in comparison to my classmates – including Paul. Later I found out that the 2nd and 3rd best runners had stayed together and saved too much for the end sprinting past a number of weary runners on the home stretch. Paul came up lame with a side ache and finished in the middle of the pack. Dad and Dave said I did great but I didn’t really feel all that great after what had transpired earlier. My most memorable moment in grade school track was overshadowed by the thought of fixing the race.
But I got the motor. I used that motor for a good two years and won many races and trophies. It’s the motor that’s currently sitting in the radio controlled truck in my parents’ basement. I used to do wheelies off the line on a dirt track with that motor (which back then you never saw – guys would always ask me what I was running). Did I mention I was 14 and at the top of my game? I was like the fucking Doogie Howser of the radio controlled car circuit. And just like Doogie I got tired of helping sick people and turned gay. Wait…
Paul asked for his $10. I punched him in the side. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Haven’t Been in the Mood…
…for sex lately.
Yeah, right, just kidding. Internet access on my cell phone is like the greatest thing ever. I’ve “made it” with numerous new hotties on my phone this summer. Thank you ladies.
I haven’t been in the mood to write anything cool and funny (or gay and lame) lately because of troubles on the home front. You see, about a week ago my dad moved out of my parents’ house. No warning, no hints, just moved out. I’m still trying to come to grips with this.
I got the call on Saturday.
Dad: You’re probably going to receive a call from mom in a little while. I moved out today.
Me: Where?
Dad: Why?
Me: No, where?
Dad: Oh, Waukesha.
I didn’t need to know why dad moved out. Mom’s been on a downward slide for quite some time now. I saw the irrational post-it notes on the kitchen counter. I heard the whole one line conversation that went like, “What the fuck did you do with the red crock pot?” Yeah, because crock pots are so worthy of yelling about the second I step out the door. Crack pipe sure, but crock pot? So I really didn’t need a reason why from dad. I pretty much knew already.
But I didn’t think it would be like this.
The only one home at night when I swing by for dinner is mom. Even the two puppies are gone. Without the puppies there the cat stalks my puppy. Fucker bit Molly on the first day. Finally he did something that put me over the edge; cat met foot. Twice. I felt a little bad afterwards that Molly had to be bitten in order for me to feel oh-so-damn-good but I got over that quickly. My smile sure lasted a long time. Cat doesn’t come near me anymore.
So…
“What the fuck happened to my family?”
I think that one’s more worthy of the f-word than the stupid crock pot.
I’m not going to talk to them about it. Sure, it’s my family but I figure they can work this shit out on their own. They’re grown adults. I’m just a 31-year-old who has enough problems of his own (seriously, I think my finger nail is going to fall off from opening so many cans last weekend – wouldn’t that totally be like the end of the world?). I haven’t asked dad where exactly he’s living or if he’s living with someone. I really don’t want to get too involved.
And to couple all that up with a four game sweep of the Brewers by the Cubs. I’m telling you, it’s been rough over here.
At least Brett’s back. I mean, he is back, right?
(Yeah, and I don't want any phone calls about this from those of you who know me. Still working through the whole process, not exactly ready to talk about it.)
Yeah, right, just kidding. Internet access on my cell phone is like the greatest thing ever. I’ve “made it” with numerous new hotties on my phone this summer. Thank you ladies.
I haven’t been in the mood to write anything cool and funny (or gay and lame) lately because of troubles on the home front. You see, about a week ago my dad moved out of my parents’ house. No warning, no hints, just moved out. I’m still trying to come to grips with this.
I got the call on Saturday.
Dad: You’re probably going to receive a call from mom in a little while. I moved out today.
Me: Where?
Dad: Why?
Me: No, where?
Dad: Oh, Waukesha.
I didn’t need to know why dad moved out. Mom’s been on a downward slide for quite some time now. I saw the irrational post-it notes on the kitchen counter. I heard the whole one line conversation that went like, “What the fuck did you do with the red crock pot?” Yeah, because crock pots are so worthy of yelling about the second I step out the door. Crack pipe sure, but crock pot? So I really didn’t need a reason why from dad. I pretty much knew already.
But I didn’t think it would be like this.
The only one home at night when I swing by for dinner is mom. Even the two puppies are gone. Without the puppies there the cat stalks my puppy. Fucker bit Molly on the first day. Finally he did something that put me over the edge; cat met foot. Twice. I felt a little bad afterwards that Molly had to be bitten in order for me to feel oh-so-damn-good but I got over that quickly. My smile sure lasted a long time. Cat doesn’t come near me anymore.
So…
“What the fuck happened to my family?”
I think that one’s more worthy of the f-word than the stupid crock pot.
I’m not going to talk to them about it. Sure, it’s my family but I figure they can work this shit out on their own. They’re grown adults. I’m just a 31-year-old who has enough problems of his own (seriously, I think my finger nail is going to fall off from opening so many cans last weekend – wouldn’t that totally be like the end of the world?). I haven’t asked dad where exactly he’s living or if he’s living with someone. I really don’t want to get too involved.
And to couple all that up with a four game sweep of the Brewers by the Cubs. I’m telling you, it’s been rough over here.
At least Brett’s back. I mean, he is back, right?
(Yeah, and I don't want any phone calls about this from those of you who know me. Still working through the whole process, not exactly ready to talk about it.)
Sunday, August 03, 2008
$20 Million
Did they really think $20 mil would sway Favre's decision about coming back? The dude drives a fucking Ford pickup. Hell, he lived in a trailor home on his agent's land for a number of years. He ain't no Latrell Sprewell.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
FIBS
Those last two games against the Cubs have absolutely sucked. It's bad enough that I have to deal with those FIBS on the way home from work (Fucking Illinois Bastards - yes, Wisconsinites don't like our neighbors to the south). I'm leaving work at 2:00 tomorrow. The last time they were in town for a 1:00 it took me an hour to get home. That's only six miles people. Yeah, painful. I'm wearing my Brewers hat tonight; can't let those bastards win another one.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Is It Possible To Shit Beer?
I swear I just shot out at least a six pack along with some undeterminable objects and the ever present undigested sunflower seeds. I almost didn't make it to the bathroom. "Uh, boss, um, that smell that's making you wrinkle up your nose right now, um, yeah, that's me. I didn't exactly make it to the bathroom in a timely fashion. Guess that's one way to cure procrastination."
Monday, July 28, 2008
Bricks
These were dropped off on Thursday, free of charge except for some beer and chicken legs.
This is the finished product.
I was a busy boy this weekend. My back is paying for it.
This is the finished product.
I was a busy boy this weekend. My back is paying for it.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
BK Can't Count
Why Burger King hires people who can't count all the way to fucking four I'll never know.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Update #3 - Dialed In
I was a little over-eager in the gym on Monday. I did four solid sets of bench instead of three. Today, Thursday, I could feel that slight difference of one extra set. Here’s the current weekly workout.
Monday
Flat Bench: warm up, 205 x 12, 225 x 9, 245 x 5
Pull Up: 250 x 8, 240 x 8, 230 x 8
Shoulder Shrug: 115 dumbbells x 33, 115 x 27
Tuesday
Dumbbell Shoulder Press: warm up, 60 x 12, 70 x 8, 70 x 6
Straight Bar Curl: 95 x 10, 95 x 9, 95 x 8
Tricep Pushdown: 120 x 10, 120 x 8, 110 x 8
Wednesday – Off
Thursday
Incline Bench: 185 x 10, 185 x 10
Decline Bench: 185 x 10, 185 x 10
Low Cable Row: 170 x 12, 170 x 10
Wide Grip Chin Up: 180 x 9, 170 x 8
Dumbbell Shoulder Shrug: 115 x 33, 115 x 27
Friday
Dumbbell Shoulder Press: 60 x 12, 70 x 8
Lateral Dumbbell Flies: 30 x 10, 30 x 10
Dumbbell Curl: 55 x 12, 50 x 10, 45 x 10
Three Sets of Various Tricep Lifts
So far I’m in the seventh week of following the above. By limiting the number of sets to three, while still handling some heavy weight, I’m able to hit each body part twice a week instead of once. Two days of rest seems to work during the week but that third day over the weekend seems to make it all possible.
I was looking at my lifting calendar dating back to March: It looked something like this:
March – chest 4, back 3, shoulders 3, arms 3
April – chest 4, back 5, shoulders 4, arms 3
May – chest 4, back 4, shoulders 3, arms 2
And then there was June:
Chest 7, back 7, shoulders 7, arms 7.
Seeing that pretty much convinced me that this new routine should work. Instead of hitting each body part three or four times a month I got in seven for each – without feeling sore or tight from not getting enough rest. I found that I could do three sets of flat bench of 205, 225, and 245 twice a week and have just as many reps on Thursday that I did on Monday. Sure, it’s better to switch up the end of the week exercises from the beginning of the week but I’m just saying that one week I tried it, and it worked. The cool thing is that you can easily fit the nine or ten sets in to a 35 minute period. Even though I watch all the Brewers games on TV at night I have time to read the paper about the game in the gym.
The only flaw to this program is that (currently) I don’t have much variety in there but I’m still in the experimental stages. I watched a video of Branch Warren (he took 4th in the 2008 Arnold Classic) that just showed his workouts. Watching that probably attributed to my over-doing it on Monday. His chest days looked like three sets of incline (going up to 405), three sets of flat, three sets of flat dumbbell presses, three sets of weighted dips, and three sets of cables following each with incline pushups. The video was pretty impressive and Mr. Warren’s a big dude. After that kind of a workout you don’t do any other chest exercises for a whole week. I’ve tried that with some success but I think a little OJ (juice) is needed in order to get the full recovery. I’d like to get some other chest exercises in my plan but you don’t want to skip a good and heavy flat bench day. That leaves three or four sets for the second chest day of the week which you can pick and choose whatever exercises you'd like.
Anyway, so that's what's been going on. Give it a shot. Oh, and be sure to check out Branch Warren. Dude's only 5'7" but he's a monster.
Monday
Flat Bench: warm up, 205 x 12, 225 x 9, 245 x 5
Pull Up: 250 x 8, 240 x 8, 230 x 8
Shoulder Shrug: 115 dumbbells x 33, 115 x 27
Tuesday
Dumbbell Shoulder Press: warm up, 60 x 12, 70 x 8, 70 x 6
Straight Bar Curl: 95 x 10, 95 x 9, 95 x 8
Tricep Pushdown: 120 x 10, 120 x 8, 110 x 8
Wednesday – Off
Thursday
Incline Bench: 185 x 10, 185 x 10
Decline Bench: 185 x 10, 185 x 10
Low Cable Row: 170 x 12, 170 x 10
Wide Grip Chin Up: 180 x 9, 170 x 8
Dumbbell Shoulder Shrug: 115 x 33, 115 x 27
Friday
Dumbbell Shoulder Press: 60 x 12, 70 x 8
Lateral Dumbbell Flies: 30 x 10, 30 x 10
Dumbbell Curl: 55 x 12, 50 x 10, 45 x 10
Three Sets of Various Tricep Lifts
So far I’m in the seventh week of following the above. By limiting the number of sets to three, while still handling some heavy weight, I’m able to hit each body part twice a week instead of once. Two days of rest seems to work during the week but that third day over the weekend seems to make it all possible.
I was looking at my lifting calendar dating back to March: It looked something like this:
March – chest 4, back 3, shoulders 3, arms 3
April – chest 4, back 5, shoulders 4, arms 3
May – chest 4, back 4, shoulders 3, arms 2
And then there was June:
Chest 7, back 7, shoulders 7, arms 7.
Seeing that pretty much convinced me that this new routine should work. Instead of hitting each body part three or four times a month I got in seven for each – without feeling sore or tight from not getting enough rest. I found that I could do three sets of flat bench of 205, 225, and 245 twice a week and have just as many reps on Thursday that I did on Monday. Sure, it’s better to switch up the end of the week exercises from the beginning of the week but I’m just saying that one week I tried it, and it worked. The cool thing is that you can easily fit the nine or ten sets in to a 35 minute period. Even though I watch all the Brewers games on TV at night I have time to read the paper about the game in the gym.
The only flaw to this program is that (currently) I don’t have much variety in there but I’m still in the experimental stages. I watched a video of Branch Warren (he took 4th in the 2008 Arnold Classic) that just showed his workouts. Watching that probably attributed to my over-doing it on Monday. His chest days looked like three sets of incline (going up to 405), three sets of flat, three sets of flat dumbbell presses, three sets of weighted dips, and three sets of cables following each with incline pushups. The video was pretty impressive and Mr. Warren’s a big dude. After that kind of a workout you don’t do any other chest exercises for a whole week. I’ve tried that with some success but I think a little OJ (juice) is needed in order to get the full recovery. I’d like to get some other chest exercises in my plan but you don’t want to skip a good and heavy flat bench day. That leaves three or four sets for the second chest day of the week which you can pick and choose whatever exercises you'd like.
Anyway, so that's what's been going on. Give it a shot. Oh, and be sure to check out Branch Warren. Dude's only 5'7" but he's a monster.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tissue Paper
I knew it was coming but I tried my best to put it off. And then I put it off too long. Normally I use the restroom (see, I don’t need to say shit or crap if I don’t want to) at work before I leave for the gym. Well, today it was time to leave and I had put off the visit to get something done before lunch. I figured it wasn’t that bad and I could workout without having any problems.
(Is it bad that I plan my restroom visits around things that I have lined up during the day? What does that say about my bodily function control?)
I got to the gym and everything was still cool. Then, in the locker room, after bending over to change my shoes and socks I realized that the time was now. Just those few motions pushed out a sizable pffft of gas. It smelled. Bad. I couldn’t lift weights without taking a poo first. Well, I could but I’d be running the risk of taking a poo while lifting weights. .
I’ve seen pictures of marathon runners who have crapped their shorts while running. This is why I don’t run marathons. That would be me.
I made my way over to the can and carefully balanced my towel on top of my water bottle to keep it off the questionable floor. I dropped my shorts and sure enough, with little to no effort a big old lincoln log popped out. Not wanting to cut my time in the gym down any I tried to pinch it off and get wiped up as quickly as possible. That’s when I noticed the toilet paper.
Now, it would be really bad if there wasn’t any paper. Nothing could be worse than that. But this wasn’t much better. Remember back in grade school when art class would come around and you’d make butterflies or flowers out of tissue paper? You know, the flimsy tissue that usually came in the gayest colors imaginable? Yeah, my butterflies were always pink, shut up. The roll of toilet paper was indeed just like tissue paper.
They don’t even make actual tissues out of tissue paper (do they?). Your normal box of Kleenex has double sided sheets with a little lotion on it. You use these double-sided tissues to blow your nose so you don’t get boogers all over your hand. And yet, here I was in the stall about to wipe one of the nastiest materials I can think of with single-ply tissue paper. Seriously nasty, I’ll admit it.
For the first “dabber” I used a good four feet of the tissue. This ended up balling up to the size of a golf ball. I shot that right in the toilet. No way my hand is going in for the first strike without the proper artillery. The second time I pulled off a good six feet and balled it to just bigger than a baseball. First wipe – ok. Second wipe – ok. Third wipe – not so good. It turns out the tissue paper was not very absorbent; it just kind of moved “it” around. Now “it” was on my hand. Thoroughly disgusted I grabbed some more tissue and got it off my hand. In the process I got some on the paper dispenser. I thought, “Fuck’em, it’s their fault in the first place.” Yeah, I left it there. I’ve done worse.
I must have wiped (smeared) for a good five minutes. When I finally thought all was good down there I flushed and headed for the sink. After I washed my hands I realized something was not good. In my effort to hurry up and cut the session down to the minimum I had cut it off too early. I still had to go. Fuck.
I went back in the stall and pushed out a couple more. Not taking note of what had happened just minutes before, yup, got it on my hand again. I can’t think of much worse than having your own warm, smelly poop right there on your finger – taunting you from underneath your finger nail. “I see you but you can’t get at me!” Not having anything to work with I (gross) used another finger nail to try to get it out. Now I had poop under two fingernails.
Knowing the battle was futile I tried to hurry up so I could go use the sink as soon as possible. I was able to get everything out with running water and soap. I looked at myself in the mirror; sweat was running down my forehead. But hey, I had survived. And I had learned an important lesson: if the paper ain’t thick, don’t take a shit. Words to live by, people. Words to live by.
(Is it bad that I plan my restroom visits around things that I have lined up during the day? What does that say about my bodily function control?)
I got to the gym and everything was still cool. Then, in the locker room, after bending over to change my shoes and socks I realized that the time was now. Just those few motions pushed out a sizable pffft of gas. It smelled. Bad. I couldn’t lift weights without taking a poo first. Well, I could but I’d be running the risk of taking a poo while lifting weights. .
I’ve seen pictures of marathon runners who have crapped their shorts while running. This is why I don’t run marathons. That would be me.
I made my way over to the can and carefully balanced my towel on top of my water bottle to keep it off the questionable floor. I dropped my shorts and sure enough, with little to no effort a big old lincoln log popped out. Not wanting to cut my time in the gym down any I tried to pinch it off and get wiped up as quickly as possible. That’s when I noticed the toilet paper.
Now, it would be really bad if there wasn’t any paper. Nothing could be worse than that. But this wasn’t much better. Remember back in grade school when art class would come around and you’d make butterflies or flowers out of tissue paper? You know, the flimsy tissue that usually came in the gayest colors imaginable? Yeah, my butterflies were always pink, shut up. The roll of toilet paper was indeed just like tissue paper.
They don’t even make actual tissues out of tissue paper (do they?). Your normal box of Kleenex has double sided sheets with a little lotion on it. You use these double-sided tissues to blow your nose so you don’t get boogers all over your hand. And yet, here I was in the stall about to wipe one of the nastiest materials I can think of with single-ply tissue paper. Seriously nasty, I’ll admit it.
For the first “dabber” I used a good four feet of the tissue. This ended up balling up to the size of a golf ball. I shot that right in the toilet. No way my hand is going in for the first strike without the proper artillery. The second time I pulled off a good six feet and balled it to just bigger than a baseball. First wipe – ok. Second wipe – ok. Third wipe – not so good. It turns out the tissue paper was not very absorbent; it just kind of moved “it” around. Now “it” was on my hand. Thoroughly disgusted I grabbed some more tissue and got it off my hand. In the process I got some on the paper dispenser. I thought, “Fuck’em, it’s their fault in the first place.” Yeah, I left it there. I’ve done worse.
I must have wiped (smeared) for a good five minutes. When I finally thought all was good down there I flushed and headed for the sink. After I washed my hands I realized something was not good. In my effort to hurry up and cut the session down to the minimum I had cut it off too early. I still had to go. Fuck.
I went back in the stall and pushed out a couple more. Not taking note of what had happened just minutes before, yup, got it on my hand again. I can’t think of much worse than having your own warm, smelly poop right there on your finger – taunting you from underneath your finger nail. “I see you but you can’t get at me!” Not having anything to work with I (gross) used another finger nail to try to get it out. Now I had poop under two fingernails.
Knowing the battle was futile I tried to hurry up so I could go use the sink as soon as possible. I was able to get everything out with running water and soap. I looked at myself in the mirror; sweat was running down my forehead. But hey, I had survived. And I had learned an important lesson: if the paper ain’t thick, don’t take a shit. Words to live by, people. Words to live by.
Stealth Bomber
The little puppy likes to poop under the cover of darkness during her midnight walks. I don't like picking up the little shit bombs. She got the corner neighbor's yard last night but he just mowed his lawn yesterday; won't be anything left there when he mows again in two weeks. It's tough whispering praise to the puppy while you're trying to make fast and quiet getaway.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Eva Mendes - Preggers
How come I couldn't be the one to nail Eva Mendes when she recently went on a two day bender?
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