Welcome to another hard-hitting installment of The Pood and You.
You already know who I am, so as much as I’m sure you’d like to slobber on my dick about it there’s no need this time to fawn over me or my myriad achievements in personal fitness. Let’s get right to the point. My last lesson has obviously netted you zero gains, but nonetheless you’re not ready to let the prison cellmate of life have your way with you just yet. You still want the body that I have.
Well, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is, since you last saw me, I’ve shaved all the hair on my head and grew a little more on my face. The bad news is I have just the routine to mold your body from a shape of chewed-up gum, into the shape of that gum molded into two hundred pounds of pure muscle. The guided meditation routine that will give you the razor-sharp mind and deadly-efficient body that can kill anyone with single blow and also disintegrate them into dust so you don’t have to spend as much time hiding the evidence. And let me tell you something, in this society, where we’re more divided than ever, the chances of you getting into a fight with a stranger are much higher than they were years ago, so after the first few bodies start to pile up you’re gonna wish you listened to Max-amillion.
First of all, please excuse the environment I’m currently making up this post in. My roommate has been kind of a dick lately and he made me work out in the common area of our apartment. I guess his precious little ears couldn’t handle the “noise” I was making in my own room, which I pay rent for and am legally entitled to use in any way I please, and I guess the intense reps I make every morning are so hard they only give him seven hours of sleep every day instead of eight, and I guess he’s sick of calling the landlord every month to fix up the “holes” in the walls that a pood and a half of solid cast iron is capable of (if you’re reading this Conner, then seriously, I only legit made a hole in the wall once. Once! The other times were just glorified dents. You already fucked my whole security deposit the first time, so I honestly don’t know what you’re trying to achieve when you call the landlord for every little thing. Get over yourself). I pushed away most of his drug paraphernalia and awful old records to give myself space, but unfortunately for us both we have to put up with the asinine black light posters for the time being.
And second of all, yes, you heard me right. I said guided meditation back there. Give me a minute to explain, then, if your head is full of as much canned cheese as your ass apparently is, and therefore didn’t get a chance to read the title of this blog entry, that my method of meditation comes all-inclusive with a motherfucking pood and a half. If you don’t know by now that everything I do is in the service of sculpting my Leonardo-esque perfect body into further perfection, then go jump off a mountain. If you survive the fall, take some time to heal up your limp-wrist bones or whatever and then come back to me, as you might be strong enough to endure what I have in store for you.
Of course, as usual, we’re going to start with some calisthenics. These new stretches come highly recommended by the United States military, used by them for years to take the longest amount of time to get the limbs so limber it causes long-term damage the inmates will remember forever. That’s right, we’re doing some 100% authentic Abu-Ghraib stress positions, great for warm-ups and even better for driving someone so mad they’ll confess to literally any and all kinds of global-scale fundamentalist Islamic terrorism. That said, to do this exercise along with me, you’re going to need at least seven hours free from start to finish. Those jihadist insurgents weren’t on vacation in the desert out there, and neither are you.
Alright, here goes. Take a deep breath, close your eyes if you want (although it will not help you in any way. We’re putting fat cells through rendition, we’re waterboarding excuses, putting a live jumper cable on the testicles of weakness, and we’re going to make self-imposed limitations so racked with post traumatic stress they’ll never be able to function in any society again, let alone keep you from reaching your goals. The sooner you come to grips with this, the fitter you’ll eventually be).
Comfortable? Not for long. For the first hour, just meditate on the things around you that you can tell with your senses. Take in the sights in the room around you, and get used to the fact that you’re going to see those things over and over for the better portion of your day. Pay attention to the sounds you hear in the rooms next to you, or outside, and know that those people will be more comfortable than you, but by the time you’re done, much weaker than you.
Pay attention to the feeling of your black clothes on your body, the weight of your body against your feet on the floor. Finally, around the third hour, well into when the stress position is going to hurt what feels like all the joints and muscles you have, acknowledge that pain. Continue to acknowledge it for at least an hour. If you stop for even a second, you have to start over again, all the way from the beginning.
Our stretches done, we’re finally going to incorporate the kettlebell into our routine. First, we’ll be doing hollow body rocks, only instead they won’t be hollow, they’ll be filled with a motherfucking pood and a half.
Definitely don’t spend any less than two hours in this pose. With your kettlebell resting square on your abs, you’re going to gently rock your arms and legs back and forth as you count to yourself from one to seventy-two hundred. You’ll find your mind will occasionally wander and think instead about your goals, like maybe finally beating Conner in a fight, or at least convincing him that the only thing stopping him from us hiring a real property surveyor to measure the dimensions of our rooms so we can calculate an actually fair division of the rent is his own cowardice, or maybe running into my ex-girlfriend as she’s getting attacked by some jack-booted thugs and I rescue them by beating up and possibly killing instantly her attackers with my superior physique, thereby proving to her that I actually spent my time well watching all those channels even though I maybe forgot to pick her up from work once or twice or maybe a birthday or two Karen. This is completely normal, all you have to do is slowly bring your mind’s attention back to the counting, and then start over from one.
Next we’re going to do three hours of what your roommate Becky from college would have learned in Namaste 101 is called the downward dog pose, but, of course, with an extra pood and a half of punishment. You’ll want the kettlebell resting right on top of your spine like so. Don’t listen to anybody, so-called friends, so-called family, so-called doctors, who tries to tell you this exercise isn’t good for your back. Anyone who can’t pull off this trick, exactly how I am doing it in this real photo, doesn’t have a strong enough spine to get the strong-enough body that I have.
Besides, your family has to be nice to you, they’re never going to tell you what you really need to know, like how I will on my blog. And friends are only friends with you as long as you can give them something they want out of it. I’m not your friend, and I don’t care if you listen to what I tell you. And what do doctors really know? It’s in their best interest to keep people feeble-bodied, as the weaker they are the more likely they are to visit them. If everyone in the world was as strong as I am, there would be no doctors at all. Maybe you should consider that the next time you want to call me and complain that the co-pay was still maybe a month or two late as if it’s my fault the post office took forever to mail the money order to your office because they can’t look at an address on an envelope and tell a perfectly legible number seven isn’t actually a weird European-style number one Dr. Chowdhury.
We’re going to finish up with a similar routine, one that will really solid out your core. Again, make sure your kettlebell is resting square on your abs for this one (rookies often make the mistake of putting it on their ribcage. The ribcage is not a strong bone, unlike the spine, and even a seasoned bodybuilder like me can’t hope to spend at least the three hour minimum you need for this exercise without breaking a rib or two).
Visualization of success is key here. Imagine your abs getting stronger with each passing second. Imagine someone trying to punch you in the stomach and shattering their hand because your ab muscles are harder than compressed coal, or even better, that your ab muscles are so well-defined you can actually move them and grab that person by the wrist with them and snap it clean in half with one well-timed thrust. Imagine them having to spend months in a cast trying to make it heal, and they have to ask me for help every time they want to open up a jar of green olives so they can make their stupid egg and olive salad sandwiches, so that they won’t be able to tell me for all that time that even though I may talk a good game and run a successful blog I’ll never actually be able to beat them in a fight because his dad was an MMA instructor and taught him everything he knows Conner you fucking dick.
And finally, we’re going to round it all out with the Turkish getup, a classic maneuver with which quite frankly you should be ending every kettlebell routine. By now, if you followed my instructions, if you started at around 8 or 9 am it should be about 8 pm to midnight, and the stress positions plus the extra weight of the kettlebell should put you in a sort of fugue state in which you can stand and hold the kettlebell aloft while simultaneously in a dreamless blank sleep. You should be able to get whatever sleep the “health experts” supposedly claim you need while also getting some much-needed muscle training in with the trusty pood and a half.
You know what? You’ve already seen me do a flawless getup in my last post, so I’m going to leave you to my expert advice. It looks like that fugue state is hitting me already, and every now and then my visualized goal peeks through the usual blank sleep, so this time I’m just going to lie here on the floor and ride it out. There I am, in a world where society and infrastructure have all collapsed simply due to the power of my own muscular girth. I throw a punch and a speeding car headed my way explodes into burning fuel and metal dust particles. I stamp my foot and entire buildings come crumbling down. All my enemies are either vanquished or have scattered. Only Conner is left to face me.
There he is, in his stupid little MMA gloves and short little gym shorts and protective goggles to keep his glasses in, thinking he could ever best me in single combat. Our conflict spills into the mountains, and my coup de grace kills him instantly and sends the rubble of a hundred jagged peaks of solid volcanic rock onto both of us. Within the impromptu cave I start to grow hungry, only Conner’s dead body to join my rumbling stomach and I. With not much desperation, to be honest, I eagerly take in the carcass of my fallen foe: first the chewy organs, then the tough muscular meat, and finally, like the Native Americans of old who never wasted any part of the buffalo, I slurp up his flayed skin, I chew on his bones, my teeth strong enough to take them. I have the strength of my foe inside me, I have incorporated it into my own body. I punch myself out of the rubble and wander a desolate earth, looking for my next challenger.
By the way, if you’re still reading this, you might have noticed I’ve been on my back for an awfully long time. Don’t look into it that much, it’s all part of Max-amillion’s guided meditation with a motherfucking pood and a half. I’m fine, I did all the exercises myself and I’m just taking in this moment of clarity and fitness.
Say, if you’re joining me at home, I have a great idea. Visualize something along with me. Imagine some completely useless weak piece of shit asshole who tried to do the exercises I just did, and just totally fucked up his back. Let’s maybe turn the tables, and imagine his name’s Conner, for example. Now let’s imagine Conner has a roommate, and for fun let’s maybe call him Max, for example, and let’s imagine Max has been in this situation before many times, according to him anyway, and told Conner he won’t call 911 again cause apparently, according to him anyway, this happens like twice a month and he’s sick of it. And now imagine he has a doctor who won’t get off your damn balls about how your workout routine is too “dangerous” and frankly he’s sick of you being in his office twice a month for the same “self-inflicted” maladies.
Now reach across the universe, wherever you are, and dial 911, and tell them to send an ambulance immediately to 93-93 Cornwall Drive, Apt. 5, Barkhamstead, CT 06063. Imagine that address is Conner’s address, that stupid weak piece of shit asshole, and he’s lying on the floor right now because he fucked up his back like a dumb fucking weak asshole. Go ahead, just anonymously send that ambulance right over to that address. Have it pick up some guy who will otherwise spend at least three days flat on his back in pure agony, because he knows literally no one with a sense of goddamn decency who will do that for him. If you imagine that person, you definitely won’t see my eyes looking back into yours, not with my Russian bear-fighting body. No, you will probably see Conner’s eyes, because he sucks and I fucking hate Conner. Why don’t you just move out, you know you don’t like it here and I found this apartment first and I only let you stay here cause I felt sorry for you and I thought I was doing you a favor. Just move out. Go live with your dumb girlfriend Becky or whatever.
Conner, you dick. You goddamn stupid fucking idiot asshole.