Push It To The Limit

6 02 2008

I have a very powerful, undeniably personal story to share with you. I fear that my words alone will not impart the raw emotional impact it deserves, so I have taken the liberty of providing you with a soundtrack. Unfortunately, I have no idea who wrote this masterpiece, so just ignore the fact that it is crudely slapped on a tribute video that looks like slides from Scarface’s vacation photos.

(Music used for strictly hype purposes only. No fandom of Scarface or any other Cuban gangsters transplanted to Miami beach is intended)

If you haven’t already, please press play on the music now, but take care to pause it at exactly 54 seconds in. This is crucial.

Over the past month or two I have increased my workout regiment by approximately infinity percent. Due to an unfortunate, rare genetic disorder that presented shortly after my 30th birthday, my body has suddenly halted the conversion of six-packs and ho-hos into lean muscle mass. This is nature’s cruelest joke to date, which is really something when you consider that my spine and knees have the structural integrity of loosely packed, moist sawdust. I mostly concentrate on weight training because we have free facilities at work I can utilize and, frankly, my daughter is a freakin’ fatty.

I only have 45 minutes to workout in any given workday, so I keep the pace pretty intense. The key is to put yourself on the verge of muscle failure, mentally conjure up some 80’s synth metal, and somehow gut it out despite all odds. That’s just what I was doing yesterday on my second to last set of curls when my arms seized in mid-rep. My jaw clenched and my torso tensed, locking in battle with gravity and the ravages of age, when I felt something that could only be described as…

(Please press play again)

In less poetic terms, I was about to poop myself. For one brief moment, my body sensed that I was embroiled in an epic struggle with a formidable opponent and came to one conclusion. All reserve power from every auxiliary system had to be immediately shifted to aid my efforts, including any semblance of bowel tone. Or maybe it was instinct unearthing my native response to fight or flight signals, which is a little unsettling. Why is that mothers in similar states can suddenly benchpress a mack truck to save their child, but in the same scenario all my body can muster is “I can poop…would that help?”

Reason triumphed over colon. Thankfully my advancing years have yet to affect my rectum’s reaction time and it swiftly clamped as I surrendered the effort. My herculean effort against the lime green dumbbell had completed.

Not only do I take it to the limit, I peer over the edge. And when I see how high it is I crap myself, but only a little.




3 responses

6 02 2008

It’s not age that made you crap yourself or any other factor, the base reason is that you were doing a pussy exercise like curls. Your body was trying to teach you a lesson, Crappy McPooperson.

6 02 2008

Studies have shown that yelling and grunting objectively increase your body’s physical performance capacity. It stands to reason that expelling something from another hole would only magnify the effect. Just remember to lay a towel down first next time.

6 02 2008

I might as well be the one to refer to Oops, I Crapped My Pants!

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