Thursday, August 24, 2006

The Yogurt Monologues (Part III)

It has officially been a month since I began this whole “lifestyle change” madness. I guess that means it’s about high time for another ‘Yogurt Monologues’ update then, huh? Another whole month worth of dieting gripes, bodily observations, and personal discoveries galore. So grab a hold of your stretchy pants and weight scales and lets delve into the wild world of healthy living, shall we?

To date, since beginning this personal journey, I have managed to successfully loose a whopping 20lbs of body fat - and I’m still focused, dedicated, and going strong *. Already I feel like one of those skinny ass motherfuckers that I normally scowl at when they pass by. I’ve managed to conquer my fear of spinach, discovered 101 things to do with avocados, fit more comfortably in theater seats, and am still dropping turds with gigantic Smithsonian proportions.

I’m losing weight so quickly in fact, that I now have to lather myself with Cocoa butter every morning in order to combat stretch marks. Hey, another purpose for Cocoa Butter! Who knew?

Freaky monkey sex here I come!

And speaking of freaky monkey sex, it was mentioned to me the other day that men who eat healthy also have better tasting sperm **. I’m not sure why that stuck with me as it did. Maybe because considering all the fruits and vegetables I’ve been eating lately, I might just have the tastiest junk on the planet. They sure omitted that little factoid from my high school Health class! There’s a claim to fame. I’d have that engraved on my headstone:

"Here lies Terry.
Tastes great, less filling.

I do know that this lifestyle change is working however, and not just because I can now see my toes without the use of a box periscope, but because I have become so conscious of what I put into my body. Even more telling is that I am equally aware of what other people are putting into theirs. It’s a delicate mental balance to say the least. On the one hand, I crave and subconsciously fantasize about all the hoagies, donuts, and bags of Doritos that I see other people ingesting, but there is also another part of me that recoils in disgust knowing the effect it is having on their body. Honestly - there have been nights I have woken up in cold sweats and an erection after having strange disturbing dreams of being smothered alive under mountains of cheesy slices of pepperoni pizza.

The latest development since my last diet update is the fact that I have now joined the gym. Yep! This poor fat bastard has strayed into the Land of the Fit and Beautiful; or what I like to call – ‘No Hams Land’.

I still enjoy my power walking trips in the evenings and I have even increased them in intensity. These walks now make the ‘March of the Penguins’ seem like leisurely strolls through the woods to Grandma’s house. But I needed something more, more…invigorating. Besides, my feet are now so badly callused that they more closely resemble hooves.

It’s quite an interesting place actually this YMCA gym. It’s not at all what I expected from listening to Village People records. Initially, I thought that by just stepping through the front doors meant you would automatically take to wearing leather and Indian headdresses and start offering to give olive oil massages in the showers. But it’s not like that at all. It’s no est Campo Homo. In fact, nobody gives a shit that you’re there at all – which is fine by me. I’m not there to give massages.

The people at the gym are strangely oblivious to all that is going on around them. And nobody ever smiles. Hey, if you’re going to stare at my unsightly belly bulge, the least you can do is return a smile when we exchange eye contact.

But I digress. I understand that it’s not supposed to be Happy Hour or anything.

Each person is instead, plugged into their headsets and goes about their sweaty business like muscled zombies. And it’s no wonder; should one choose to go without that music blasting in their ear, they would inevitably be serenaded with the sounds of grunts, groans, and the odd ill-timed squeaked out fart. Not exactly a soundtrack to motivate your workout! It sounds like a milking factory. This also means then that I have also rediscovered a new appreciation for jam music - Phish, moe, Disco Biscuits, Widespread Panic, et al. There’s just something about bloobidy-bloobidy-bloobidy-bloobidy for 20 minutes at a time that really puts a spring in my step and gets my heart racing. Maybe it has something to do with the increased levels of granola in my system.

I’m not just busting out farts – I’m busting out the phat jams, brah!

And so my workouts are becoming very emotional and intense. I just don’t saddle up to an exercise bike and go for a leisurely spin; I attack it like a crazed Viking. One of these times in the heat of battle, when my adrenaline is soaring higher than Floyd Landis’ testosterone count, I’m going to grab the machine, hurl it through the window, beat my chest like a gorilla and grab the nearest female before climbing to the roof to await the fighter jets. After one really intense workout, I was even brought to tears the likes of which haven’t been seen with me since Andrew Ridgeway left Wham!

I have pains now in my body that most Cold War Interrogation experts haven’t even discovered yet. I’m currently lurching around the office like Frankenstein. It hurts to fucking blink! I am on the verge of becoming a complete A535 junkie. Even worse, is that I have to now put up with everyone continually telling me “no pain, no gain”. I swear, the next person who feels the need to share this tidbit of wisdom with me, I’m going to kick squarely in the schiznits.

“How’s that pain for ya? Gain on that, motherfucker!”

I must be some kind of masochist to put myself through this. Just keep thinking about the freaky monkey sex.

It’s also a good thing that I have become accustomed to fluvia. There are more spent bodily fluids at the gym than Robin Williams’s locker towel. You can’t go 3 ft without tripping over a spray bottle and sweat cloth used to wipe down the exercise machines post workout. And here I thought they were for the encore presentations of the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’. But I’ve realized that truly inspired people don’t sweat – saline leaves their body heartbroken that the body no longer needs it.

Initially I was really nervous about going to the gym and being surrounded by. But I am happy to announce that I have a bigger penis than at least three of the muscle-bound gorillas I have seen at the gym. So, there must really be something to this whole natural living thing as opposed to muscle enhancers, special protein shakes, and steroids. Sure, I may still have an ass that looks like a bag of oranges, but at least my penis can be seen without the aid of a microscope. No wonder these buffoons still wear their underwear in the shower.

* I think the fact that I also haven’t killed anyone yet is rather telling as well.

** Definitely not a study I would ever want to be part of. I’ll stick to the Pepsi Challenge, thank you!


Blogger Wandering Coyote said...

Well, it sounds like you're doing swimmingly.

Re. food & semen: a chef at the culinary school I attended told his class that pineapple specifically makes semen taste better. Just FYI...

5:29 PM  
Blogger crazytigerrabbitman said...

>>pineapple specifically makes semen taste better.<<

You are a true Goddess. btw...I'm really enjoying your Retorte blog recipes. Thanks a bunch.

4:46 PM  
Blogger Wandering Coyote said...

Glad I could provide you with that tidbit of happines. Glad you're liking the foodblog; I'm just starting up again after a lengthly lay-off.

5:22 PM  
Blogger crazytigerrabbitman said...

I am now currently taking pints of pineapple juice intervenously throughout the day in a quest to have spunk that tastes like it was secreted by angels themselves.

9:18 AM  
Blogger Wandering Coyote said...

You let me know how that goes, eh?

3:35 PM  

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