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.


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.



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.


Oh sweet....Cajun Justice marathon!

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