… not again!

When I first carved out this little corner of the intarwebs with but a left hand tossing painkillers and shots of Jameson down the hatch, I was writing purely for my own sanity.  I would mock my own crippled ass, and marvel at how difficult some tasks could be with only one usable hand.  All in all, more of you read that shit than my rants and running commentary.

It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0.

Remember this?  Yeah, very real fear.

That’s right, my precious repaired hand has given me reason to worry enough to call a physician.  What genius move did I do to cause this, you ask?  What could I have possibly done that would do more damage than a Tough Mudder (let alone two?)  I’m almost embarrassed to say, and it actually didn’t involve a foray into my boxers.

I played dodgeball…  for five freaking hours.

That’s right.  It wasn’t catching a fridge, it wasn’t doing dumb shit at the gym, and it surely wasn’t a marathon fap session in front of the tube.   I was playing a game that fellow 80’s children know and love.  I hadn’t played since maybe high school, and I was being called in as a ringer for my wife’s company team…  I figured, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?  We’ll play three or four games, get eliminated, and it’ll be fun!  I can’t wait to see what this body of mine can do compared to runt me.”

Shut up, Jean Luc.

So here I am, two full weeks later, and my wrist is snapping in ways it hasn’t since the doctor fixed the initial injury.  Was an astounding third place ranking in the tournament worth it?  Maybe.  Would I do it again?  Maybe–  it was pretty funny seeing what this body can do when I’m listening to Amon Amarth and playing a game based upon agility and relentless hostility.  There’s a certain delectable joy that can be derived when you’re playing against a team of high school varsity athletes, you’re the last one standing, and you gun down the three remaining members of their team with extreme prejudice.

Then again, that might also be how I threw my hand off my wrist.  That’s all I can figure happened.  The arm hasn’t thrown full power in years, it’s a lot stronger than it used to be, and Jill 2.0 isn’t as durable as she was in yesteryear.

Tomorrow I get to find out where I go from here, and if I’m going to be able to tackle Tough Mudder #3….  if my last workout is any indication, I’m seriously worried.

Unplug.

 

You should be one of THEM…

Acronym-related puns make THEMselves when you’re one of us… or I should say, one of T.H.E.M.  That’s right, your favorite band of masochistic miscreants took on another Mudder– this one touted as “Pittsburgh.”  Yinzers, time to get even more pissed than the 0-4 Steeler record, because this event wasn’t even in West Virginia and carpetbagging on the nearest metropolitan landmark.  Oh no, it was in Ohio.

I would normally make a “dirty flatlander” joke here, but we were at Powerline Park.  Those of you familiar with that place know that the terrain’s regularly used for goddamn ATV/Truck/Motorcycle rallies/races and general-purpose motorized fuckery.  Motorization is not part of the Tough Mudder unless your busted carcass is being carted to the EMT’s.

Or drowned.

So last year I halfassed my training, but having a couch-tier fat fuck along for the ride both covered and injured my unprepared ass.  This year, I came ready to Johnny Badass this thing— as did the vets from 2012.  However, you clearly see no costume on me—that’s because the whole Vegeta thing fell apart with the foam wig idea, and my Deadpool getup was held up at US Customs for two fucking weeks.  The vanity training paid off anyway– I kept up with the military contingent of the team well enough.

Dirty and Happy is the only way to roll.

That said, there’s only so many times you can climb a goddamn mountain before you’d choke a bitch for a man-made obstacle.  The terrain this year was unreal.  Seriously, the cats planning Tough Mudder “Pittsburgh” (yes, I’m entitled to use sarcastiquotes for the venue) relied heavily on the mountain over hammer and nails.

I’m not complaining about how strenuous the track was (yeah I am), but this year was more of a cracked-out trail run than a Tough Mudder.  Cleveland 2012 had over 20 obstacles to conquer, but this year had maybe 14.  The rest of THEM would agree.  That’s right, we wanted to up the ante with more fire, electricity, water, and cannonballs.

Speaking of…

It’s official, however, we’re all addicted to this torturous pastime of ours.  Our fervor is to the point of picking specific challenges to dominate—naturally mine was Funky Monkey.  I ended up in the cold, unforgiving, muddy drink last year.  This year… well, Jill 2.0 handled it as expertly as if it were my dick—with no gloves or wrist brace because I’m a forgetful moron like that but that’s another sidebar entirely.

I think these guns are borderline illegal, thanks to the NYS S.A.F.E. act…

Sweet, dry victory…

Next year, we tackle Buffalo for the trifecta.  Seriously, you should get up off your Cheeto-chomping ass and join T.H.E.M.  You have a little over a year to get ready, and accept the fact that your definition of “ready” is going to be like a kid’s definition of the Tooth Fairy.  Sure, you know you’re right—but you don’t know how wrong you are.

Now quit cowering, I’m hoping for a horde of T.H.E.M. next year—and we roll as a team, nobody left behind. What do you have to lose besides your fallacious definition of badassery?

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

Yes, I want you to be one of T.H.E.M.

Unplug.

Snap-Crackle-Pop (Repeat)

They say that while searching for a job, you need to find purpose– or create documented results for the time spent.  Well no shit, ladies and germs, because otherwise you’ll go full-on Gary Busey watching your email box get the occasional denial-of-employment letter from an automated system– and nothing else (unless you’re me, and you get a glimmer of hope).  Something has to drown out the sounds of your bank account starving to death like it’s in a goddamn Sarah McLachlan commercial, and knowing you’re too broke to justify getting shitfaced, you need to find other diversions.

Since Cortana and I are getting married in less than 3 months, I’ve turned gym rat again– because after all, being a stupidly hot groom is a totally viable wedding expense.  Not to mention, we’ve got another Tough Mudder coming up in August.

This does, however, raise a bit of a problem.  Jill 2.0 still acts like a Rice Krispy Treat, and she’s done her fair share of hampering my workouts.

Remember this?  Atrophy’s a bitch, even a year and a half later.

That said, I’m hovering around a quasi-lean 172lbs and getting stronger every day– with or without Jill 2.0’s help.  Something tells me that I’m going to not be down to my target of 165 by Old Heads Night Out III.  That said, there’s also another reason for it– I’m sizing up again, not just focusing on cutting fat, so I can’t get an accurate grasp of my gains/losses with just a mere scale.

But here’s where it gets weird, and this is me almost mocking myself with the realization.  Bear with me.  Trying to go to the gym every day, sometimes twice a day, kinda sucks when we’re getting a decent winter.  It takes some motivation to even get my ass out the door, I’ll admit it.  So, thanks to YouTube, I’ve been watching a lot of Dragonball Z, and Dragonball Z Abridged.

Stop laughing, I’m not done yet.

This gets better… or worse, I’m not sure yet.

Some of you are asking yourselves what character is my favorite.  There are a few of you who just realized that I was right when I said that this gets better.  So seriously, stop laughing.  I’m just warming up.

Oh yeah, the character.  I almost forgot.

It’s not funny yet. Trust me. This is just the set up.

Yeah, this kind of ties back to my “that guy” moment, but still.  Hold your laughter.

So, Cortana’s “motivating show” is “The Biggest Loser” because it’s inspiring.  I will admit, because of her, I watch it– and that’s all I’m going to own up to.  The thought that just flipped through your head as you looked up at the picture, and back again, is partially correct.  Again, it’s not funny yet.  I’m getting there.  Patience.

However, yes, my motivator is that guy up there.  I go snap-crackle-pop at the gym, and I keep going.  I actively want a freaking gravity room.  Stop laughing, you can’t judge me yet.  I get mad because I can’t push myself hard enough because of Jill 2.0’s persistent wusstacular nature.  Why?  Because I want that build for the next Mudder.  Oh yeah, I want Vegeta’s build to run the Pittsburgh Mudder.

Dammit, people, slow your roll–  I know I’m 5″ taller than he is without the hair.

Now you can start laughing… but keep it to the “oh holy shitnuggets” chuckle, because we’re not quite to the funny part yet.

So yeah, I’ve set myself a body-image goal that is almost unattainable (especially considering that I like my dick original size, so ‘roids are completely out).   Now, we couple it with the fact that to be one of T.H.E.M., you have to wear the jersey…

That’s right, I tapped in to Maxie last year. If you don’t get the reference, that’s all well and good… for now.

This year, the other captains realized that all black doesn’t attract the attention of the photographers very well, so we’re possibly opting for hot pink.  I had no part in this decision making process, but I wholeheartedly support it…  Why?

It feeds into this:

Playing connect the dots yet?  If so, you’ve already figured out that I’m already devising a way to make a foam wig– and keeping it stuck to my noggin.

That’s right, I’m all for it because it plays perfectly into the original idea.  I want an anime build akin to the Saiyan Prince up there to run the Mudder…  why, you ask?  Wait, you’ve stopped laughing long enough to ask why?

All for a picture:  when I go off the obstacle entitled “Walk the Plank,” I’m going to be falling in a 3/4 dive… so that I can time the perfect freaking DBZ punch to impact the surface of the water.

Narcissism aside (or I should say, at the forefront), I derive this motivation and goal just for the most epic cosplay picture ever taken.

Now… you can laugh.

I am.
Now Jill 2.0 had better get on board with the plan, because failure’s not an option– and no matter what, the physical result will be sweeeeeeet.

Unplug.

And then there was T.H.E.M.

So……….. back when I was languishing on the couch for weeks at a time, I watched a lot of TV.  When I say a lot of TV, I mean more than a kid with crappy parents.  Then again, from posts like this, you’d probably figure these facts to be self-evident.  I only say these things because I’ve been away for so long.

Interesting sidebar.  I’ve been gone for months on end, yet I’ve cranked in over 4500 unique hits.  How in the Nine Levels of Hell does that work?

Anyway.  Back to the task at hand– TV.  More importantly, how I was introduced to an epic case of masochism known as the Tough Mudder.  One wonderful evening, Cortana and I were sitting on my parents’ couch… and we saw that blubbering tub of unbridled excitement, Bert the Conqueror, doing one.  Only now, after having done one myself, do I realize that it’s highly likely that he ran through a few obstacles and called it a day.

That’s right, ladies and germs.  Not even a year after having Jill rebuilt into Jill 2.0, I went and proved my level of badass…. and it’s over 9000.  Let’s back up for just a teensy-weensy second here.  Just running the 2012 Michigan/Ohio Mudder wasn’t the best part.  The best part?  Was T.H.E.M.  We are everything that’s right (and wrong) with a team, and I wouldn’t run this insanity with anyone else.

Minus one, these are the T.erribly H.ysterical E.gotistical M.aniacs—- better known as T.H.E.M.

It’s almost cute when you look at all the excitement that accompanied our war paint.  We all had an idea of what we were getting ourselves into, but none of us had a damn clue.  Let me put this into perspective, I’ve never been one who’s taken his limits too seriously.  After all, I can readily think up about a half dozen occasions where mathematically–  I should be as cold as the Titanic.  Anyway.

All jocularity aside, Cortana and I made a few calls– and we did our run April 14.  I could pretend that I was actually in the gym like a beast for the last month and a half, but between the aforementioned “employment issues” and being sick– yeah no.  I figured that I’d already got most of my body back, and I’d let willpower handle the rest.  Mind you, I am no runner, but I’m a beast at the obstacles (and surprisingly little issue out of Jill 2.0).

So I didn’t quite make it all the way across these INCLINING monkey bars— but I got farther than 90% of my team.

However, my major hampering milestone was not the 12 miles (well actually it was, but I digress).  It wasn’t the rebuilt wrist, although I did have to put it back into place a few times.  No no.  My biggest issue stemmed from hypothermia.  The “official” recorded temperature makes one think it was a balmy 60 degrees.  Surely you jest, if it had been 60, I wouldn’t have pulled my quad around– oh– mile 8!  When we got to our cars, my thermometer said 52.  It was also windy, and we were constantly ending up in either mud– or ice water.  You know you’re freaking cold when jumping in the water hazard feels like it warms you up.

At one point, there’s a nice little obstacle called the “Electric Eel.”  Yes, if you’re wondering, some asshole had the bright idea to mix  electricity and water.   Think about the gratuitous assholery involved with creating this sadistic obstacle for just one second.  Instead of your mundane “crawl through icy/muddy water beneath barbed wire” routine–  oh no, we had live wires.  Some of you have already reached the punchline of this joke, but oh no– it gets better.  Yes, if someone’s ass is too high in the air, everyone in the water gets nailed— but to get out of the obstacle?  You have to either shinny through them, or have someone else brave enough to do the grab-and-drag routine with you (and be willing to eat a shock along with it).  There is no way around the wires.   Hypothermia’s a very odd beast, because every time I got hit with current (reportedly up to 10k volts)– it didn’t hurt, but I was well aware that I’d been hit.  I’d feel my muscles spasm, etc., but it didn’t actually hurt.

Oh yeah, by the way, did I mention that I had to sign a freaking death waiver to participate in these shenanigans?  Did I mention that I also paid to do this?

If you look reallllly closely up above (next to the fat one of T.H.E.M.), you can see the number 160 on one of the jerseys. There I am. About to jump about 25′ into the ravine below. The impact with the water actually broke the lens right out of my sunglasses.

You know that’s a long way down when you have the time to complete entire thoughts before you hit the water.  Yeah, I paid to be awesome– as did every one of T.H.E.M.  However, all proceeds of Tough Mudder benefit The Wounded Warrior Project.  I think that more than justifies the investments made.  I’m not just talking money, or time, or energy.  I’m also talking determination.

…..and here I thought I had an obscenely high pain threshold before.  All in all?  We’re doing it again next year– but more like August.  So if we have to wait for anyone, none of us end up limping the last four miles cheering to each other “When I say ‘hot,’ you say ‘tub!'”

This is what it means to be an unstoppable bad ass. This. Right here.

Unplug.