Our bathroom is the place where dreams go to die.

Did you know there are still a few magical and mystical locations left on earth? Undiscovered sanctuaries where pink, fluffy unicorns go and lay their eggs, raise their young.  Or where they crystallize the urine of angels to make pixie dust.  (Either that or it’s made from the cremated remains of Care Bears. The jury is still out on that one…)

284413cc8247c884e3ad04342fc7fc00

Our ashes make Peter Pan fly

I know of such a wondrous place.  It’s in our house.  It’s my bathroom. Continue reading

Hey Captain Douche, excuse me, I’m flexing here.

With all the baffoons roaming the Serengeti of a gym, I’m surprised I’m still grazing there at all…

wp-1457594883447.jpg

In my time on this blog I’ve had moments of ranting about naked guys and nipple showings.  It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the wonderful readers of this blog are starting to think that I’m training at some R-rated fitness facility, as some of the instructors also shadow as ladies of the night… Continue reading

An open letter to Naked Guy

Dear Naked Guy (and your friend)

It’s a new year and I need to applaud you for making some kind of commitment to a healthy lifestyle. For having a resolution to reduce the circumference of your wildly expanding gut.  For getting off the couch at the crack of dawn, to run/lift/step/climb/spin.  Good for you.

Being new to the whole fitness culture, I understand that you might be unaware of the generally accepted cardinal rules of gym behavior.  There are the obvious ones like (1) Don’t grunt, (2) Don’t take selfies in front of the mirror, (3) Don’t perve at ladies squatting, (4) Wipe the bench and (5) Put the f*cking weights back on the rack.  But this letter relates to the more specific things you should avoid doing in the semi-private space of the change room. Continue reading

Crossfit anyone?

images (2)

It’s my new thing. I’m semi-obsessed with it. I’m not sure why. It’s extremely tough, opens the floodgates of every pore in your body and increase your cursing vocabulary.  Halfway through a workout you look like a wet, wild, panting, deranged lunatic who will probably kill anyone who dares to strike up a conversation.  Only to end up feeling like a million bucks afterwards.  The “thing” is called crossfit and I consider myself to be a cross-fit wannabe as I still don’t have a body that looks good in a vest nor do I consider myself an expert of this training regime.  But there are three things I know, (1) I feel stronger (2) I feel fitter and (3) I love it.

I’ve been battling to throw off a couple of pounds that’s stubbornly sticking to the mid section like a sloth to a tree.  I’ve weighed my options and concluded that weight training alone might not be sufficient anymore.  I’ve reached an age where my metabolism has given up on life.  It’s apparent that I have to include some form of eating plan and cardio in my daily routine, if only to combat the consumption of wine.

I consider myself to be a mild sufferer from Adult ADHD.  It’s one of those things that makes me appealing.  I also have grey hair, stand 6″4′ in my shoes and have an amazing sense of humour due to the fact that I’ve seen my own reflection. I’m not just claiming to have a mental condition because I hate doing arbitrary stuff (if arbitrary stuff is defined as anything) around the house, I actually get bored very quickly.  Therefore I am in desperate need of diversity, action, excitement, change and chaos in my life.  Coincidentally it’s the same reasons for loving my teenage kids and also why I cannot imagine myself spending 40 minutes on a treadmill.

Before I discovered Crossfit, I did consider a few other cardio related options like:

  • Running – but who really wants to do it, if you own a car?
  • Cycling – but who really wants to wear pants that reveals whether I’m Jewish or not? (sorry Chris!)
  • Aerobics – but what man really looks good in neon coloured ski-pants and/or headbands?
  • Kickboxing – but who really wants to do air-karate to music?
  • Spinning – but who really wants to sit in a cramped space and smell body-odour of 10 other random strangers?

After finding enough excuses, it was settled, I will never have a six-pack. Then I found a crossfit workout (the lingo is WOD for those who are uninformed) in some men’s health magazine.  It might have been the actual Men’s Health Magazine.  I was intrigued, captivated.  If only for the female model squatting in the spread. I understand that crossfit is nothing new and it’s probably been around much longer than that thing that used to be a sandwich in my drawer.  But seriously, this is what caught my eye:

  • A lot of the WOD’s are based on twenty minute workouts.
  • You don’t need to be a specific level of fitness to start.
  • You can do it on your own.
  • You can challenge yourself constantly by setting your own goals.
  • If you’re really good you can compete internationally.
  • You may eventually end up with a body that’s a better version of the one you have now.
  • All the benchmark WOD’s are named after girls, like Angie, Cindy, Fran, Isabel and Nancy.  (Why do these sound like the names of drag queens?)

I’ve been doing Crossfit for a month now and as stated before, I’m hooked. Line and sinker.  I have to admit that I hate myself whilst I’m doing it and I regret any normal activity because of it (including but not limited too walking, sitting, typing and talking), but I still can’t stop.  It might be because I’m stubborn.  Or stupid.  Or both.  I reckon my recent visit to the department of Home Affairs are partly to blame, as I’ve never fully recovered from the trauma of that experience.  (I will proceed in blaming that event for every bad decision I make for the rest of my life.)

There is one thing about the whole crossfit subculture that boggles my mind a bit and that would be the fetish of naming WOD’s after girls.  As always, I’ve opted to give you my own reasons for this weirdness:

  • It only takes a man twenty minutes with the right girl to know he’s whipped.
  • Most men have little or no energy after fighting with a girl for twenty minutes.
  • Anything that makes you sweat for twenty minutes and leaves you satisfied with a smile on your face deserves to have woman’s name.
  • Only a woman have the power of leaving a man utterly exhausted after a focused twenty minute interaction of any kind.

No, it's ME against ME

No, it’s ME against ME

So how about it…Crossfit anyone?

The Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth

A few weeks ago (I can’t believe it’s been that long!) I posted a challenge as part of me excepting A Very Inspiring Blog Award or what I like to call a VIBA.  (It just sounds more prestigious, don’t you think?)  Those who bothered reading the post had to guess which two facts from a list of nine about yours truly, turned out to be unfathomable lies.

Here’s the list again:

  1. I puked the first time I attempted to change Dude’s nappy.
  2. I was slapped by a girl in high school, after I told her she had the personality of a pig.
  3. The guy who introduced me and the Wife has since dated a gay-porn star.
  4. I can bench press 200 pounds.
  5. I told Princess that we’re going to stop buying contact lenses, facial cream and instruct the orthodontist never to remove her dentures, so she would be unappealing for boys when she goes to high school.
  6. I might leave my Wife for Britney Spears.
  7. I have been in three motor vehicle accidents and all of them happened on the way to gym, i.e. before 05h00 in the morning.
  8. I used to call my Wife “Babe” when we dated and we got engaged during the movie “Babe”.
  9. My first serious girlfriend cheated on two different occasions and I took her back both times.

Continue reading

It’s not only lions who mark their territory.

In nature the strongest males mark their territory by urinating against trees, rocks and basically anything that doesn’t move.  The leader of the pack prance around spraying its distinctive scent.  Lions do it, dogs do it, hippo’s do it (ok, they spray something else), even lemur’s do it, after singing “I like to move it, move it”.

Did you know that buff dudes at the gym like to do it too?

We have a member in our gym who walks around like he has is the biggest member of all.  Continue reading

The Demon Donut

Like this, but EVIL!

Like this, but EVIL!

I embarked on a six-week Shortcut-to-Shred fitness program five weeks ago.

Why?  So many reasons.  Want to loose weight, want to feel better, want to reverse the aging process, want to drop body fat, wanting to try something new, wanting to kick-start 2014, wanting to proof something, wanting to detox, not having a life, seeking attention, not loved as a child, just plain bored or completely cuckoo.  Pick one, or all of them.  This is not the point.

The program consists of weight training and cardio six times a week and then an eating plan to support the effort.  As any great sportsman will tell you, which is why I’m not telling you, results is based on 10% exercise and 90% of what you stuff your face with.  You are in fact what you eat.

So when I decided to embark on this short six-week journey to hell, I had to suppress every single alarm bell that went off in my body.  It was a cacophony of complaints  from my feet to my brain.  My body just went rogue for a week and I had to remind my legs how to walk.  My mind evaporated into some abyss and the words why?… why?… why?… echoed loudly every time I got on a spinning bike.  My stomach refused to co-operate and I was stuck with a very weird bowel routine.  The final volatile reaction was when my liver got whiff of the fact that I was going to reduce my alcohol intake.  I still don’t know where he went.  But I pushed through with the plan, for I can be extremely spiteful.

As you may gather, the road to hell is paved with aching limbs, sore muscles, weird indigestion, long playlists, gallons of sweat and shitloads of misery.  And finally at the end, when you see the smoke and fire and the smell of sulphur fills your nostrils, when you’re about to give up, then, and only then do you see all your lost fat lining the sidewalks and you dare break a smile, even if it is just a little one.

But then there’s the eating. Or maybe the lack of eating.  Or maybe the lack of choices for eating.  I’m so sick of eggs and tuna, that I’m convinced that once bird-flue hits South Africa, I will not only get it, but I will be able to transfer it to fish with one simple sneeze.  I’m checking for fins every time I shower.  The diet excludes anything remotely tasteful, for it would be the end of everything if someone dared to invent a food product that’s both tasty and healthy!  God forbid!  So other than the fish and eggs I’m also stuck with the excellent choices of fruit, nuts and broccoli. (You should check out my forearms!)

The weird thing is, under normal situations I’m not a sweet tooth.  Stuff like chocolates and ice-cream doesn’t bother me at all.  One of the lessons I’ve learned during this five weeks is that once you embark on a journey where you purposefully exclude that stuff, it WILL bother you.  Immensely.  To the point of looking like a crack addict every time you see a kid eating a chocolate bar.  You will consider beating that little five year old to smithereens, just to take that damn bar from him. You will spend countless hours lying awake thinking of that ice-cream place you walk by every day.  The tubs are screaming your name.  Shut up! Shut up!

I resist, for I’m the man.  For I’m strong and I’m forty.  No little thing wrapped in paper will beat me and cause me to break my commitments to the gods of fitness and dieting.  Who is actually a lot less popular than the gods of sex, drugs and rock-a-roll, by the way.

My colleagues, knowing that I’m in my fifth week of saying NO to basically everything they offered me, has (1) Stopped offering me anything and (2) Started to unhide their food.  Now a wide array of pizza slices, cup cakes and chicken mayo sandwiches are flashed in front of me, like strippers at a bachelor party.  I’m still strong, I will not falter.  I will not be tempted.

But yesterday I fell.  I toppled from my throne of sobriety and good intentions.  I’m lying in the dirt.  And it’s all because of that damn demon donut.

I was chatting to a colleague about work, for we are extremely professional, whilst behind her, tucked away in the corner of her table, was the box.  I heard a faint whisper, just loud enough to draw my attention away from the lady.  She was still talking, but I only saw her lips move and my gaze focused hypnotically on the box.  The demon donut was getting louder.  Shamelessly exposing it’s sugar and cinnamon covered body.  A weird little twisted mental lapdance.  Flashing and taunting.  I couldn’t look away.  I was weak.

The lady,  realising I was lost to her, proceeded with the most vile act known to man.  She offered me one…  The heartless bitch.  But I knew my anger was aimed at the wrong player on this stage of deception and lust.  It was the donut.  He was using the lady.  And he was laughing loudly.  There was only one thing I could do…

I grabbed the shocked little fuck and bit off a big piece.   There was a milli-second of absolute silence, but as I was grinding his body between my teeth, he was bellowing in agony.  I swallowed him with glee.  And bit off another piece.  His screams now turned into violent burst of pain and horror.  I proceeded methodically, wanting him to feel every bite, every little piece of his body disappearing, slowly.  Until there was nothing.  And I smiled.  I felt whole.  For revenge is sweet.

Then I took a long shower, trying to wash the filth off my soul…