The Yogurt Monologues (Part IV)
I guess it’s about time to weight in again on the subject of my ongoing “lifestyle change”. Which, I’m proud to announce, is still going strong like the Buffalo (well, more like the Buffalo used to do in the old days before white men and trains. Now they just tend to sit there and eat grass – but you get the point). The regular routine of eating healthy and working out has seemingly stuck with me and I’m quickly becoming quite the little gym snob.
Am I kicking fats ass now or what? Yay me.
Things are starting to seriously click for me now health wise. I’ve gotten over my fear of tofu and other snot-textured meat alternatives *, committed and broken every social gym faux-pas known to polite mankind, begun to acquire muscle mass in areas of my body that I didn’t even know existed, and somewhere down the line, even discovered that I have an ass.
Once again: yay me.
My diet has evolved into this weird radical obsession. Two cups of fruit, three cups of vegetables, 2 proteins, 1 starch, 2 fat, 1 dairy, etc, etc. Basically all the stuff I snoozed through back in Mrs. Ray’s Home Economics class in high school over two decades ago.
Oops.
But what can I say? If it wasn’t directly to do with Rita Scarfoni’s heaving pre-pubescent breasts, I wasn’t much interested back then.
What it comes down to is this: whenever I’m not sleeping, showering or shitting, I’m fixing food. And believe me, there are times when I’m even tempted to chop vegetables while I’m taking a dump just to maximize my “preparation time” **.
Apparently there is a life after McDonalds. Who knew?
My whole life now revolves around the preparation of my meals. In the morning just after I wake up I have my breakfast and immediately begin preparing my snacks and lunch to bring to work with me that day. Afterwards, after getting out of the shower I set to making basic preparations for dinner when I get home. When I get home, only a mere 10 hours later, I have a snack while I finish preparing my evenings dinner and then another snack for after my workout. Once I’m finished eating my dinner ***, I begin getting things ready for my breakfast again the next morning; and so on and so forth.
Whew.
My living room and bathroom has been littered over with mountains of cookbooks and healthy eating magazines. My bathroom in particular has turned into some dieters Think Tank for all the healthy recipe books I have in there. I’ve just become obsessed with hunting out new healthy low-fat menu entrees to prepare. I’m like Suzanne Powter with a dick. If it’s low fat and tasty - I’m on it like free Levi’s on a hurricane survivor.
Coupled with this incessant need for healthy food I am also now consuming pineapple juice by the bucket load. If it were at all possible to have an ongoing pineapple drip going intravenously throughout the day – I probably would. At this rate my junk is going to taste so sweet that it’ll give you diabetes just thinking about it.
What I am really proud about the most are my regular every-other-day workouts at the gym. After sneaking into the ‘Members Plus’ change room to see how the other half lived, I upgraded my own membership in about 15 microseconds. And to think I have been using the lowly peons change room all this time.
So long screaming kids and cold tile - hello private lockers and carpeted flooring.
It’s a luxury I have never afforded myself in the past so I am currently indulging like a starving man at a Chinese Buffet. Besides the soft lighting and scented air fresheners; there is a reading lounge, television, sauna, steam room, hot tub, courtesy telephone, and an abundance of clean towels. I feel like a fucking Roman. All that’s missing are complimentary olive oil massages and young boys in fig leaves serving chilled grapes on silver service trays.
The only discernable drawback to the whole ‘Members Plus’ gym experience is the abnormally high quota of shriveled up old man dick. Everybody - and I mean everybody - goes around naked in the change room. Now, I’m not ashamed or insecure about my body to walk around nude in front of other males – but it seems to me that some guys – old guys in particular - are just too eager to let it all hang out. I’m just not a nude kind of guy. There should be some kind of “anti-nude” policy in the change room to a certain degree, as I tend to view male nudity in much the same way that ball players view rain. I have called off more than one soak in the hot tub on account of shriveled up old man dick.
These guys have no shame. They shower naked; shave naked, sit in the sauna or steam room naked, shit, I be they’d workout naked too if the city’s Board of Health allowed it. What is it about old men and nudity anyway? Maybe when you’re young and buff and have something to be proud about I could understand it – but why when you’re old, wrinkly, and your genitals look like spoiled fruit would you suddenly feel the urge to flaunt it for all to see? That’s weird to me. It’s also weird to me that these guys enjoy sitting around together in the sauna and steam room naked. Personally, my jewels came with a warning sticker to always wear proper protective clothing when entering any hot closed environment. The last thing I want is scorch marks on my Johnson after coming into contact with a hot cedar board in the sauna. Likewise, who can really enjoy themselves whilst staring directly into another man’s hairy, sweaty fruit bowl? I may never be able to eat again.
But, primarily, I go to the gym to punish myself (and I don’t just mean physically). Working out is not a particularly pretty thing to witness. Sure you feel great afterwards, but it’s hardly a pleasant thing to watch during. I don’t know how many times I’ve slipped out the odd fart while doing abdominal crunches bent over a plastic Swiss exercise ball ****. I must look like a guinea pig humping a cue ball. But hey, I’m a big guy and I live mostly on green vegetables these days – the odd body flatulent is just going to be an inevitable occupational hazard of working out. I know that I would immediately escalate myself to an ‘Orange Alert’ status if I ever walked in on something like that.
What’s the big deal anyway?
The gym is a literal breeding ground of weird bodily noises. I once thought I’d overheard someone fart through their nose while pushing themselves through a particularly grueling workout. All you have to do is just stand for a moment and listen to the sounds going on around you while you workout to know this. There are people making strange noises similar to that of hissing cats, growling bears, angry squirrels, and what have you. There’s even a guy who makes a noise that could only be described as to what a wildebeest in heat must sound like. At times, it would seem like you’re at an alien petting zoo of some kind. This is why everybody listens to music on their mini mp3 players and iPods. Who wants to listen to some dude wheezing and grunting his way through his reps like a constipated sea lion?
A fart? Child’s play!
Besides, I’ve become so accustomed to my own bodily expunges lately that the odd mistimed fart is just not that big a deal anymore. Christ, I could probably blow mucus out my ears if I really wanted to and pushed myself hard enough. How’s that for a party trick?
My routine, although rather unimpressive by most gym-goers standards, is pretty intensive for a guy like me. I haven’t lifted anything heavier than a stack of pancakes in years. So I have to first work all these underused, deflated pustules of fat on my body before I can begin to acquire any real muscle mass. At the moment, I feel like that scrawny guy in the comic book adverts who has his sand castle kicked in his face by some gorilla with laughing broads hanging off both arms. I’m no Charles Atlas by any means.
I’m more like a deflated Michelin Man.
I will admit that there are times when I do feel a little inferior to the other dumb bells at the gym (and I’m not talking about the equipment here) and sometimes feel like hanging myself in the Bow-Flex machine. But I understand that even though I would love to just jump on any weight-training machine and immediately begin pumping like Ginger Lynn at a casting audition, my puny body would crumple like aluminum can. And that just can’t be sexy to witness.
However, no matter how unappealing I think I am, I can consul myself in knowing that at least I am not the strange Rainman guy who shuffles around in a housecoat and slippers
Hey, it’s the YMCA - not Gold’s Gym.
* Had I know even three short months ago that I would take to eating tofu I probably would have wedged my toe into the trigger of a 12-gauge shotgun then and there. This may be the most significant breakthrough to date.
** Tossing my salad is simply a given.
*** Usually set to the 5:30PM airing of ‘Judge Judy’ on television.
**** This is my least favorite part of my workout. Not because of the difficulty it presents physically, but because of the difficulty of seeing myself in front of a full mirror spread-eagled on brightly-colored beach ball. It’s not very manly.
Am I kicking fats ass now or what? Yay me.
Things are starting to seriously click for me now health wise. I’ve gotten over my fear of tofu and other snot-textured meat alternatives *, committed and broken every social gym faux-pas known to polite mankind, begun to acquire muscle mass in areas of my body that I didn’t even know existed, and somewhere down the line, even discovered that I have an ass.
Once again: yay me.
My diet has evolved into this weird radical obsession. Two cups of fruit, three cups of vegetables, 2 proteins, 1 starch, 2 fat, 1 dairy, etc, etc. Basically all the stuff I snoozed through back in Mrs. Ray’s Home Economics class in high school over two decades ago.
Oops.
But what can I say? If it wasn’t directly to do with Rita Scarfoni’s heaving pre-pubescent breasts, I wasn’t much interested back then.
What it comes down to is this: whenever I’m not sleeping, showering or shitting, I’m fixing food. And believe me, there are times when I’m even tempted to chop vegetables while I’m taking a dump just to maximize my “preparation time” **.
Apparently there is a life after McDonalds. Who knew?
My whole life now revolves around the preparation of my meals. In the morning just after I wake up I have my breakfast and immediately begin preparing my snacks and lunch to bring to work with me that day. Afterwards, after getting out of the shower I set to making basic preparations for dinner when I get home. When I get home, only a mere 10 hours later, I have a snack while I finish preparing my evenings dinner and then another snack for after my workout. Once I’m finished eating my dinner ***, I begin getting things ready for my breakfast again the next morning; and so on and so forth.
Whew.
My living room and bathroom has been littered over with mountains of cookbooks and healthy eating magazines. My bathroom in particular has turned into some dieters Think Tank for all the healthy recipe books I have in there. I’ve just become obsessed with hunting out new healthy low-fat menu entrees to prepare. I’m like Suzanne Powter with a dick. If it’s low fat and tasty - I’m on it like free Levi’s on a hurricane survivor.
Coupled with this incessant need for healthy food I am also now consuming pineapple juice by the bucket load. If it were at all possible to have an ongoing pineapple drip going intravenously throughout the day – I probably would. At this rate my junk is going to taste so sweet that it’ll give you diabetes just thinking about it.
What I am really proud about the most are my regular every-other-day workouts at the gym. After sneaking into the ‘Members Plus’ change room to see how the other half lived, I upgraded my own membership in about 15 microseconds. And to think I have been using the lowly peons change room all this time.
So long screaming kids and cold tile - hello private lockers and carpeted flooring.
It’s a luxury I have never afforded myself in the past so I am currently indulging like a starving man at a Chinese Buffet. Besides the soft lighting and scented air fresheners; there is a reading lounge, television, sauna, steam room, hot tub, courtesy telephone, and an abundance of clean towels. I feel like a fucking Roman. All that’s missing are complimentary olive oil massages and young boys in fig leaves serving chilled grapes on silver service trays.
The only discernable drawback to the whole ‘Members Plus’ gym experience is the abnormally high quota of shriveled up old man dick. Everybody - and I mean everybody - goes around naked in the change room. Now, I’m not ashamed or insecure about my body to walk around nude in front of other males – but it seems to me that some guys – old guys in particular - are just too eager to let it all hang out. I’m just not a nude kind of guy. There should be some kind of “anti-nude” policy in the change room to a certain degree, as I tend to view male nudity in much the same way that ball players view rain. I have called off more than one soak in the hot tub on account of shriveled up old man dick.
These guys have no shame. They shower naked; shave naked, sit in the sauna or steam room naked, shit, I be they’d workout naked too if the city’s Board of Health allowed it. What is it about old men and nudity anyway? Maybe when you’re young and buff and have something to be proud about I could understand it – but why when you’re old, wrinkly, and your genitals look like spoiled fruit would you suddenly feel the urge to flaunt it for all to see? That’s weird to me. It’s also weird to me that these guys enjoy sitting around together in the sauna and steam room naked. Personally, my jewels came with a warning sticker to always wear proper protective clothing when entering any hot closed environment. The last thing I want is scorch marks on my Johnson after coming into contact with a hot cedar board in the sauna. Likewise, who can really enjoy themselves whilst staring directly into another man’s hairy, sweaty fruit bowl? I may never be able to eat again.
But, primarily, I go to the gym to punish myself (and I don’t just mean physically). Working out is not a particularly pretty thing to witness. Sure you feel great afterwards, but it’s hardly a pleasant thing to watch during. I don’t know how many times I’ve slipped out the odd fart while doing abdominal crunches bent over a plastic Swiss exercise ball ****. I must look like a guinea pig humping a cue ball. But hey, I’m a big guy and I live mostly on green vegetables these days – the odd body flatulent is just going to be an inevitable occupational hazard of working out. I know that I would immediately escalate myself to an ‘Orange Alert’ status if I ever walked in on something like that.
What’s the big deal anyway?
The gym is a literal breeding ground of weird bodily noises. I once thought I’d overheard someone fart through their nose while pushing themselves through a particularly grueling workout. All you have to do is just stand for a moment and listen to the sounds going on around you while you workout to know this. There are people making strange noises similar to that of hissing cats, growling bears, angry squirrels, and what have you. There’s even a guy who makes a noise that could only be described as to what a wildebeest in heat must sound like. At times, it would seem like you’re at an alien petting zoo of some kind. This is why everybody listens to music on their mini mp3 players and iPods. Who wants to listen to some dude wheezing and grunting his way through his reps like a constipated sea lion?
A fart? Child’s play!
Besides, I’ve become so accustomed to my own bodily expunges lately that the odd mistimed fart is just not that big a deal anymore. Christ, I could probably blow mucus out my ears if I really wanted to and pushed myself hard enough. How’s that for a party trick?
My routine, although rather unimpressive by most gym-goers standards, is pretty intensive for a guy like me. I haven’t lifted anything heavier than a stack of pancakes in years. So I have to first work all these underused, deflated pustules of fat on my body before I can begin to acquire any real muscle mass. At the moment, I feel like that scrawny guy in the comic book adverts who has his sand castle kicked in his face by some gorilla with laughing broads hanging off both arms. I’m no Charles Atlas by any means.
I’m more like a deflated Michelin Man.
I will admit that there are times when I do feel a little inferior to the other dumb bells at the gym (and I’m not talking about the equipment here) and sometimes feel like hanging myself in the Bow-Flex machine. But I understand that even though I would love to just jump on any weight-training machine and immediately begin pumping like Ginger Lynn at a casting audition, my puny body would crumple like aluminum can. And that just can’t be sexy to witness.
However, no matter how unappealing I think I am, I can consul myself in knowing that at least I am not the strange Rainman guy who shuffles around in a housecoat and slippers
Hey, it’s the YMCA - not Gold’s Gym.
* Had I know even three short months ago that I would take to eating tofu I probably would have wedged my toe into the trigger of a 12-gauge shotgun then and there. This may be the most significant breakthrough to date.
** Tossing my salad is simply a given.
*** Usually set to the 5:30PM airing of ‘Judge Judy’ on television.
**** This is my least favorite part of my workout. Not because of the difficulty it presents physically, but because of the difficulty of seeing myself in front of a full mirror spread-eagled on brightly-colored beach ball. It’s not very manly.
1 Comments:
I was waiting for some mention of the pineapple juice, and you didn't disappoint. Glad it's going so well. I totally need your kind of motivation right now.
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