I'm officially putting Gary Bettman on notice.
I don't even miss hockey anymore. In fact, if Bettman had any brains, he'd fucking get that CBA figured out immediately because at this point, I don't even know if I need hockey.
I'm on Day 15 of my George St-Pierre workout. And I'm making that shit work, baby! I'm on such a roll that I think hockey might just end up getting in the way of my cagefighter training.
Furthermore, my cagefighter training is rubbing off on other aspects of my life. My vastly improved balance, weight loss and general conditioning has improved my curling game several times over. I was such a dominant force during my first game of the year that we stopped keeping score after the 2nd end! BOOM! POW!
And I feel fucking awesome. Full of energy. Shit....I don't even realize I've stayed an hour late at work until someone mentions it....then I'm all like "Well shit...I gotta go home and Rushfit the hell out of everything."
And the other day I had a plate of broccoli for supper. Broccoli. Me!!! WTF!?!?!
But what really has me thinking we don't need hockey was watching Felix Baumgartner, the baddest badass in awesometown take a balloon up to 128,000 feet and then JUMPING THE FUCK OUT!!! If we had this kind of shit going on all the time, we wouldn't care about hockey and football and stuff.
I actually ended up watching the ascent, all two and a half hours, instead of watching my beloved NFL. And I didn't regret a moment of it. There was the badassness of the whole thing. There was Science! running amok all over everything. There was some pretty cool engineering. And I was fully prepared to be let down when he finally did jump. I thought that there was no way it would be as awesome as I hoped. But I found myself fully captivated as Felix ran through his final checklist, popped the door open and looked out onto the abyss that man was about to make his bitch. And it WAS EVERY MOMENT AS AWESOME AS I HOPED!
I honestly think this couldn't have come at a better time. While the political right in the US seems to be waging an all out war against science, education and fancy book learning, slashing scientific research and general education budgets and waging a war of propaganda against all them fancy book learnin' folks with their fancy degrees that don't know nothin' 'bout the troubles of us honest workin' folk, Red Bull Stratos came and bitch slapped all of that shit down with authority. They took Felix Baumgartner, professional badass, that has BASE jumped off Taipei 101 (tallest BASE jump) and the hand of the Christ the Redeemer statue (shortest BASE jump), strapped him aboard a capsule connected to a weather balloon, sent him up and had him jump out, breaking the sound barrier.
But while all this was going on, we got to see how awesome science is. All the engineering work that went into the capsule design. The constant flight path recalculations. The accurate estimates on height, top speed, etc. And the amount of preparation Felix had to do to prepare for the flight. It was awesome and inspiring.
There needs to be more crazy ass awesome fucking shit like this. Way more. And we need to make big media spectacles of this stuff. Because it's GODDAMN COOL and there is all sorts of other cool shit that kids watching this could aspire to be. So let's do more of this shit. We'll get Neil Degrasse Tyson involved. If it takes a bunch more of the sweet Red Bull money, so be it. Because society can only become a better place if we're watching more Red Bull Stratos and less Big Bang Theory or The Bachelor. Shit, I wouldn't even need to watch hockey anymore.
You hear that Gary Bettman?
Monday 15 October 2012
Tuesday 2 October 2012
Lockout Protest Day 17: The George St-Pierre Workout Video
I'll admit....I kinda hit a creative lull around Day 10 and stopped blogging my Beardless NHL Lockout Protest....partially because I couldn't think of anything worth posting and partially because I was busy with work and stuff.
But I've still been shaving daily and now I'm back from my sabbatical and ready to kick ass and chew bubblegum.
During my time off, I was able to think of another scheme to try and help force the owners and Gary Bettman into unlocking out the players. Not only will I continue to shave every day, denying the world my precious gift of beard much like NHL owners deny the world the precious gift of hockey, I will also start working out. Regularly. This should scare the shit out of Gary Bettman.
Why?
Because I was entirely prepared to spend any and all evenings in which the Jets played sitting on my ass, on the couch, with a six pack of beer, bag of chips, pizza and getting fat all while establishing a vicious routine of comfort that I would then use to justify watching any sort of NHL, even without the Jets playing, every night of the week. I'd be loyal viewership in that precious male, ages 18-35 demographic that would contribute to ratings and merchandise sales and all sorts of revenue.
But if I establish a workout routine, led by the broken English support and motivation of my new friend George St-Pierre, this introduces way too many variables to my plan. What if I develop a consistent workout routine? What if I crave each workout with a driving passion such that I turn off NHL games to start working out? And, God forbid, what if I start getting in shape and feeling better about myself?
What then?
Maybe I stop eating chips and pizza and start eating carrot sticks and vegetarian, whole wheat pasta. And then I sit down to watch hockey and find myself restless. I mean....this new found self-esteem will get me thinking about all the things I could be doing with my life other than watching hockey. Then I find myself forgetting about hockey entirely, deciding instead to spend my evenings working in a soup kitchen and tutoring underprivileged children with their homework.
GARY BETTMAN.....YOU SICK MONSTER!!!! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE CREATED!!!!!
****
Do you ever wonder what happens when a fat man, such as myself, decides to start up something like George St-Pierre's Rushfit? I'll tell you.
Minute Zero: Alright....time to start this shit. (*Receives text message from co-worker: Brad, want to go for some cold ones at Thirsty Lion?*)
Minute Zero, the Next Day: Okay....this time for real...gonna start some Rushfit. Bring it on, you dirty French surrender monkey. I've been biking 30 K, six days a week for three months. I've been playing hockey. I've been lifting weights and doing situps and stretching. I'm ready for you.
Minute Five (Warm-up Round): Well, this isn't so bad. Breathing hard. Starting to break a bit of a sweat. Haven't pulled anything, which is surprising. Really thought my back would have given out by now. Must be all that biking.
Minute Eight (Warm-up Round, still): I'm going to get through this. I'm going to come in here, Day 1, make Rushfit my bitch and get fucking RIPPED AND JACKED! BOOYEAH! I'm even keeping pace with Mr. World Champion himself.
Minute Ten (End of Warm-up, Real Round 1): Okay. Now for the real deal. I'm sweating, but so is GSP. All this biking has made me a fucking fitness champion. Sure, I'm a bit doughy looking still, but that's just residual fat from years of binge eating and depression. I probably have a six-pack and shit under there. Today I AM A FITNESS CHAMP. What's this? Air squats? Child's play!
Minute 13 (Still Round 1): Man....this is really starting to burn the old leg muscles. I mean....there is some muscle on the outside of my thighs that GODDAMN BURNS LIKE HELL. I don't even know what this muscle is called because I NEVER KNEW IT FUCKING EXISTED BEFORE. Jesus Christ, when are we getting to the core and upper body workouts.
Minute 15 (End of Round 1): DEAR GOD! Thank-you for this 40 second break. Oh, water, precious life-blood of humanity. How you quench mine thirst. You taste so delicious and sacred...I shall never drink any other liquid ever again.
Minute 16 (Round 2): FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY! More goddamn air squats!?!?!?
Minute 17 (Still Round 2): OH FUCK! How the HELL am I supposed to do these goddamn burpee style things when it feels like there is a GODDAMN KNIFE stabbed into the mystery muscle on the side of my GODDAMN THIGH!
.....alright....you're a fucking champ.....you've focused, committed and aren't going to let a little bit of pain fucking let you down. you're mind's still sharp....the spirit is willing.....LET'S FUCKING DO THIS SHIT!
.....goddamn...why can't I do this.....why, leg, won't you push up....my goddamn brain is sending you a fucking signal to push up....i don't care if it burns and you're tired....we're a team and we're fucking champs...it's not like its ripping or tearing or injurious....you're just a GODDAMN PUSSY. PUSH THE FUCK UP!
Minute 18 - 35 (Middle of Round 2 to end of Round 4): Lying in a sweaty heap of fat, out of shape, unathletic patheticness on the floor, wondering how it ever got to this.
Minute 36 (Round 5): Alright.....let's fucking give 'er this last round and call it a success. CHAMPS DON'T QUIT.....
Minute 41 (End of Round 5): Holy shit...made it through that round. FUCK and YES! Completed Day 1. I mean....there are a lot of champs out there that take at least 2/5ths of the game off. I mean, Tom Brady has played in 5 Super Bowls, won 3 of them, and he only plays 50% of the game.
Minute 51 (End of Cooldown): Man....I feel....kinda good. YOU HEAR THAT, BETTMAN! I FEEL GREAT! I'M GOING TO GO AND DO DISHES NOW! AND CLEAN THE BATHROOM! AND TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE! AND RUN ERRANDS! I DON'T NEED HOCKEY!!! I DON'T NEED TV!!!!!!
Oh sweet....Cajun Justice marathon!
But I've still been shaving daily and now I'm back from my sabbatical and ready to kick ass and chew bubblegum.
During my time off, I was able to think of another scheme to try and help force the owners and Gary Bettman into unlocking out the players. Not only will I continue to shave every day, denying the world my precious gift of beard much like NHL owners deny the world the precious gift of hockey, I will also start working out. Regularly. This should scare the shit out of Gary Bettman.
Why?
Because I was entirely prepared to spend any and all evenings in which the Jets played sitting on my ass, on the couch, with a six pack of beer, bag of chips, pizza and getting fat all while establishing a vicious routine of comfort that I would then use to justify watching any sort of NHL, even without the Jets playing, every night of the week. I'd be loyal viewership in that precious male, ages 18-35 demographic that would contribute to ratings and merchandise sales and all sorts of revenue.
But if I establish a workout routine, led by the broken English support and motivation of my new friend George St-Pierre, this introduces way too many variables to my plan. What if I develop a consistent workout routine? What if I crave each workout with a driving passion such that I turn off NHL games to start working out? And, God forbid, what if I start getting in shape and feeling better about myself?
What then?
Maybe I stop eating chips and pizza and start eating carrot sticks and vegetarian, whole wheat pasta. And then I sit down to watch hockey and find myself restless. I mean....this new found self-esteem will get me thinking about all the things I could be doing with my life other than watching hockey. Then I find myself forgetting about hockey entirely, deciding instead to spend my evenings working in a soup kitchen and tutoring underprivileged children with their homework.
GARY BETTMAN.....YOU SICK MONSTER!!!! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE CREATED!!!!!
****
Do you ever wonder what happens when a fat man, such as myself, decides to start up something like George St-Pierre's Rushfit? I'll tell you.
Minute Zero: Alright....time to start this shit. (*Receives text message from co-worker: Brad, want to go for some cold ones at Thirsty Lion?*)
Minute Zero, the Next Day: Okay....this time for real...gonna start some Rushfit. Bring it on, you dirty French surrender monkey. I've been biking 30 K, six days a week for three months. I've been playing hockey. I've been lifting weights and doing situps and stretching. I'm ready for you.
Minute Five (Warm-up Round): Well, this isn't so bad. Breathing hard. Starting to break a bit of a sweat. Haven't pulled anything, which is surprising. Really thought my back would have given out by now. Must be all that biking.
Minute Eight (Warm-up Round, still): I'm going to get through this. I'm going to come in here, Day 1, make Rushfit my bitch and get fucking RIPPED AND JACKED! BOOYEAH! I'm even keeping pace with Mr. World Champion himself.
Minute Ten (End of Warm-up, Real Round 1): Okay. Now for the real deal. I'm sweating, but so is GSP. All this biking has made me a fucking fitness champion. Sure, I'm a bit doughy looking still, but that's just residual fat from years of binge eating and depression. I probably have a six-pack and shit under there. Today I AM A FITNESS CHAMP. What's this? Air squats? Child's play!
Minute 13 (Still Round 1): Man....this is really starting to burn the old leg muscles. I mean....there is some muscle on the outside of my thighs that GODDAMN BURNS LIKE HELL. I don't even know what this muscle is called because I NEVER KNEW IT FUCKING EXISTED BEFORE. Jesus Christ, when are we getting to the core and upper body workouts.
Minute 15 (End of Round 1): DEAR GOD! Thank-you for this 40 second break. Oh, water, precious life-blood of humanity. How you quench mine thirst. You taste so delicious and sacred...I shall never drink any other liquid ever again.
Minute 16 (Round 2): FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY! More goddamn air squats!?!?!?
Minute 17 (Still Round 2): OH FUCK! How the HELL am I supposed to do these goddamn burpee style things when it feels like there is a GODDAMN KNIFE stabbed into the mystery muscle on the side of my GODDAMN THIGH!
.....alright....you're a fucking champ.....you've focused, committed and aren't going to let a little bit of pain fucking let you down. you're mind's still sharp....the spirit is willing.....LET'S FUCKING DO THIS SHIT!
.....goddamn...why can't I do this.....why, leg, won't you push up....my goddamn brain is sending you a fucking signal to push up....i don't care if it burns and you're tired....we're a team and we're fucking champs...it's not like its ripping or tearing or injurious....you're just a GODDAMN PUSSY. PUSH THE FUCK UP!
Minute 18 - 35 (Middle of Round 2 to end of Round 4): Lying in a sweaty heap of fat, out of shape, unathletic patheticness on the floor, wondering how it ever got to this.
Minute 36 (Round 5): Alright.....let's fucking give 'er this last round and call it a success. CHAMPS DON'T QUIT.....
Minute 41 (End of Round 5): Holy shit...made it through that round. FUCK and YES! Completed Day 1. I mean....there are a lot of champs out there that take at least 2/5ths of the game off. I mean, Tom Brady has played in 5 Super Bowls, won 3 of them, and he only plays 50% of the game.
Minute 51 (End of Cooldown): Man....I feel....kinda good. YOU HEAR THAT, BETTMAN! I FEEL GREAT! I'M GOING TO GO AND DO DISHES NOW! AND CLEAN THE BATHROOM! AND TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE! AND RUN ERRANDS! I DON'T NEED HOCKEY!!! I DON'T NEED TV!!!!!!
Oh sweet....Cajun Justice marathon!
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