Famous Faces of Fitness: Richard “Dick” Simmons

First, I want to give a shout out to the one faithful fucker who has logged on to this website nearly every day since last April; checking-in to see if the Boner had made his triumphant return, only to have his hopes and dreams smattered for the better part of the last six months.  Thanks dude, I’m not sure who you are, but it doesn’t matter; I think you’re bad ass.  The reason for this extended episode of erectile-dysfunction however, springs mostly from the recent topics that I’ve felt were important to cover, even if they didn’t have anything to do with dumbfuck asswipes who have famous mustaches.  See, truth is, there is some money to be made in this here “health and wellness” industry.  Shit, you’re fat aren’t you?  Statistacally speaking, two out of every three people have to answer that question with a definite yes.  And was it not you who came out of the closet after realizing that you were a repellent to the opposite sex, only to find later that neither sex wanted anything to do with you or that mustard stain on your shirt?  See, the polls are showing that there are a lot of you out there, and I’m simply trying to take advantage, and cash in on all of you sloppy bastards, word? 

To do this most effectively however, I thought it best to look back to the iconic figures of yesteryear; the ones who shaped, molded and paved the way for those of us who would follow in their footsteps.  I’ve heard it said that to be great, one must stand on the shoulders of a giant, and today, that giant is you Dick Simmons!    For all that you have done to help create what we ALL know WILL be the next trillion dollar industry, from your poofy little afro, to the soft and mushy man-loins that you allowed to spill out of those tiny little running shorts, you Mr. Simmons…Mr. Richard Simmons…were the fuckin’ MAN!

 A severely overweight child from New Orleans, Dick Simmons battled obesity for a number of years, becoming dependent on diet pills and adopting unhealthy weight loss programs.  He briefly lived in Italy, before relocating to Los Angeles in 1973, where he opened an innovative exercise studio that catered to the severely overweight, including himself, and he performed pussy antics and shenanigans that did nothing but get on people’s nerves, while making fat ladies feel as though they were victims.

In 1979, Simmons, based primarily on his hairdo, enjoyed a brief stint on the popular daytime soap opera General Hospital, but soon decided to concentrate solely on building a fitness empire, which made no sense whatsoever, yet somehow worked.  The following year, he launched an even more ridiculous idea in the form of his own talk show The Richard Simmons Show, which wasted four seasons worth of air-time.  He successfully marketed his image to the public, which says everything you need to know about the public.  While writing numerous self-help books, he created the “Deal-A-Meal” food maintenance program, which was clearly a miserable failure, and produced the Sweatin’ to the Oldies line of exercise videos that caused no oldies to sweat whatsoever.

Over the years, Simmons has become a staple on late night television, bringing his non-humorous humor and indefatigable energy to The Tonight Show and Late Night with David Letterman.  With a rigorous touring schedule that includes 250 personal appearances each year, he continues to promote physical well-being to millions of loyal followers in his usual ‘do as I say, not as I do’ style.

Stay tuned, as next week the Boner takes an in-depth look at another fitness superstar, The Wolf.

Bitch, You Can’t Play Hitler’s Harmonica!

 I suck at returning phone calls.  Worst ever.  I know that, and I’m not proud of it, but really, I don’t like talking that much. 

One of my favorite dudes ever, on the other hand, doesn’t really fancy e-mailing or texting, and that doesn’t make for frequent updates between the two of us.  I’ll be a son of a bitch though if I didn’t get a e-mail from my boy the other day, and damn was it good to hear from him!  Ladies and germs, I want to tell you about my good buddy Jon Lovitz!  You see me and Lovitz played in one of the greatest bands ever to grace the midwest together, and we were the masterminds behind it.  Think I’m fucking around?  I’m not.  We were big.  Got to play with groups like Blues Traveler, G Love and Special Sauce, The Samples, bands you’ve heard of, so we weren’t any type of scrubs.  Shit, most of you probably were fans of ours.  Anyway,  Lovitz was one of the more talented dudes I ever played with.  He was damn good.  And while we’re on the subjects of pimps like Liberace, I figured what better time to let you guys in on a little lesser known talent, who is also an actor.  You might remember him from Howard the Duck and shit.  Anyway, what you didn’t know was that he was the front man of our group, and even after the rest of us got sick of being awesome, Lovitz when on to further his career, first in Chicago, then down to Austin, TX, and now, as of recently, after numerous albums, the best of which I performed on (serious), he has finally retired.  But we can’t let that shit happen Boner lovers.  He’s way too good, both at songwriting, and as a singer.  I guarantee you he’s better than any bitch whose ever been on American Karaoke, I mean Idol.  Fuck, I think if you Google our shit, you can still hear some of our old songs.  It’s time for some new songs though Lovitz.  You hearin’ me my man?  Your career isn’t over yet.  I want songs about boners in sweat pants, rat tails and mustaches, dudes who exercise in jeans, dudes who like to sport a fat bulge every now and again.  C’mon, what do you say ol’ buddy?  Write me up a little diddy about one of those topics, and let Bisp fans all around the globe get a chance to experience a little audible slice of heaven.  You hear me Lovitz?  I’m talking to you.  That, and I need to talk to you about some other important shit.  For real.  Since I hate talkin’ on the phone though, I think I’m just gonna make a trip up to Chicago to talk to you face to face.  I got the opportunity of a lifetime for you, and I want to tell you all about it.  Check your calendar and find a good weekend to come up there, spot me the money for the flight, and let’s do it!  Seriously though, I want all the rest of you to check out Lovitz and his music.  I don’t know if this site is still up or not, but try going to www.theeverydaypeople.com and see if you can sample some clips.  Then if you like it, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do about getting a personally signed autograph of the following picture for anyone who wants one:

  

Liberace: Pimp, Legend, and One of the Weirdest Dudes I’ve Ever Seen.

I can’t say that I know a whole lot about this fellow, this legendary-pimp named Liberace, but I can certainly say that I’ve long been fascinated by his weird-ass.  To be honest, I didn’t even know what kind of music he played, only that I hated it.  His whole schtick always seemed a little bizarre to me, but when I decided to do a little digging into the closet of the man behind the man, behind the man, I was shocked at how much I may have underestimated the number of people that fuckin’ loved this pimp.  Now I want some validation here from my gay friends.  The ones who I know might be reading this, and whom I all love dearly, especially J-Earl the Cat with the Curl, aka Mr. Got Rocks– who we should all pay our respects too for being one of Kansas City’s most legendary pimps–He probably partied with Liberace himself, he is still kickin’ ass, and come this September will turn an astounding 70 years, which is fucking amazing.  Anyway, you guys cannot tell me that there were a whole hell of a lot of straight guys that contributed to making this guy as big as he turned out to be.  I mean, would Barry Manilow, Clay Aiken, Babs Streisand or Bette Midler made it without the support of mostly gay men.  Shit, you guys made these people huge, and that’s great, but Liberace?  He just seems a little odd, doesnt’ he?

Nevertheless, he is also fascinating as fuck.  J-Earl, I know you could tell me some stories about this dude, and I remember the one you already have.  I’m concealing your identity, so I hope you don’t mind if I share it with everyone else, but apparently Ol’ Libby had this strange fetish where he would like to get underneath a glass coffetable, and then have dudes sit chapless on top of the coffee that he was under, and proceed to take a shit.  Guys, I’m not making that shit up just to try to be funny.  I’m being totally serious, and I believe my source 100 percent.  J-Earl, as I said, was a HUGE pimp all the way through the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and just decided to retire from pimpin’ in the 90s.  He definitely wouldn’t make this shit up about the Libster.  Just look at that get up.  Gay or straight, I can’t think of anybody who doesn’t think that get-up he’s got on is one of the most amazing things they’ve ever seen.  And that pose he’s sportin’ in this picture.  Does it get any better than that?  Honestly: Perfect hair, sweet ruffled-shirt, but what takes the cake is what he’s doing with his hands.  Is that a natural pose for dudes who sport that much bling?  Again, I know J-Earl would know the answer to that.  Sheeeeeeet, he doesn’t look too far off from Big Ern McCracken (but not the one most of you are probably thinking of).

 

Was this dude not thought of as being the slightest bit over the top?  I just know that when I am getting ready to leave the house, and I need to be the slightest bit presentable.  I might pop on something like what my man Libby is sportin’ over here, look in the mirror, and think “Perfect! Muthafuckas know who’s gonna be gettin some pussy tonight!”  “Boy, I’m lookin’ gooooooooooooooood!”  I would either think that, or I’d try to talk one of my friends into wearing it, in an attempt to make them think they look completely off the fucking chain!  I think I could probably do it too.  Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve always had a very dry and sarcastic sense of humor.  I, of course, thought I was hilarious, but for the ones that didn’t really understand the concepts of irony or sarcasm, they just thought that I was a complete fucking asshole.  Even today, I find myself saying something with a totally straight face, dead serious look in my eyes, and be 100 percent, completely fucking around.  Then I’ll realize this person doesn’t know me well enough to know I’m joking, and well, whatever.  My point is, well fuck my point.  I guess I don’t really have one.  So to wrap things up, and in honor of today’s featured pimp (in what will be a periodic, but ongoing series of Pimp Biographies), I will leave you with a little unknown information about just how big, exactly, Mr. Liberace actually was:

Liberace (born Wladziu Valentino Liberace) was the most flamboyant, popular easy listening pianist of the ’60s and ’70s by a wide margin.  I guess this means that the 60s and 70s had a real thing for flamboyent, popular, easy-listening piano.  Horrible.  Anyway,  his campy, theatrical appearance and performances often disguised his prodigious talent.  Talent  for things other than just the piano, but piano being the only one we’ll focus on.  Instead of following the accepted path of classical recitals and university courses, Liberace chose to be a showman. At encores at his concerts, he began playing novelty songs like “Mairzy Doats,” which is a novelty song that I’m unfamiliar with, and hope to keep it that way.  To ensure that he had widespread appeal as an entertainer, he took elocution lessons in order to mask his Polish accent.  Call me crazy, but I’m sure doing away with the Polish accent was what really put him over the top, giving him “widespread” appeal.  Right.

 Liberace became a star in the ’50s, both through his records and assorted television and film appearances. His appearance and repertoire was becoming increasingly campy, as he dressed himself in rhinestone, gold lame, furs, and sequins while playing everything from Gershwin and show tunes to lounge jazz and light classical pieces, with a candelabra placed on his piano.  Damn, show tunes, my favorite!  Ok guys, now here is the best part: Though it was a heady time for the pianist, 1956 was also the year that his star began to dim somewhat. Cassandra, a columnist for the English tabloid The Daily Mirror, inferred that Liberace was homosexual. He sued the paper and won, yet he still made an effort to tone down his appearance. However, the public didn’t want a subdued Liberace and he reverted to his kitschy showmanship in the early ’60s.  Now am I missing something here.  Reporter infers that he’s homosexual, and he sues?  For what?  Was this guy actually claiming to be straight?  That’s what it sounds like to me, and if he says so, then how in God’s name could anybody have actually accussed him of that.  That is an OUTRAGE!

Liberace didn’t have any more pop hits in the ’60s,’70s, and ’80s, yet he continued to sell out concerts around the world and sell a number of records, even though he never earned the favor of the critics. In 1982, a former chauffeur and bodyguard sued the pianist for palimony; the case was settled out of court. Liberace remained a celebrity and a popular performer until his death in 1987.  So there you have it folks.  A little history lesson on one of the most famous, weirdest dudes on planet earth.  Stay tuned for the next installment of the Boner Biography Series: All the important shit they never taught you in school.   Next up, I’m deciding between Richard Simmons and Michael “Jacko” Jackson.  Y’all stay hard now ya hear!

When You Change the Way You Look at Things, Part III

I bet all you little pussies just been sittin’ in your cubes, sportin’ a mini boner in them khakis that are way too tight, just waitin’ for the conclusion of what is ultimately going to be the platform for which I run for mayor on.  Yeah, unless I hear back from someone other than Steve Dave–who was the only one that voted to be in my gang–it looks like this Dick Almighty is going to have to be the one who dances ol’ Doc Funkenstein’s ass right out of city hall and return him to the circus.  Ok, enough of that shit, let me get back to my point, and see if I can really wrap this thing up before it before it becomes the verbal equivalent to Rocky VII. 

Alright, so those who have been smart enough to follow along, we’ve established the connection between poverty, obesity and the potential extinction of over half of our population, which would be the ultimate result of a country that is already losing hundreds of thousands of people each year to disease, cancer, addiction and illnesses of all kinds.  Then, in part II, I stuck it to the medical industry, and more adequately dubbed it the “sickness industry,” since really they aren’t dealing with people that I would consider to be all that healthy, hence the fact they are, after all, in the hospital.  Finally, I tried to come full circle in making the case that, in an economy that is fucking horrible, 1.3 trillion dollars, or 1/7 of the total shit-economy, is being spent on doctor visits, hospital stays, surgeries, pharmaceuticals and unfortunately, too many funerals, and it can all be traced back to a lack of education, and a dire need to invest what money we do have in our health and wellness, instead of waiting for symptoms, conditions and major illness to inevitably occur at some point downstream.  Now, for anyone that is still with me, cares about their health, sees the point that I’m trying to make, and has a brain the size of a pea in that tiny, ugly, bald melon of yours, congratulations.  It’s time to make the case as to why 2009’s version of the Great Depression, in conjunction with the trillions of dollars that are being spent on fast food, bigger pant sizes, medications, and a generation of baby boomers who are willing to do anything, and pay any price, to stay young and healthy, has created an opportunity that will–in my personal, professional and well-researched opinion–will be the next trillion dollar industry in America.  The industry I’m referring to is that of ”Wellness.”

Think I’m full of shit?  Then do me a favor IT-guy, and do some reading about technology and the Internet and the Stock Market and the Wellness Industry.  Do you see these industries moving at the same speed and at the same rate of growth, or do you see the wellness business exceeding this speed and rate of growth?  Fuck it, the truth is that the Wellness Industry should exceed almost anything we can see on the horizon!  This, again, is because as the baby boomers continue to age, they seem to never reach a point where they have enough “wellness products,” or feel strong enough, or young enough.  They are always looking for something more and more.  Meanwhile, the younger generation–my generation–is watching what has happened to our parents, grandparents, and sadly enough, even our friends, and are putting our collective foot down when it comes to buying into the fact that aging automatically means living miserably!  What’s more, the Wellness Industry–which could include anything from health club memberships, massages, nutritional supplements, etc.–is at its very early stages.  On one side, you could estimate that there’s roughly 200 billion dollars of wellness products on the market right now.  Or, you could see the fact the nutritional supplement and vitamin businesses ALONE reached 70 billion dollars last year!  That’s kind of a big number.  Let’s put it in perspective though: We spent $70 billion on vitamins and nutritional supplements last year, but we spent $1.3 trillion on the sickness business that works on the effects of not getting the right nutrition or right vitamins.  Fuck, we spent $8 trillion, which is $800 billion (for those still playing at home), on all the other things in our economy.  So when we look around at the wellness business, we see a very new business that only in the last decade is starting to offer consumer products.  However, it’s been only in the last few months, let’s say 24 just to be fair, that this information has even started to reach knowledgeable people who realize that these products not only work, but are putting some of the pharmaceutical companies to shame, and yes, that’s a very bold statement.  More significantly, when we look at the growth and end of that business relative to the total size of the economy, we can clearly see a $1 trillion ”Wellness” Industry by the year 2010, with no limits in sight as to how far it will grow beyond that point.  So what does all of this have to do with you?  That is entirely up to you, you spectacled, porn-stache wearin’ cubicle-puss.  You see, Sam Walton, who became the richest man in the world in 1990, never once made a Wal-Mart brand of any product.  He simply distributed other people’s products and services more efficiently.  And with today’s technology, namely the Internet, we will once again see that the real money is made by the people who carry these products from the laboratory to the consumer, and that my friend, might as well be you!  The Internet in business today is really just about reducing costs.  We see this great growth in the Internet business because people are using it to find better ways to distribute products and services at much lower costs.  The product that I have seen impact more lives than any other, including my own, is Vemma.  And anyone who chooses to consume the stuff for the sake of bettering their own health, also has an unlimited propensity to generate revenue, simply by spreading the word of good health.  Sounds too good to be true doesn’t it?  It’s not.  It’s that simple.  Drink it to improve your own health, then tell the one’s you love why it might be able to work for them, get paid, end of story.

I hate to say it, but most people are going to miss out on this opportunity.  Whether you wanna call this a new spin on an old pyramid scheme, or still think the world is flat, let me be the first to tell you that you’re going to pay for your ignorance.  I’m not just talking about a blown opportunity to earn up to $1.3 million a year either.  I’m talking about those of you who will never take a look because your spineless, pussy-ass doesn’t have the ability to see things differently, or open your mind up to new ideas that could not only help your own fat ass, but could put a little money in your pocket at the same time.  To the rare few of who have read all three installments, and see that it’s at least worth taking another look for yourself, I commend you on your ability to have foresight, and will now hand you the keys to your health, longevity and prosperity.  Here they are, use them wisely www.myvemma.com/kansascity, and, www.vteamtraining.com.

When You Change the Way You Look at Things, Part II.

Because this is one of the few times that I have actually had a real point to make, I am determined to finish it.  For those who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, the column on the right was the beginning of a case I was making for the fact that our current piss-poor state of collective health has more to do with economics and education than it does with health care and medicine.  Therefore, for those who are just tuning in, start with Part I to your right, and then read my conclusion here.   Now, for Part II.

Where I spent the first half of this argument explaining how our fat, overweight and obese population– which now equates to one person out of every two–could most easily be traced back to the economy, and how its current shitty state will much likely make things even worse from a health standpoint (if you can imagine that), I am now going to target the medical industry, which should really be more appropriately titled the “sickness industry,” due to the fact that nobody who visits, or resides in a hospital for any period of time ever really WANTS to be there, or spend the shitload of money it costs for every visit that’s being made.   Therefore, let’s call it what it is: Physicians treat those who are sick, not those who are well.  Nevertheless, the medical industry today is a $1.3 trillion one.  To put that in perspective, that means that 1/7 of the US economy is being spent treating the symptoms of our ill health.  Needless to say, the more overweight or obese you are, the more medical problems you will have.  That goes without saying.  But no one ever dreamed that the majority of health-care costs in this country (under the age of 65) are entirely due to being overweight and obese, and the medical business reaps $1.3 trillion annually treating the symptoms of our bad food habits, and horrendously lazy fat-asses.  These people, my friends, are not interested in giving you information that is going to eliminate you as a customer.  Now I realize that I’m making that sound evil and/or malicious on the part of the physicians, and I certainly not trying to do that.  Here’s an example: Suppose you have a deficiency of a certain vitamin, mineral, or essential fatty-acid, and you therefore decide to see a physician.  Is that doctor going to say “ok, take this drug every day for the rest of your life,” or is he/she going to spend hours with you analyzing what you eat, what your lifestyle is like, or anything else to find out that you’re not getting a certain vitamin, and that is what’s causing the disease?  Being the son of an excellent physician and nurse practitioner, I’m sorry to break the news to you guys that he or she is going to give you the quick fix, aka “the medical fix.”  How do I know this?  Because it happened to me for 21 years.  That’s how long I spent taking various forms of harsh pharmaceuticals, spending thousands and thousands of dollars, dealing with side-effects that would oftentimes outweigh the benefits, only to later find out that my disease could be controlled through certain dietary changes, and nutritional supplements.  Again, I am not implying that our physicians are evil people, but they get a good chunk of their information from the research that is being done by drug companies.  So what is happening is that the entire medical business, in effect, deals with the after-effect of our shitty eating habits.  Remember, we spent $1.3 trillion last year just to work on the effects of not getting the right nutrition, or right vitamins.  You’re beginning to see where I’m going with all this now, huh?  We, as a society, accept arthritis and eyesight problems and not being strong, and all types of medical problems as symptoms of aging.  That is fucking bullshit people!!!  MOST of the medical problems we experience today are resulting from a vitamin and mineral deficiency in our diets.  We go to a doctor to say I have a headache, or I have dizziness, or I am fat and miserable.  The doctor quickly comes out with a drug treating that symptom.  The doc doesn’t focus on your overall diet or what’s missing from your diet.  All food is made up of one of six nutrient categories: 1) water 2) carbohydrates 3) lipids or fats 4) proteins 5) vitamins and minerals.  Virtually all disease is directly resulting from a deficiency in one of those nutrient categories.  More than anything else, my research is concluding that all medical problems, ones we often chalk up to aging or a lack of strength, all the way to cancer and Alzheimer’s, IS A DIRECT RESULT OF A DEFICIENCY IN ONE OF THE SIX NUTRIENT CATEGORIES THAT COMPOSE OUR FOOD.  A deficiency in any one of those six nutrient categories leads to what doctors call disease.  But it is really a symptom of some nutrient category missing in our diet.  Plain and simple. 

Shit, it looks like this one is going to take me three parts to finish.  I still have not gotten to my ultimate point, but I would love for anyone to challenge me on this.  Especially if you are in the medical field.  Until next time, however, keep checking back.  I promise I’ll wrap this up in the next installment, so don’t go anywhere cube-freaks.

When You Change the Way You Look at Things, the Things You Look at Change.

I am going to provide you with some insight and information that could help both your health, and your financial state.  From a few hundred dollars a month, to over $1 million a year, listen to these facts before deciding whether or not to take a second look, but even then, you gotta have foresight, which means most of you idiots won’t get it.  I’m gonna try anyway. 

We have now reached the point where 55 percent of the US population is overweight or obese.  We are also in the midst of an economic downfall that rivals, if not exceeds the Great Depression.  People are hurting.  People are in trouble.  There is a new discrimination in this country, and it has nothing to do with race, religion or ethnicity.  Today, the overwhelming, number one discrimination, is against people who are overweight.  People who are overweight are discriminated against in ways that many of you may never know, and only the ones who have experienced it will, but it is everywhere.  The reason this is happening is because people who are fat are made to feel that the entire problem is caused by their behavior, and they are effectively being ostracized from higher positions in society at an alarming rate.  Listen, don’t think I’m getting soft on those of your who are fat, lazy and don’t do shit about it, but the reality is that while 55 percent of the population is overweight, 25 percent of the population is considered obese.  The medical definition of obese is “so overweight you have trouble functioning.”  In other words, while many of you may get a kick out of me bagging on people who can’t wipe their own ass, the sad thing is I’m not kidding.  What’s happening here is that our wealthier, educated, upper class are actually getting healthier.  Meanwhile, the poor and middle classes, who are the bulk of America, are slipping off the deep end when it comes to food and health.  When looked at closely, it is easy to see that this is as much of an economic problem as it is a medical one.  So if the economy fuckin’ sucks, then what do you think is going to happen now.  The fat will become obese, the obese will become bedridden, and everybody will become a little worse off financially.  Still aren’t seeing the connection here Einstein?  Look, we have a one trillion dollar agriculture business of packaged fast food, and the packaged food industry is quite savvy at marketing their products.  They follow a process known as “potato chip marketing equations.”  This means that 90 percent or more of their product is sold to 10 percent  or less of their customers.  Think about the people you know who eat Wendy’s or McDonalds almost every day.  Shit, it might be you.  Believe me, it’s easy to recognize that 10 percent of fast-food junkies consume more than 90 percent of the shit, and if you don’t think the marketing companies know this, and therefore study you like a lab rat, then you are fat, and retarded.  Granted, the ad execs are doing an excellent job of confusing their audience and keeping them uninformed, but that’s what this Boner is here for.  Let me give you one of my favorite examples of people’s complete idiocy when it comes to this point:  Take anything that touts or labels itself boldly and proudly as being “Fat Free.”  Like those Snackwells that dude was so proud of for eating, you know who I mean Doug Tail.  You see, where they may have removed the nominal amount of fat that were in those cookies to begin with, they surely couldn’t have quadrupled the amount of sugar that they were putting in them, actually causing the calorie content to be higher could they?  Well they did.  That, and they partnered up with the government in a way that causes us to continually get information that says “this shit is good for you,” when it would really be better to just stick your head in a toilet and eat shit.  Think I’m wrong?  Take a look in the mirror fat boy, I’m not.

Now I’m gonna break here for now because I got other shit to do, but I’m not done yet, so if you want to see where I’m going with this, then check back.  This motherfucker’s about to be continued…

It Won’t Be Long Before You’re Burning Heeters Through a Hole in Your Throat at the Penny Slots.

I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, you office guys are fuckin’ killing me.  Seriously, if you work in a cubicle, and you are pathetically soft and pasty, wear your khaki pants with the belt pulled together way too tight, and often find yourself wondering “What the fuck happened to me,” and you’re still only 30 years old, then you’re probably gonna get offended here, so either stop reading now, or else I’m callin’ it like I see it. 

You fuckin’ guys have got to pull yourselves together.  Seriously, with spring here now, resolve to get your fat, worthless asses moving, and put a little pride back into that birdbrain of yours.  Put down the quarter pounders and mix in a glass of water after every few Mountain Dews.  I mean, Jeeeeeeeeesus, you guys.  Every fucking day I see groups of dudes who are coming back from lunch, brown bag and bucket of Coke in tow, every one of them dressed pretty much the same, and without fail, there are at least two who are so fat that I seriously doubt they can wipe their own ass.  Did you guys not get the memo that fast-food is not good for you after all, and that macoroni and cheese is not a vegetable.  Listen suckas, if you’re fuming right now because it sounds like I’m making fun of you, then you are who I’m talking to.  Don’t get mad at me, I probably don’t even know you, but what the fuck?  Let’s do something to clean you guys up a little bit.  Here, again, is the same challenge I posed once before: for 30 days in a row, move your ass for a minimum of 30 min.  Do whatever the fuck you want, just go hard enought to at least break a light sweat.  If you miss a day, you must start over again with day 1.  Believe me, it’s tougher than it sounds, but it’s very doable.  There is NOBODY, who cannot find 30 minutes in a 24 hour day to walk, bike, whatever.  If you can’t, you’re just a lazy fucking loser, and your only gonna get fatter from here.  The rest of you who still kind of give a shit.  I guarantee you, and I’m being serious, that if you can focus on 30 min, for 30 days, you would lose between an inch or two around your waistline.  Give it a shot.  It will make a difference.  You guys are really looking horrible.

Is That A Beer Can In Yer Trousers, or Are All Y’All Jist Glad To See Me Back?

 Thanks to the four of you who noticed I been tucked away for awhile.  And to the one dude I’ve never met before, but keeps writing me to cheer me on, and tell me that my absence has cost him his only source of daily information and inspiration, right on my man, right on!  I’m sure you’re a hit with the ladies.  And no, we probably shouldn’t hang out sometime, thanks though.

Now, to the rest of you bird-brained peckernecks, I hope you all missed me, cause I missed all of you, and I’m back with a big announcement to make about a decision I (almost) made during my time spent doing much cooler stuff than writing about boners.  Thing is I’m gonna need everybody’s help to pull this off: (drumroll please) . . . Ladies and germs, I have (nearly) decided that  I am going to do one of two things, I’m either going to run for mayor of Kansas City, or I’m gonna start a gang!  Either way, I want all of you guys to be involved with whichever one I choose.  You see, I don’t watch the television news much anymore, and I cancelled my subscription to the Star, which is something I never thought I would do–Quick Sidenote:  In case you guys don’t read the paper either, be sure to read The Boner in Ink magazine every Wednesday.  A lot of times they won’t print my shit, but they do sometimes, and if not in the mag, my answers can always be found unedited online at www.inkkc.com  It would be as part of the Frink Panel…so far I’ve gotten away with “whiney pussies,” and most recently, “bullshitty nonsense”–anyway, I caught wind the other day that our current mayor Dr. Funkenstein, who has got to be one of the ugliest bastards I have ever seen in my life–right up there with Kris Kaeman and Edward James Olmos–and who also smells like bigfoot’s dick (I heard…from someone who was gittin’ theys hair and nails did at the salon), is about to be recalled or whatever they fuck they do with faulty mayors.  So that got me to thinkin, as many of you know, I voted for myself for president last November by writing my name in the space provided.  And although I can’t prove it, I think I got a few drunk guys to do the same, which gave me a total of around 4 or 5 votes.  Now if I can muster up that kind of  support for president of the United States, I figger I could easily win some shitty lil’ gig like mayor.  If that doesn’t wind up working for whatever reason, then I’m not fuckin’ around, we’re startin’ a gang.  Everybody can be in it, even if you’re a pussy (cause I know most of you are), but it ain’t that kind of gang, so don’t worry about it.  Anyway, the name of the gang would be simple, yet perfect.  We ain’t the Bloods, and we ain’t the Crips… sons of bitches, we are the Bisps.  That’s right, the KC Bisps, here to get some shit done that hasn’t been gettin’ done by the losers in charge now.  So who’s with me?!!?

That, and also, just to let you all know, last month I legally had my name changed to Bonerin Michael Sweatpants (I kept my middle name).  I felt like my real identity was starting to get a little too obvious, so I thought this might throw people off a little.  That, and how cool would it be to have a mayor named Bonerin M. Sweatpants!

That’s it.  But I’m officially back to give more offensive weight-loss advice, and relay news on how ridiculous things have actually gotten inside everybody’s favorite health club.  So keep checkin’ back cubicle-gangsters, I know you’re the ones who’ve been missing me the most.  I’ll be tea-baggin at least a couple days each week for the next 9 months.  And I just found out what an RSS Feed is, so I guess if anyone really gives a goddam, they can know when there’s breaking news.

Welcome to spring pussies.  It’s 2009, which is The Year of the Boner.  I’m looking forward to an exciting next 9 months.  Stay hard!

Duck Tails, Drake Tails, Rat Tails, and I’m Growin’ a Butt Tail.

 

Pussies clip your ties up tight, plaster some a that nasty dog-oil grease, or whatever it is you use to tape your combover onto your head so tight that it looks all crustily-amazing and what not.   You’re gonna get a rare treat tonight because goddamnit, I’m fuckin’ pissed at myself.  No, I absolutely DO NOT say that in a whiney, no-nuts, high-pitched bitch voice like High-Pitch Eric.  Fuckin’ WHOOPED High-Pitch Eric’s ass the other day in darts.  Anyway, I’m not blamin’ anyone, or making any goddamn excuses, truth fuckin’ is that I can’t say I’ve been a hell of a lot less worthless than you pussy-ass motherfucking shit-eatin’ dogs.  Fuck, if I seem like I’m in a BAD mood.  Sidenote: When I say BAD spelled in all capital letters like that, I want you guys to picture me pluckin’ and a tappin’ on  this here keyboard, bumpin’ my 80s beats in my lil’ office, got me one of them eraser-style diddy’s up in Windy’s shop the other day…oh yeah, boys give it up for Windy!!!!   Hell yeah, ain’t but a few of ya whose lettuce Windy didn’t get his meat-hooks with waves all up in.  Now that muthafucka was one of the fucking most incredible dudes ever.  Windy was this barber, who I don’t know how, and I don’t know why (but I do have a guess), but this dude just started kinda becoming the pimp of all barbers.  Seriously, out of nowhere, somehow, this barber named Windy, and I am not shitting about his name being Windy, as in the weather, was the barber that brought us all punk-ass little worthless pieces of shit together.  Ok—fuck that—this stupid story is turning into some bullshit lie that I don’t have the time or energy to get into.  Fuck, it wasn’t even gonna be that funny.  What I was trying to say was that Windy was this pimp-ass dude.  He had this weird, real old-style appeall to him though that made him one fuck of a character.  Now for anybody that knew–or shit, still knows the Windy, there’s always gonna be one thing that comes to mind faster than anything else, and that was that motherfucker’s hairstyle.  Man, everyone knew that, no doubt.  Windy man had a fuckin’ do like nobody had every seen before, and the only thing we could ever think to call the shit was “The Butt Cutt.”  I’m tellin’ you snucka’s, this shit was off the fucking chain!  Some of you know what I’m talking about, but it wasn’t until many, many years later after I stopped going to Windy, but never forgot his butt-cutt, that I actually found out what the name of that piece of furry, butt-art actually was.  So, for those of you who have never known, only guessed, and simply resigned yourself to aspiring to one day have Windy’s Butt-Cutt, let me tell you that that shit is called a Drake Tail.  Yup, I got confirmation and proof if anybody needs to see it, but fuck y’all, I’m growing my shit out to create me what will be the first since Windy and/or the 1950s…The Drake Tail.  Hell’s yeah!  Now there’s a Duck Tail too, but I don’t know how I got into this shit.  I had a point when I started talking, and goddamnit this has been a long day.  I think the point I was going to make was about why I was pissed at myself, and the easy way to sum that whole shindilly up would be to just refer everyone back to that piece I wrote, when I was talkin’ about how my economy was doin’ so well . . .well, that was some bullshit.  It wasnt’ at the exact time I wrote all that, but goddamnit, it is now.  Fuck.  Well fuckers, what are we gonna do?  I can tell you what is not going to happen, and that is that nobody’s gonna hear me whine and cry about being broke, or any shit like that.  Look, times are tough because I’ve been making stupid decisions.  Same reason you’re fat as fuck.  You know?  So now, I’m upping my standards, so up all of yours assholes.  Seriously, I’m pissed.  Not gonna cry about it, but my ability to manage money has been probably somewhere around the equivalent of your ability to get laid, and that AIN’T good.  So just like you fat fucks, I need to do something different.  Right now.  No more bullshit, no New Year’s resolution bullshit.  Right now.  Change happens that fast, and so if I can do it, so can you.  Buck up mush-puss, just cause you look like a butthole with eyes, doesn’t mean that you can’t get yourself in really good shape.  Shit, as long as I stay broke, you might have a chance with….no, nevermind. 

I have no damn idea if any of the above made any type of coherent sense whatsoever.  Don’t really care.  It’s been a long day, and my only point today was to get ready, because after Christmas, before New Year’s, I’m starting a whole new onslaught of whooping people’s ass in to shape, so…later.  I’m passing out.

Jesus Loves You, but Everyone Else Thinks You’re a Shitty Piece of Shit.

Greetings, and happy Friday to you cubicle peckernecks.  I don’t know if you guys pay much attention to the “comments” portion of this site, but it is the section that allows people to give their two-cents on anything I’ve written (for those of you who are fuckin’ stupid).  Anyhow, I got a very nice, and interesting inquiry that was written to me the other day by a woman named Joan.  I have never met or spoken to Joan before.  She had apparently run across my boner somehow, and she wanted to share her story with me.  She also asked for any comments or thoughts that I might have regarding her experience.  After reading her story, I decided it was one worth sharing with the rest of you, because this seems to be a recurring theme with many people. 

Joan Parker is a busy, suburban, mother of three.  As she tells it, she successfully lost 30 lbs. in less than 30 days, without “dieting,” or “going to the gym every day.”  In her own words  “After trying lots of different things, I developed a diet that works and fits my busy schedule. The products in this diet are safe, healthy, and they REALLY WORK.”  Here are two pictures that she posted to prove her point.   The first was taken on October 3, 2008, and the other was taken on November 1, 2008. 

 

 

That amounts to a  total of 29 days.   She was able to lose 30 lbs. of body weight….Oh fuck it, here is her story in her own words:

Joan Parker here. I wanted to write about this amazing product that helped me to lose so much weight. I’m a working mom of 3 – a receptionist at the local doctor’s office here, with three absolutely amazing TEENs. John, five; Alex, three; and the baby, Lauren, who is turning a year old. It can be so stressful trying to lose all of that baby weight! While I was pregnant with Lauren, I don’t know why but I gained about twice as much weight than with John and Alex. After Lauren’s birth, I worked so hard to get back to my “normal” shape; working in a doctor’s office wouldn’t look good if I was so overweight!  I managed to lose all of the baby weight Lauren put on to me, except for the stubborn last twenty pounds. I worked my butt off to get that far, and some things worked better than others – but they all made me feel very tired and lethargic, almost like I was still pregnant! I tried the South Beach Diet, the organic juice-only diet, the supplements-only diet – I tried everything, combined with exercise; nothing worked well.  And the places that the weight stayed on – around my middle, and my thighs and butt – made it incredibly difficult to buy or even try on clothes. I would go to the department store and try on jeans, and rush out in tears; it was so hard to find clothes that fit right, or even fit close to right. My self-esteem dropped, and even the new baby girl couldn’t bring it back up again. My husband noticed, and commented that my self-esteem issues concerning my weight were really affecting the family. I had to find some way to get out of this rut.  My husband noted that the women in his office were talking about the miracles that this Acai Berry Weight Loss Formula worked for them, and suggested it to me. I think that he genuinely wanted me to feel better about myself. But then when I heard that Oprah was the one who was suggesting this diet, I had to try it.  Another friend who had also just had a baby and was trying to lose the rest of the stubborn weight from the pregnancy recommended the Colon Cleanse, to help me do weight. I talked to her about the Acai Berry Weight Loss Formula, and after some research online and with the doctor at my office, we discovered that they were safe and twice as effectual when you combine the two.   After doing the combination of these two diets for a month, I found that all of the weight from my last pregnancy was gone! In addition to losing the weight from the last pregnancy, I was beginning to lose other weight that I had put on, simply from all of the stresses of being a working mother – ferrying John around to his soccer practice, Alex to play dates with his three year old “girlfriend;” and, of course, Lauren is still in her “mommy’s girl” phase.  If the TEENs want McDonalds, I don’t have time to take them there after work, and then make myself something special afterwards! I have to eat what they eat; it’s really the only thing that works. These two diets, the Acai Berry Weight Loss Formula and Colon Cleanse, allow me to still eat what my TEENs eat, and lose weight at the same time!  My friend, too, has learned that she can devote more time to her TEENs and less time to her eating habits while doing this diet.  So, what did my friend and I do to lose so much weight?  Oprah is never wrong. And neither are Rachel Ray or CNN – both of which have been mentioning the Acai Berry a lot lately. The Acai Berry Weight Loss Formula, combined with the Colon Cleanse, help me in many different ways.

• my metabolism is much more regular, and much faster, so I am able to eat more and gain less weight
• it keeps me from feeling like I constantly need to eat to keep up with my life
• I have so much energy to devote to John, Alex, and Lauren. And they need a lot of energy and attention! In addition, my relationship with my husband has improved so much; we now have time to do “other special things” that I didn’t previously have energy for
• I also have healthier gums and teeth by cutting out coffee, tea, and soda. I don’t need them any more because I already have enough energy, thanks to the Acai Berry and Colon Cleanse!

Besides the physical effects, I managed to shave inches and inches off of my waistline. I went down four whole inches in jean size!! And the doctor who was helping my friend and I out told us that we would be lowering our blood pressure, in addition to our cholesterol, and that we were cleaning out the years and years of buildup in our colons.

After losing so much weight, I am finally happy with my figure and my body and am so much healthier. The energy increase has truly made an enormous impact on my health, too, which I am sure I will appreciate later in my life. I know that there are women out there who are having weight problems, just like what I was having after my last baby. I believe that the Acai Berry Weight Loss Formula and Colon Cleanse diet, since it worked for me, will work for anyone, especially people who are tired of having to devote hours and hours of time to these diets without seeing any results at all. You will lose about 30 pounds in under a month; I did, and so did my friend! My doctor was so impressed, and noticed the change in my demeanor also. If you are having problems losing weight, or if you are busy and don’t have time for other ridiculous diets, use this diet. It truly will change your life; it changed mine, and I wouldn’t go back to my old body for anything!!  As you can see from the picture above, I lost a TON of weight. Over 30 pounds! More importantly, the weight finally stays off. I’m really happy I discovered this diet, and I wanted to share it with you.

Ok…let’s see…where do I begin?       Thank you, Joan, for writing me, and thank you for sharing your story with me, and all of my boner-riffic friends, but PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, do not try to pawn your advertisement for whatever product you are endorsing off on me and my people who are in search of real health and wellness.  I do not mean for that to sound insulting, but come on.  It just so happens that you stumbled across a REAL wellness/fitness professional, who not only can see through all of your illusions (which I do not doubt you are very sincere about), but is also trying very hard to get my fellow Kansas Citians to call out as nonsense as well.

You see, I am quite familiar with the Acai berry, and I would never doubt it’s legitimacy as one of nature’s most potent antioxidants.   But for you to call it a “weight loss” supplement is naive, and untrue.  It has absolutely no direct affect on whether a person actually ”loses weight” or not.  And whatever doctor told you that it does, should have his license stripped for being an inept, misinformed liar.  The acai berry has no more ability to make a person ”lose weight” than does a stalk of broccolli.  Are they both extremely healthy, and contribute to a person’s overall level of nutrition?  Absolutely.  But it has about as much of a direct affect on weight loss as does the size of Ronny Toolenburgers miniature penis.   Look, I appreciate the fact that you feel better, and that you have lost 30 lbs of who knows what, but if it’s fast “weight loss” that you are in search of, then stop eating altogether.  I can assure you that you will ”lose weight” faster that way than by trying to sell anyone on acai’s ability to do the same.  Here are my questions for you: First, show me some scientific research that confirms these (yours, or your ”doctors” and/or “friend’s”) claims of “weight loss” occurring from a combination of acai and colon cleansing.  Second, what is the ORAC value of the acai berry, particularly when compared to other, more potent, natural antioxidants, such as the mangosteen fruit, which factually just so happens to be much stronger?  Like I said, I applaud you for losing “weight” and for feeling better about yourself, but send me a picture from today, and let’s see how you are doing now.  Maybe you’re doing great, but are you healthy?  Has your blood pressure lowered?  Has the ”weight” you lost from your “magic diet” come from fat, or have you simply become so malnourished that you have convinced yourself that because you are now lighter (for whatever reason), you can now eat all that nutritious fast food with your kids so that you can all perish at an early age together? 

Joan, I don’t know you, so please don’t think I’m picking on you, but do yourself a favor and get real.  The weight that you lost in a time frame that makes it anything but healthy, doesn’t mean a damn thing to me, and to the people I am trying to send a message to.  You have bought into everything that I am fighting against here.  Keep drinking your acai juice, but it’s not making you “lighter.”  It may very well be improving the state of your nutrition, but for what?  So you can feel ok about the fast food that you are feeding yourself and your kids?  That’s not health.  That’s a gimmick.  I’m trying to get people to be better than that, and regardless of whether I know you or not, just the fact that you took the time to write, means that I want more for you too.  So here is my advice to everyone: move your body because we as a species were designed to move.  Drink acai if you want, but Vemma is a better choice because it contains a more potent antioxidant in the mangosteen fruit, it is combined with all essential vitamins and trace minerals, in liquid form, and therefore get absorbed at a rate of 95 percent, versus pills or capsules, which at best get absorbed at about 25 to 28 percent, and quit trying to tell yourself, your friends, and especially me that exercise is unneccessary in the quest for better health and wellness.  That is a lie.  If you’re lazy, and don’t like to move, then say that, but DO NOT go spreading more bullshit about something that most likely has you as fat today as you were when you took that first picture.  Could I be wrong?  Absolutely.  But, I am going to leave you all with scientific evidence to back up what I am saying, and unless anyone else can provide me with the same in regards to their claims, then I will consider myself to have a more compelling case.  I sincerely hope that I do not seem as though I am downplaying any accomplishment that you (Joan), or anyone else may currently feel good about having accomplished.  I am, however, saying that when it comes to the betterment of a person’s overall health, weight has about as much to do with it as does my boner.  Take the time to look at what I am leaving you with Joan (and everyone else).  I love you, and want you to be alive for the sake of your kids much more than I care about how skinny your corpse is.  I hope this is a message that gets through to more people than just my new friend Joan.  I want all of you to be alive, happy and healthy.  With all the sincerety this boner can muster, please take the time to look at what I am leaving you with.  Thanks Joan!

expertise-archives

Hard As Steel, and Steel Gettin’ Harder!

I know that most of you think it’s funny when I rag on the dudes who would make the world a better place if they all got on the same bus and drove it straight into the ocean.  I, on the other hand, think it’s funny that you think it’s funny, primarily because it’s most likely you that i’m talking about.  Those of you who actually work with me, and therefore know me though, all know that that’s not really what I’m all about.  Yes, all these freaks that I speak of still exist, and no, I don’t make any of this shit up.  They are all very real.  Other than their annoying stupidity however, I certainly don’t “hate” any of these people, or wish them any harm (other than maybe a little friendly shot of mace to the face).  The real problem, and I say this in all seriousness, is that other than the fuckwads who are beyond all hope whatsoever, I really do believe that most of you do care–even if only a little–about being healthier.  I just don’t think that most of you have found a good enough reason to actually do anything about it.  In other words, simply wanting to lose “weight,” in my experience, has never been enough of a motivator to cause a person to make the type of change that lasts for more than a few days.  Maybe a few weeks.   And for the one’s who are the least-non-motivated, you might even come every day, but it sure ain’t doing shit for you.  Fuck, you might even be able to bench press more than me, but how’s that back of yours that you threw out while trying to pick up your 2-year-old after a long day of cubicle pimping?  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: You can wear tighter pants Woodrow Gugenheim from cube #4, but your jock strap still resembles a piece of dental floss and a peanut shell.  Based on the fact that the three or four of you guys are still hitting this here boner site often enough to make me think I’m talking to more than just you guys though, I am going to get past the rock-hard baby’s arm in my trousers, and bring out the rest of my genitalia for you weirdos to take a long, deep, whiff of.  Mmmmmm, go ahead Lonnie Steve, soak in the aroma, and stick that nasaly beak of yours deep inside that crevasse of nut-budder that lives in-between my anus and scrotum.   Don’t like that shit?  Now maybe you’ll see how I feel after having to see (and smell) you on a daily basis.  You guys already know how I feel about those dudes though, so today I’m going to leave them, and their Camaros alone, in order to focus on some things that are a bit more important.  First of all, it should be noted that I am grateful every single day for having what I consider to be the best group of individual client’s that any trainer could ever have.  They are all extremely intelligent, all very motivated, and whether they are aware of it or not, I learn as much from them about their areas of expertise as they do about exercise and health from me.  It’s also important to note that I said I was very grateful, not lucky!  I have spent nearly 6 years working my ass off to be in a position where I can be selective about whom I choose to work with.  Still, sacrifices were made (financially) in order for this to be the case.  To me though, it was well worth it, as I would rather work with one of my current clients for free, than some brainless-idiot who has no prayer of being successful, yet has all the money in the world.  I mean that.  Why else would I be willing to dispense what I consider to be helpful exercise information on here, for free, if money was ultimately the most important thing to me?  Quite simply, I wouldn’t.  Shit, it’s not like I really believe any of you fat-wanks are actually doing any of the things I’m recommending on here anyway, but to put it gently: I couldn’t care any less, ever, no matter what, about what you choose to do with your chemically-dependant, odorrific, worthless, biohazard of a body.  I mean, I don’t know if you ever had a neck, but if you did, it must have dissolved so long ago into your body, that you should just keep doing whatever you’re doing.  Clearly, it’s working.  It’s awfully impressive that you were able to make the thinnest part of your body the top of your head.  Amazing, actually.  Good for you!  Now, for those who are actually enrolled in this university as a Fightin’ Meat Crank, here is some actual advice that you ought to consider applying to that exercise program you’re not doing.  It’s been 40 days since I started trying to change the landscape of KC’s collective state of piss-poor health.  How are you doing?  Did you wage war with yourself and commit to the 30-days–for those who have been following along?  If so, phenomenal work.  You must really want to do something different.  If you haven’t done a goddamn thing but read about it, then…well, I’m not even gonna get started on you worthless losers.  Back to those who are trying.  I have now given a number of high-quality workouts, and websites containing information that I know to be very high-quality, easy-to-follow, manageable and effective.  It’s time to evaluate how you’re doing.  Here’s the thing: Unless you have followed the programs given, in it’s original form, with 100 percent effort, then I don’t want to hear that they are not working for you.  Maybe you do feel as though whatever adjustments or activities you have implemented are having a positive effect, but I can’t say because you’ve now turned it into your own program, and based on your track record, you may have ruined it completely.  Your version of these programs are the first time anyone has done it that way, as far as I know, and so it may or may not work.  All I know is that the programs I have offered do work, when done correctly.  No excuses.  Now I’m not saying that you shouldn’t tweak a program to your own needs, or substitute certain exercises based on available equipment or an existing injury–but just be aware that every change you make is one that the original author did not tell you to do.  If you change the length of the intervals in that last cardio program for example, then what affect is that going to have?  My guess is that the consequence of your tweaks and changes are not going to be one’s that are for the better.  Everything has a purpose in a good program…and muthafucka’s my programs are the best!  Hells yeah!  Here’s another one, now do this shit right goddamnit!

fatburningpowerwalk

Salty Little Meat Sticks, In Your Mouth, Mmmmmmmmmm.

I have no problem admitting when I’m wrong, and unless it’s an accident,  I typically don’t label any person’s thoughts as being ”absolutely true or false”…especially my own.  I do call it like I see it though, and as much as I realize that there are two sides to every coin, everyday I see people who are so fat that they are in extreme danger of ceasing to even exist, and that’s a fucking fact.  It’s also a fact, although impossible to tell based on appearance alone, that I see people who are not necessarily fat, but are so horribly unhealthy, that in reality, they may be much worse off than the fat motherfucker’s.  Point that I am trying to make–again–is that this same rigid, stubborn, antiquated way of thinking about our health, in conjunction with that carnival-sideshow that you call a workout and do every day (except days that end in y), has gotten us in a bad spot.  Sick, dying, depressed, addicted, crazy, obese, nasty, and smell-like-fucking-shit are all accurate descriptions of probably 8 out of every 10 people you come across.  And if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m tired of you fucking ass-snackers who are making me feel as though I am constantly surrounded by the planet’s stupidest people in all of history.  Most of the time, it depends on my mood.  Some days I think your idiocy is fucking hilarious.  Other days, I have serious thoughts of going right up to your dumb-ass to flat out ask you “What…in the fuck…are you doing, you stupid, fucking pussy?  But then I’d have to kick you in the nuts so hard that you’d shit your pants, I wouldn’t want to make my boy Luis’ crew have to clean that shit up.  Think I’m kidding asshole?  I’m not in a good mood today, so try me.  I got a brand new can of mace that would love nothing more than to be sprayed point-black into your face.  Shit, I may just do it for fun.  You see, you arrogant, overgrown turds who love to go to the gym–mostly because of the mirrors–don’t realize that your exercise IQ is making that little, salted, meat-snack in your tight-pants look enormous in comparison.  Talk about an optical fucking illusion.  Fuck, you’d really just have to see some of this shit to know how unbelievable some of these cubicle-cocksuckers even are. 

The whole reason I’m even bringing all this shit up though, is because I’ll be goddamned if after 40 pages of calling out dudes who exercise in jeans, pleading for the return of the rat tail hairdo, and posing questions such as whether your Under Armour shirt just took a shit, or if that’s just you oozing out of it, I’m absolutely shocked that I still have enough of you people’s attention to actually make this amazing meat-whistle keep sounding off.  Thanks…I guess.  I’m certainly not complaining, and I know that many of you think that I’m providing a male-model disposal service, which I am.  And if you are one of the turd in tights who I’m blatantly lambasting, then good for you for at least coming back to read this amazing daily newspaper.  I guess you must realize that just because the trainer you’re paying is too much of a fuckin’ pussy to tell you that you’re obese, unappealing to the opposite and/or same sex, and stupid as all get out.  Well, I don’t blame you.  Sugar-coating the truth ain’t gonna help you suck any less Dean Loin Cloth.  You can polish a turd people, but at the end of the day, you’re still a turd.  

Alright, let’s get to the point where I actually decide to give you something that you may (or may not) be intelligent enough to apply to your shittiness:  This is an excellent, indoor, aerobic ass-kicker.  It is 30 minutes long, and uses various pieces of equipment that help to break up the monotony and boredom that the winter season can cause.  Warning: this ain’t for wet, noodly, sad-sacs!  Get in, go hard, go home.  No excuses.  Go move your ass.  

cardioprogram11

Hey, Is That A Lewd and Lascivious Act You’re Performing?

So the other day I was thinking about exposing myself.  You know, I had one of those long, creepy-looking pervert-coats on, the kind you don’t really see people wearing anymore, and I was just strolling down the street, mindin’ my own goddam business when it just seemed like a nice day to flop my dick out.  What?!?  I mean, that’s totally rational, right?  Who hasn’t had the urge to leave the house wearing nothing but a trench coat and sandals, and show their thang to a playground full of children?  Can any of you losers even imagine what thoughts must go through these whack-job’s fucking pea-brains before they decide it’s a good idea to drive their cabs with the wheel in one hand, and a filthy, stankin, rotten, swollen red-hot in the other.  Man, I didn’t used to think that shit really even happened for real.  I mean, I heard about it on the news every now and again.  Shit, I even saw a dude run naked out of the bleachers at a Royal’s game a few years ago, and slide head first into second base before trying to out run security and hop his naked-ass over the outfield wall, but that was fuckin’ awesome.  In fact, I wonder whatever happened to that dude.  Not that I’ll ever know, but I will certainly never forget that motherfucker.  Think about it for a second: If you’re at a ballgame, and you’re with your buddies, having a good time, crushing a few cool ones and what not, you might get a little wound up.  You might feel loose enough to start yelling at the refs or something, which is always a good idea Superfan.  You’re really helping every time you make your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your vein-ridden, swollen, cherry-red head, and froth stale-flavored beer-saliva over every person within 9 rows of you as you shout obsceneties at people who can’t even hear you.  Anyway, so you’ve had a few pops, you’re having a good time, and then your boys start fucking with you a little bit, telling you that you ought to strip your clothes off and run out on the field and shit.  It is a good idea, but you of course aren’t that stupid, and you know their just fucking around anyway.  But then what the fuck happened?  So a few more innings go by, and what?   How, exactly, the fuck much do you have to drink, (especially considering the beers at the K are like $18 or something), to actually start contemplating the aforementioned scenario as something other than absolutely incredible?!?  Can you picture this shit?  You’re getting ready to go take a piss during the seventh-inning stretch, and all the sudden you got this asshole taking his clothes off, butt-ass naked, making a mad dash for second base.  I’m not even gonna touch the head first slide.   I just love that guy.  I know a shitload of people who love to talk a good game.  They talk so much shit that they can’t back up, that nobody even wants to be around them.  But this dude truly don’t give a fuck.  Motherfucker got naked, ran out onto the field in front of thousands of people with his schlong floppin’ all over the place.  That guy should be honored for his bravery, hilarity and uncanny ability to get unbelievably inebriated.  Fuck, I’m about to go back to work.  I had zero intention of getting into that heroic tale, but I’m glad that I did.  So if you made it to the end of that doozie, and you still think that you can take some of that white, hairy, jelly fat off your waistline, here’s your free training session for today:

Whatever you think you know about losing fat, do the opposite.  The only results your fat-loss training agenda got you was more fat around your face, legs and stomach.  Therefore, I am again going to suggest going to www.alwyncosgrove.com for excellent training information.  Or, even better than that, go to www.menshealth.com.  I think that’s the site.  Whatever Men’s Health magazine’s website is, it too has excellent information, which won’t suprise you when I say that this Boner has a sister who is an editor for them!  Stay inside today.  We need less idiots on these shitty snow-covered roads.  Until next time, au revoir!

I Asked Jesus What He Would Do. He Didn’t Know.

 

 During this time of year, when I am simply waiting for everyone else to get done with the holidays, I am sometimes triggered to think about things that I normally otherwise woudln’t ever think of.  And since Christmas is a holiday about Jesus, I’ve been doing me some thinkin’ about Jesus.  Now the majority of you dipshits realize that I have absolutely zero interest in making any of you feel warm and fuzzy, and that along the way of thinning the herd and extricating the stupid, most of you will at some point be offended.  Don’t care.  I’m sick of pussies with low self-esteem who play the role of victim all the goddam time, and so if you happen to be a Jesus-freak, then go ahead and get the fuck on out of here now.  You’re probably going to be offended because this here is a call for putting an end to anything that has the four letters WWJD? on it.  That shit needs to be finished, retired, made officially off-limits.  It’s stupid, it’s fucking annoying, and it offends me.  See, I didn’t know Jesus personally. . .unless of course you are talking about Jesus Radcliffe from Ooh-Lee-Ga, Oklahoma.  But Jesus of Nazareth, no, never knew him.  I hear that he was a pretty amazing dude, and I happen to think that he probably was, but because I am not a Christian, I do not idolize him as the messiah.  That is irrelevant though.  Can we please do away with the ”What would Jesus Do?” question, if for no other reason, because I’ve already answered it so many times.  He (Jesus) would have worn a venice-beach style tank-top, packed the fattest, coolest bulge you’ve ever seen inside his tiny, short shorts.  He would have been in damn good shape, loved his weiner, and worn a ponytail.  If you don’t like that answer, then quit asking the question bible-boy.  

Let’s get back to the conversation we started last Friday, on how to more efficiently rid yourself of the overabundance of bodyfat that you are currently dealing with.  For those who are following along, we were talking about why traditional “cardio” workouts are boring, ineffective, and a surefire path to quitting.  They don’t do shit for your metabolism after your leisurely pretend-workout has ended, and so I made the case for spending less time in the gym, incorporating a higher-intensity workout that includes weights or resistance training. 

The second “key ingredient” in fat-loss programming does allow a person to spend time on their cardio-machine of choice, but good luck if you think it’s going to be easy.  It’s called High-Intensity Interval Training (HIIT).  It burns a shitload more calories than that pussy shit you’ve been fooling yourself into thinking is doing anything on the elliptical.  Reason this workout is so much more of a metabolism-booster, is because it requires you to step out of your comfort zone.  In other words, it’s un-comftorable…and hard!  There was a landmark study that was done in 1994 that compared interval training v. steady-state aerobic training.  The interval training group showed a nine times greater loss in subcutaneous fat than did the endurance group, while burning less than half the calories that the endurance group burned during each days single bout of exercise. 

For those of you who need me to explain this to you in the same way I would a  2-year-old, retarded-gerbil named Liberace, it means that people who do interval training showed a nine times greater loss in fat than do the idiots who waste their time doing the same slow-ass pace for however long every day.  One more time: the interval group lost nine times more fat overall.  That’s significant, don’t you think?  Or do you think, fuckin’ brainless moron.  Don’t you see the importance of that statement?  Even if the interval training caused people to lose the same fat as the endurance group, you’d STILL get the SAME results, in LESS time.  Now, I’m out of here, I’m going to meet my buddy Jesus Radcliffe for a drink.  He came in town from Necklahoma, and he sells gold chains.  See you tomorrow for Tuesday’s Festival of Testicle! 

Tie That Damn Thing In A Knot You Nasty Motherfucker.

We’re going to get back on the exercise bandwagon tomorrow.  Today I’ve got to send a message to a group of dipshits so unbelievable that I can’t believe I haven’t touched on this subject before.  Thanks to JohnThom, who reminded me of the need to talk about these disgusting, degenerate-dirtbags.  So, in my neverending crusade to rid the world of these heavily-salted meat-sticks, let’s take a moment to talk about. . . Dudes who piss in the shower. 

For the love of God, have you seen this?  Un-fucking-believable.  Now I don’t know how you manimals do things, for all I know maybe you do piss all over yourself in YOUR shower, at YOUR home.  I personally do not, and although I would recommend mixing in a toilet every now and again, you do whatever makes your fat-ass happy.  But DO NOT do that shit in the health club shower.  You will more than get maced and placed under citizen’s arrest by me if I catch it, and it’s not that I am looking for it either.  I can smell that shit from a mile away.  Steve Dave, your diet, which consists of LOTS of salty meats, cheeses and Mountain Dew has you pissing odors in more ways than one.  I mean, are you fucking kidding me?  Are these guys for real?  Isn’t the whole reason you’re in the shower, is to wash off all the sweat, hair, fecal matter and toenails that you picked up while touching the same wieghts and machines that a million other I-didn’t-wipe-my-ass-either freaks have just frothed all over?  What, are you lathering up with ultra anti-bacterial Lever 2000, just to rinse the shit off with your own piss?  That’s a good idea.  Nothing screams clean like urinating on yourself in the shower.  And why is it always the nasty, old bastards, who are fat as fuck, VERY old-looking (whether they’re 55 or 110), always shameless, guaranteed clueless, and most-disgusting assholes who think that these rules don’t apply to them?  Like their shit don’t stink?  Let me tell you something old, unwise-one: Your shit does stink, so bad that you’ll never know.  How could you with that swollen-up giant red beak on your face.  All those years of Jack Daniels and Glenfiddich have that thing on your face looking good!  Is that like a dick, or just an actual nose?  Does that thing even work?  I hope so, it’s probably the most dick-like looking thing you got left.  I’m not trying to look, but whatever you got going on down there in the region that a non-nosedick should be, has gotten so fat it seems to have sent all the lint, dust, and food particles from inside your flaps orbiting around your belly.                                                                                       Hop back into your Dalorean mister, and drive straight back to 1914 where you came from.  I mean, I don’t know about you, but I personally do not urinate in any shower, much less a fucking health club shower that other people have to use.  Fuck that.  Any shower.  Don’t piss in the shower.  Why not?  Other than because it’s lazy and wrong, if you don’t think that bacterias, molds, and funguses are right at home in, and breeding happily, and rapidly in a mixed cest-pool of conduciveness inside the confines of that health club of yours, you’re completely nuts.  You don’t have to take my word for it, but in the last year alone, I have picked up a staph infection that was originally thought to have been MRSA, and that I thought was going to kill me, and now, although happy to say I have officially rid myself of it, I got a mysterious rash recently on my legs.  It was mostly on the inside of my thighs, and below the knees on the inner portions of my calves.  This was what I was talking about the other day when I said that something nothing short of “revolting” had happened to me.  Goddam it was horrible.  It didn’t look that bad at all, mostly just tiny red bumps, but it itched so bad it was driving me crazy.  Another sidenote for those who don’t know: When I say that this “mystery fungus-rash” didn’t look that bad, it’s important to know that I am meaning in comparison to the psoriasis that I have, which is also primarily on my legs.  In case you aren’t familiar, psoriasis is a disease of the auto-immune system and has a wide range of symptoms.  The most common being the manifestation of large plaques or lesions on the skin, which looks inflammed and scaly.  It’s a terrible disease, as all diseases are, and there is no known cure for this one.  Because the symptoms are so visible, and because people with moderate to severe cases can have it affect up to 100 percent of the skin’s surface area, the result can be very destructive physically as well as emotionally.  There are a few reasons that I am bringing that up, the first of which is to bring attention to my reason for being such a loud proponent of Vemma.  I was heavily medicated as a means of treating the symptoms since the age of 9, which was when I was diagnosed.  There were times where the medications were very harsh, and it was arguable that the potential side-effects weren’t outweighing the few benefits.  I was told by my doctor over the years, as are too many others with their own conditions and circumstances, that I would simply need to remain on the meds for the rest of my life.   Obvious to me now, this was all said without any regard for the numerous side effects of all medications, and without any real attempt to get at the root cause of this disease, and why I had developed it.  I had questions that weren’t being answered, so I took it upon myself to do my own research to see what I could find.  I am ecstatic about the fact that I am nearing the 9-month point of being pharmaceutical and/or medication free for the first time in 21 years.  My skin is healthier than it ever was ON the meds, and it had nothing to do with anything / information that my doctor gave me.  What I learned about was the various, and abundance of foods containing strong medicinal properties.  I don’t need to get into it too much because I want people to look for themselves, but there are 42 xanthone molecules that exist in the pericarp (rind) of the mangosteen fruit, which is grown only in the temperate climates of southeast Asia, and has been used as an anti-inflammatory and immune-booster for thousands of years in Eastern and traditional Ayruvedic medicine.  The scientific research that has been done is abundant and conclusive.  The reason you won’t get this information from your doctor, is because the majority of them don’t know shit about human nutrition.  Most will tell you that nutrition amounted to one chapter, in one class, throughout the entirety of medical school training.  I could go on and on, but it lead me to Vemma, which is wildcrafted mangosteen, aloe vera, green tea with vitamins and trace minerals in liquid form, and that is what I drink every day, sometimes with my cocktails (I’m dead serious, see www.myverve.com/lernerfitness for the healthiest, best-tasting cocktail mixer that makes your dick bigger, in the world!) to control my skin without pharmaceuticals.  I am imploring that anyone who cares about their own health or the health of someone they know to go to www.pubmed.gov, which is the government’s online medical resource, and type the word mangosteen into the search box.  You’ll be blown away by what you find.  You could do the same thing at www.medline.com, another well-respected online medical resource.  And you will see what I mean.  Dr. Oz drinks it, and has also been a huge proponent of Vemma.  There is NO ONE that should not be taking this product!  The Vemma company offers a 100 percent money back guarantee, and anyone who takes it every day for between 30 and 90 days (minimum), will see a change in their health.  I have experienced it, seen it, and met too many people who have done the same to waver on that statement whatsoever.  If you try it and it doesn’t work, get your money back.  This is a nothing to lose, everything to gain situation here.  The other nice thing about this company is that you will never find it in big-box or national retail stores.  The integrity of the product itself does not allow for a big enough price mark up for the national chains to make a substantial enough profit on it.  That’s good for you however, because the company is a billion dollar one that spends it’s marketing budget on word-of-mouth networking.  In other words, if you’re taking the product, you can get paid to tell others the web address where they can get it.  Anyone who orders, gets a free membership (think like a Costco membership), and two free websites.  Nothing more is required.  If anyone you know wants to try it for their own health, they simply buy it online on the websites you were given, they then have their own websites, and you get a check in the mail every Saturday.  Look into it more if you want, but my mission to make the world a healthier place, just so happens to pay, and it just so happens that I need some money.  But if you think that that is why I went on and on for the last 2,000 words, then go fuck yourself.  Don’t be jealous that the same product that changed my health in such a powerful way, is also going to be what changes my life financially.  Shit, there’s no reason to be jealous.  You could do the same thing if you wanted to.  But you got to drink it first: www.myvemma.com/lernerfitness.  See you pussies tomorrow.

I Don’t Give A Fuck Son, My Name Is Boner Jefferson!

 

Goddamn this is a drab time of year.  We are eight days away from the shortest day on the calendar.  By shortest, I mean darkest.  By darkest, I mean the worst.  I know everybody is feeling it, it’s unavoidable.  Our circadian rhythms are out of whack, the weather sucks, and your white, pasty loins have now gotten fat enough to rub against one another all day, leaving you with the most foul-smelling odor that a human being could ever produce coming from that black hole of yours.  I can just see you roasting all your chestnuts on an open fire you fat motherfucker.  Back to my point:  I am trying diligently to make this year different.  Therefore I am taking my own advice to do something different, in order to get through this miserable time of year.  The first thing is to hang on for dear life, and just make it to the 21st of this month.  That is the solstice, and after that, we’re officially training for spring.  Why am I telling you this?  No fucking idea, but the fact that we’re so close, I’m going to spend my time waiting for the rest of you to get done fucking around, and make a real contribution by giving away information that many of you obviously need, but could never afford.  Let’s start with a very quick recap.  Here is the list of things that if you are not already doing, as a bare minimum, then don’t bother reading any further.  Seriously, don’t waste your time, even if you don’t have anything better to do.    Here’s the list: 

• Exercising/physical activity for a minimum of 30 min every day.
• Supplementing with a high-quality Omega-3 Essential Fatty Acid (Fish Oil)
• Eating within reason, and making mindful decisions when it comes to choosing what to eat and when.
• Fighting the build-up of free radicals in your body with a potent antioxidant, premium liquid nutritional program and/or supplement, which can be further researched and bought at www.myvemma.com/lernerfitness.  Watch the 7-minute video at the top of the screen to see why this is so important.  Vemma will also make your dick bigger…guaranteed.

Now, if you are doing all those things, and if you are really serious about being less-fat–you need to get off the elliptical, put your book away (Sidenote: It never ceases to amaze me at how many idiots come to the gym just to sit their fat ass on the bike, or move slower than fucking mollasses on the treadmill, and read their fucking romance novels, or whatever the fuck that waste-of-paper you’re reading is.  For Christ’s fucking sake, if you’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it a million times, yet you keep doing the same damn cardio shit.  Day in, day out, same time, same clothes, bigger ass, fatter waistline, rinse and repeat.  Let me say it one more time:  Hey. . .Shit-For-Brains. . . Yeah you, the one with the Crisco oozing out of your ear-holes, I know you suck at moving without the help of a machine with handles, but it’s gonna take some resistance to lose that blubber homey, so step out that there comfort-zone for two seconds you fat pussy.  Here’s why: The primary goal while exercising should be to work every muscle group (hear that bodybuilder-guy?) hard enough to create a massive “metabolic disturbance,” or “afterburn” if you will.  This type of intensity (aka “metabolic demand”) leaves the metabolism elevated for several hours after the workout.  Look at it like this, if you go out and hit the links for a round of 18, and it takes you 3 or 4 hours because your fat-ass decided to walk instead of getting rolled around in a cart,  then my guess is that you’d be pretty proud of yourself.  Hell, you might have even burned 3 or 4 hundred calories while you were at it.  However, due to a little glitch in the system, unfortunately your 3 or 4 hours of walk time didn’t cut it.  You see, you might have burned more calories than I did during my 30-minute interval workout, but check back with me at the end of the same day Gilhouly.  While your metabolism slowed back to it’s normal snail’s pace a few minutes after you hit the bar for a cool one, mine is still kicking ass, which is also the reason why I have to go.  I don’t want to be late for the gang-bang.  Save a few of those Honey Buns for your chin’s chin Unclestiltskin.

Them Kids Ain’t Stupid…You Are.

I bet you missed me, didn’t you?  Don’t act like you didn’t notice I took the day off yesterday.  I had some important shit I was preparing for, and I am absolutely thrilled in the britches about what I learned.  You see, I was at Shawnee Mission West high school guest-speaking to two different classes (ranging from sophomores to seniors) about health and wellness today.  What I found was that these kids are smarter than you are, no question.  However, as proof that I try to practice what I preach, I tried very hard to go in with as open a mind as I possibly could, knowing that what I had been hearing lots of lately–exclusively through the media–was how shitty and lazy our gun-toting youth of today is…and fat, but I was determined not to judge or have any kind of preconceived notions.  My attitude was that of a student myself, on a mission to see just how shitty, lazy, and noodly these little weasels really were with my own eyes and questions.  Did I mention that what I found was that they are smarter than you are?  Some of you have kids, others of you don’t, most of you hate yourself with or without.   I personally don’t have any kids, therefore, I don’t spend a lot of time around kids.  You hear that Mr. Happy?  Mr. Happy is the ice-cream man from the Jim Rome show who drives the rusty van around the neighborhood with the words ”Free Candy” spray-painted on the side of it, trying to allure kids with carnival music and ice cream.  If you aren’t familiar, he is basically the dude everyone knows who doesn’t have kids, but spends a lot of time around other people’s kids.  You know, the dude who coaches your kid’s little league team, but doesn’t actually have any kids on the team.  Weird.  Real weird.  So I was saying how impressed I was with the consciousness of these youngsters, and how they felt about certain health-related topics.  These were smart kids, they were sincerely interested, and they listend.  It was amazing what I could tell just by watching them listen, even if they were trying to act as though they weren’t.  You know what I’m talking about.  When you can see the wheels start turning inside a person’s head.   That was very obvious as I observed and listen to what they did and said.  There was also one little girl in particular, who actually made me feel very sad, unintentionally of course.  She sat in the front, and I could very easily make eye contact with her as I spoke to all in the room.  She was definitely listening, and I think that some of the things I said were probably hitting pretty close to home, can’t say for sure, but maybe.   She looked a bit younger than did most of the others, and she was definitely overweight for her age and frame.  There was no denying that, and I didn’t get the impression that she would have denied it if asked.  I can only imagine, as can most of you, what it must be like as a shy, quiet 10th grader…and be female.  Sorry, but truth.  It’s damn hard, I imagine.  Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that sometimes I have a tendency to use very crisp and peppery language.  In other words, I’ve become conditioned almost to speak without sugar-coating.  People are already making excuses for themselves, last thing we need is more of that.  Now it wasn’t like I was dropping fucking F-bombs all around the room or anything, but I was using terms such as fat, and some other shit that just slipped out, accidentally.  But this girl didn’t seem like her feelings were being hurt so much by anything I was saying, in fact, it was her recognition of an unfortunate truth that I think might have possibly been bothering her, and that could have come from the sad realization that the lifestyle many parents are providing their kids with are leaving them feeling helpless and hopeless.  Of course, this is all speculation on my part, as I said I don’t have kids and do not offer parenting advice, but that’s what I saw, and I know that this shit is out there happening.  Whether that was the situation for that particular girl or not is irrelevant.  What I’m saying, is that if I were to pass along the lesson that I learned from today’s experience to anyone else, it would be to let yourself be a degenerate, nasty bastard if you want to, but if you’re not going to give your own offspring the opportunity to do differently than your fat, worthless ass, then you should be jailed and used as bait.  Your kids, unbeknownst to me before now, are being taught by teachers and missionary boners like myself that there is a better way.  They are questioning what you are not.  To deprive them of that right is nothing short of abusive, and I can’t imagine that any loving parent, obese or not, would ever want to do that on purpose. 

Up next on the Bony Pauvich Show… I had something disgusting happen to me the other day.  I mean, this shit couldn’t be described as anything less than revolting.  Because it happened to me, however, I feel obliged to tell you about it.  Right after this commercial break!

Wanna huge dick?  Drink this…http://www.vemma.com/backoffice/pdf/2008_1126_MonaVie_Comparison.pdf

Vemma Voted “Best Overall” Superjuice!

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Boner University: Home of the Fightin’ Meat-Cranks!

 

New Year’s resolutions are for absolute fucking pussies.  Give me a fucking break.  Here we go again with the whole holiday bullshit, when everybody–except my clients cause they don’t do that–start giving me this goddam holiday pussy bullshit.  Listen, you’re body has aboslutely no idea what the fuck “the holidays” even are.  You can bet your fat-ass that your physiology has not changed one bit, regardless of whether it’s “the holidays” or the fucking middle of July.  This is exactly what I have been talking about.  If anybody is going to pay me to come and spend time learning how to be healthier, then they damn well better not tell me that on behalf of the holidays, they are simply going to be a fat-ass pig, and there’s nothing my pussy ass can do about that.  Great.  Now get the fuck out of here. 

As for the rest of you who want a better way, I’m going to start dispensing more of that type of information on here on a more regular basis.  I can’t say that I won’t break into a rant while dispensing information that I think needs to be dispensed, but that’s simply because I can’t help but say it any other way.  If I did, nobody would fucking listen anyway.  So as I venture from the first 1,000 hits to the next 100,000,000 I have to go beyond boners, maybe.  I definitely have to avoid being redundant though.  Unless I make the transition from calling out the idiots, to providing information on to how not to be one, then I would be no better than them.  So let’s start with this:  Don’t be a New Year’s-Resolution Dickhead.  Stop playing this game with yourself that you play every year, only to fall off the wagon by day three, and spend the rest of the year sucking while waiting to start the whole stupid process over again.  Do this for a change and start building up momentum NOW, in order to transition more smoothly into the new year and be less likely to quit.  Start small.  Fuck up now, so that when January 1 rolls around in a few weeks, you will have already quit a few times, and will be much more likely not to quit on the fourth or fifth try.  One more reason–if those aren’t enough–is because you will be much less likely to allow yourself to be a nasty excuse for a human-biohazard.  Just quit telling yourself that you’re going to start right after the holidays, gain the average 5 to 10 pounds of fat that people do between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, and successfully proceed to take it off with your “new” workout routine.  That’s not going to happen, and if you want something different, do something different.  Now when I said earlier that I was going to start dispensing more useful information, I did not mean that would be limited to pointless workouts that I have designed for whoever, although sometimes that will be the case.  Today however, it comes in the form of a link to a website who I consider to be one of the absolute best when it comes to training.  He is an amazing person, one who has battled and defeated cancer…twice…and trainer, who has trained some of the top athletes in the world.  He has a down to earth approach, and I would highly recommend the program that can be found at www.afterburntraining.com.  The program, information, and insight that he offers is all top-notch.  Even if you don’t start moving right away, at least allow yourself to become a sponge for more, better information than you have been given in the past.  The time is now, otherwise expect to get worse.  You’re either actively living or actively dying, and I can assure you that fact doesn’t change just because of the stank-ass holidays!  Now I am going to leave you with an actual letter (I swear), quoted verbatim, from a 15-year-old little girl named Anna.  This is what she had to say about female bodybuilders.  These words are so perfect that I’m not sure I could have said it more eloquently myself:

  ’What’s with female bodybuilders? I don’t mean chicks that exercise and stay in shape. I’m talking about those leather-skinned monster-women with deep voices who come from the planet, Butt Ugly.  It’s great that these people want to be fit and healthy but why do something that makes you look so hideous? Fit and healthy girls look like Anna Kournikova, Gabrielle Reese and Serena Williams. They’re nice to watch on television because they’re good looking and great athletes. I’ll watch female bodybuilders on the tube but only because it’s like watching a circus side show or getting your Dad to pull over in the car when you see a dead animal or a bad accident.

  Female bodybuilders are not healthy or attractive. These women must be using steroids. to look the way they do. They’ll say they’re just using special exercise techniques and diets. But exercise and diets do not make a girl grow muscles that big. That’s what happens to many of these body builders because of steroid use and certain nutritional supplements. Why would a girl want to put this much effort into looking like a man. These chicks are nothing more than pill-popping science experiments.’

You’re Not Big Boned Lady, You Are Morbidly Obese.

Come on people, really?  Do you really believe that you’re just a little overweight when I could fit two of me inside those mega-jeans with the elastic waistline?  Do you truly think that you were just born with a metabolism that is really slow?  Is it really even possible for you believe that you eat “kinda healthy,” or that those people on Facebook are really your friends?  Are you a fucking idiot?  Other than your fat, giant, mega-ass that you can’t quite reach around to wipe after destroying your toilet (at work) with last night’s combo of mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, chicken and cheese in-a-bowl from KFC, what’s tipping you off to the fact that your exercise program sucks?  I mean, you’re doing it everyday.  Did you remember to lick your fingers fat ass?  Amazing.  Whatever it is you do for a living, let’s say you work on a computer inside a cubicle, then you wouldn’t punch all that information into the computer with your dick would you?  Well why not?  I mean, I heard somewhere that using your little pencil-dick to type was actually quite efficient, and was great for getting tons of work done.  I mean, I’m using my dick to type this right now, and it’s not really working, but I’ll pay you to show me another way, only to keep using this thick, red-hot I got here while I keep looking for someone to tell me why this method of typing sucks…for dudes like me.  Quick Sidenote: Have you bastards ever seen those little knubby red-hots that they sell with the beef jerkey at the Quik N’ Tasty?  Those things are fucking disgusting…looking…but I’m sure you can tell me how great they taste, can’t ya homeslice?  Unbelievable.  Anyway, here’s the thing, I’m certainly not mad at you for being an overgrown, obese, sloppy pig.  In fact, it’s you guys who have kept me in business.  I’ve made more money from people wanting to lose fat than I have any other group of people.  But face it, you’re not fat because your fucking metabolism is slow. . . idiot.  It’s because you hate to move, and if you do try to start “exercising,” you quit because it doesn’t feel very good, or even better, it just doesn’t work for you because the three times you tried–incorrectly–to use the elliptical machine it didn’t make you lose any weight.  Get a life retard.  Look at yourself and be honest for once.  You’re fat as fuck, that’s why everyone was looking at your nasty ass, not because you know what you’re doing. 

Losing fat is an all-out war.  It’s hard as fuck, and pretty much everything we do, simply because we were told to, makes it tougher, not easier.  If you are really, truly sick of yourself, and sick of being fat–or skinny and unhealthy–then try waging war with yourself for 30 days.  That’s it.  For 30 days go balls-to-the-wall, do everything that you already know you should do, eliminate any and all excuses, and make a decision with unwavering determination to see what would happen, but only for 30 days.  No more.  After 30 days, know that you will return to your current lifestyle, and that this experiment is nothing more than temporary.  If you can’t, or don’t want to do that, for whatever reason, then I can assure you that I personally don’t give a fuck.  But if any of you, or anyone you know, who has sincere intentions to change themselves or their life, try to do it for 30 days.  If you can’t do that, then you simply don’t have a real desire, and should not act as though you are the way you are, based only on reasons that are out of control.  That’s bullshit.  You’re bullshit.  Stop whining you fuckin’ pussy.  You don’t hear me whining about how long it took me to type in all this shit with my dick now, did you?

How Long Did It Take For Five Different People To Slap The Boner?

 

Today was a half-chub-style milestone for this here meat flute.  Thanks to the five of you cubicle half-pimps who are logging onto a boner approximately 74 times a day, I made it to 1,000 hits, and muthafucka’s we’s gonna celebrate!  Send me your addresses bonemen and bonewoman, I got some sweet t-shirts that say I Love Myself for all you little meat hooks to wear.  If you want one, I’ll send you one as a gift.  For free.  I wonder if I will be able to figure out how to get me a nice lil’ picture of ‘em up on this here boner site, cause I need some goddam money.  And if you don’t send me your address before I can churn out another thousand clicks on my weenie, then I’m gonna try to sell some shirts, loin clothes, and other shit like that. 

Thanks to the very few of you, who log on lots, and prevent me from feelin’ like I’m talkin’ to myself all the damn time.  Keep doing that, and now tell the wank at the water cooler that he should read me so that he can get hear himself getting made fun of him directly!  Stay hard!

A Brief B! True Hollywood Story, Kansas City-style: Douglas Adams

After a weekend to rest, I think it’s time to get back to business.  Business of course, meaning cubes, pubes and supine boners.  So how was everybody’s weekend?  Did you destroy yourself as much as possible again by overeating, overdrinking, and oversleeping, and now you’re back in your little cubicle hating yourself for it?  That’s cool, because you probably should.  I mean, everyone else pretty much does, so…

There are a couple of things that I had in mind as boner-fodder for today.  The first of which came to me as I was watching 60 Minutes last night.  Anybody see that?  If so, you’ll know what I mean when I say that anyone who thinks we (Americans) are still the world’s power, probably still thinks that just because their dick is invisible underneath a belly that sticks out further than their arms do, doesn’t exactly make him fat.  Look around you and take a good, hard look (that’s what she said) at your cubicle space.  Does it just scream, “Only 9,739 more days before I can retire?”  Or, “I’m a bigger pussy than the cat on my calendar, and I gave up on life long ago at the age of 26?”  Well, you could always become a bodybuilder, or you could try to be a little bit more like my buddy Douglas Raymond Adams, the cubicle gangsta that invented the rat tail, and the person whom today’s boner will be about!  So heat some Sanka up in that filthy mug you drink out of, plaster down the hair from your back that you’re using to come over the bald spot on your head, and pop five or six pieces of Nicorette into your mouth because Doug is a doozie, and will be the first pubic-hair chairman to be featured in the B! True Hollywood Story, Kansas City-style!

I first met Doug as a youngster when we both went to the same elementary school.  He was a grade above me, and although unbeknownst to him, he made a lasting impression on my life before we had ever exchanged a word.  I can’t remember what the year was, but it had to be in the mid to late 80s when Doug invented, and wore, the world’s first rat tail (according to me).  If you want to know how sweet this collection of lettuce was, which cascaded well into the middle of his back, then I would refer you to the Boner archives to see The Most Bitchin-ist Rat Tail Ever.  For today though, the roden’t tail is only going to be supplemental to the story of the man, behind the man, behind the man. D was a great athlete who was not afraid to slide hard into any base during intense games of kickball that were played on a non-field, parking-lot-turned-playground, concrete jungle.  Did that ever hurt?  You bet your ass it did.  So let’s fast forward to the mid 90s.  Doug and I were both in high-school at this point, and besides being the guy that my girlfriend left to date, I didn’t know him beyond the tail.  It wouldn’t be until we became teammates on the baseball team that we both decided that not only did we not like to practice, but we now hated to slide, even if it was a very nicely groomed field.  It was this fact that caused us to hit it off, become good friends, and decide to write a book together.  I will get back to the details of the book later on, but you’re pretty much reading it right now, so…again we will fast forward through college years that were spent in different states, to where I really got to know Doug Adams, as the best man in his wedding.  I would rather not get into it, but I have been to A LOT of wedding receptions in my life, based purely on the worst job I ever had, and Doug’s was the best ever.  It took place in the basement of some community center, and that was disgusting, but what that didn’t hold a candle to was the fact that Doug didn’t think to shave, shower or brush his teeth for about a week leading up to his wedding.  No, it wasn’t because he was trying to be funny, because if he had done that it would have been anything but funny.  I can’t tell you why he did it, and because they were nothing more than a few minor details that he had somehow looked past, that made him the best guy of all time.  Did I mention that it was hard to tell exactly how greasy his bird’s nest actually was because it was jam-packed underneath a dirty trucker’s cap that he threw on two seconds after the wedding ended?  If not, then he did.  What he didn’t do however, was think to get his denim tuxedo cleaned before he got married in it, but why would he?  After all, his bride Dawn Adams didn’t seem to give a fuck about any of the other stuff.  What she did seem to care about though, was that the caterers from the barbeque joint made sure to use the nice paper plates and plasticwear, and that everybody had plenty of Jack Daniel’s to shoot all night.  That’s all I remember about that, except for that giant cowboy who fell on his head after the party.  Remember that Doug?  And that pretty much brings us to my point today: Doug, I need some more idears fer this here book, so send some to me.  Other than that, I need to go back to work, and am going to leave you with a picture that is not Doug, but I wish was…

In Troubled Economic Times, My Pyramid Scheme is Doing Just Fine, Thank You.

I’m gonna tone it down for a second today, and it’s not because I don’t still think you suck.  It is, however, because I am thinking about the many of you whom I do care about, and whom I know have been affected by the current state, and/or perceived state that our economy is in.  You see, this may come as a shock you Ned Ron Jones, but it just so happens that I am, in fact, quite aware that the four of you still reading this stupid blog are doing so because we’re friends, and you get the joke.   I wouldn’t make light of a situation that I know is a very real burden, and one that has affected you negatively, and created a very difficult time for you financially.  Do I feel sorry for you?  No, and it’s not because I’m not compassionate because I am.  It’s just that while I may, or may not, have been affected directly, or indirectly, in any way by “the” economy, the truth is that “my” economy has never been better.  So what does that even mean?  It means that I have never had enough money in my life, that I myself earned, to have ever felt as though times had been any other way but “tough.”  Granted, I certainly had privelages and opportunities growing up that many kids don’t have.  I feel extremely grateful for all of that, and feel driven to succeed in order to show my appreciation for the chances I was given.  I know the majority of you feel the same way based on your own life experiences, and I would never try to argue otherwise.  But, if my situation is getting better, in a time when everyone else’s seems to be getting worse, then what in God’s name could I have possibly done, or be doing differently, than everybody else in order to seemingly produce a different result?  The answer, as I see it–which of course implies that I realize it’s still just that (only my opinion), is very simple:  My pyramid scheme was, is, and always will be, better than your stupid fucking pyramid scheme.  You hear that Richard Natchez Ediger?  That’s right, you knew it was a long time coming, but regardless of whether I ever showed it or not, it was difficult (very difficult), to remain calm and collected as you laughed at something I believed (and still do of course, more so now than ever before) in.  This ”something”  has drastically changed my life, and the lives of many others for the better, and after your fucking ass laughed, and told me the shit was schematic or fraudulent without even looking at it, I have no problem telling you that you are, officially, an idiot.  Open your stupid fucking eyes moron.  Use that teeny, tiny brain in your oversized melon to at the very least take a look at something new.  Even if it’s just long enough to have formed an educated, legitimate, opinion based on scientifically-backed information that you didn’t care about because you were afraid it was gonna be too hard, or because somebody else might laugh at you and hurt your fragile, un-imaginative feelings that someone else told you how to feel.  I don’t have any need, or desire to get into the specifics of the the scam I utilized to dupe so many of  my friend’s, family and client’s into bettering their own lives and conditions with.   Mainly because I wouldn’t want to run any risk of  jeopardizing MY credibility, MY values, and what has now become MY reality, for the sake of adding to MY income while bettering your health.  That has never been my objective.  I have never desired to change a person’s mind, or make anyone think like I think.  It is however, and always has been, my only intent, to challenge a person, or better yet, get  a person to challenge themselves: To revisit, re-evaluate, and reconsider every belief or paradigm they’ve ever held as “truth,” based on nothing more than that’s what they were told to believe, or because it happens to be convenient for them and their agendas .  

It’s tough to experience ridicule, skepticism, narccisism and ultimately a lack of faith from a person who sees the world through very different, simple-minded eyes.   It’s an ability to see things differently that has put me in a position that is different from what I see most people dealing with right now.  That’s also why I will not feel pity or sympathy for anyone else for being in a situation that ultimately, they created for themselves.  You are no more a victim of your own decisions than I am mine.  You don’t want pity from me, just like I no longer want business from you.  What I do want is for people to take a second look (at everything).  Take that idiotic, bodybuilding, asswiping fuckstick that I love so much, yet hate to be bothered by daily.  I definitely feel sorry for you, and sincerely think that you are an ugly, moronic charicature of yourself, as well as our species, and are nothing more than a nuisance.  I’m not, however, unwilling to challenge my own beliefs, which is no less difficult for me, by giving credit to the cartoon-character-loving self that you are–and crediting and/or respecting the level of dedication, concentration, persistance, endurance, work-ethic, drive, belief-in-self, and willingness to go after what everyone elses sees as a very abnormal, disgusting, physical appearance.  Those are values I believe in, and for that, you bodybuilding-freak-of-a-human you, I will get behind, and respect you…just not in the same way that I know that pussy lifting-partner of yours would like to get behind you.  Lives are changed when minds get opened.  That’s a fact.  Think about it, you brainless pussy!  Enjoy the rest of your weekend, and here’s a little thought-food for you mush-pusses to choke on… (Now who’s the dumbshit that’s been getting duped in a pyramid scam his whole life…sucker):

 http://www.network-marketing-business-school.com/pyramid-scheme.html

Generally, the initial concern for people when introduced to a network marketing opportunity is when they see the compensation plan which resembles a pyramid in shape. Instantly they fear the worst as they draw a resemblance to illegal pyramid schemes. The truth is that this pyramid structure is the same as every other sustainable business model across the world. This is best highlighted in the diagram below (figure 1.)

I Might Be Fat, But You’re Face Looks Like A Hideous Anus!

It has been my experience that whenever I ask a person (or a new client) about what it is that they want, and what actions they would hypothetically need to take in order to achieve whatever the desired outcome may be, it is an absolute rarity for that same person and/or group to actually do anything with the information once given and/or recieved.  In other words, if you were a worthless, shitty loser yesterday, and you keep doing (or not doing) the same things you did (or didn’t do) today, then what fucking difference does it make whether the advice I’m giving you is accurate, or simply a bunch of hyperbolic horseshit that’s awesomely being delivered in the form of a sweet-looking erection?  The answer: It doesn’t asshole.  So don’t be calling me a shitty trainer when you psuedo-shockingly wake up tomorrow, only to find that you are an even shittier, more worthless, dirtbag than you were today.  It’s not because you’re getting older, you just suck more.  It’s not because you don’t know how to exercise, or better, don’t know how to find out.  The workouts don’t suck , you do.  That beer didn’t make you fat and pregnant-looking, your choice to eat it did.  That dead muskrat on your head didn’t make you bald, and your choice to wear it isn’t fooling anyone into thinking that you’re not still bald.  Word? 

Look, I’ve had a great time telling you this week, in as many creatively-different ways I can think of, the various reasons you are an embarassment to yourself, but these are things that you already know.   What’s funny about it is that you’re too much of a pussy to admit, or better yet change, this current, flacid state you’re in.  So I am left to assume that you must like being a unhealthy wanker, and that to me, is just fine.  I just don’t want to pay for all the hospital/doctor bills that you’re own unhealthy ass can’t afford.  Thanks for your willingness to use up all those tax dollars I work so hard for.  I’m just not going to keep on doing it.  I don’t mean that I’m going to quit training.  I love working with the clients I have.  Every one of them works very hard for what they want, or get.  If they didn’t though, they wouldn’t be my clients.  I’d give them to your trainer and let him look bad for your unwillingness to work hard for the sake of your own well-being.  Think you’re the exception here?  Let’s see.  Did you, or will you, exercise today?  Did you eat breakfast for the sake of your metabolism?  Did you eat supportively throughout the day?  Did you make sure to re-fuel your body by getting some form of lean protein, or high-quality carbohydrate source, within 90 minutes after working out?  Did you take your fish oil, or any form of essential fatty-acid?  Did you do even one or two of these things?  No, then I rest my case.  Quit trying to figure out a “better plan” if you aren’t even willing to do, at a minimum, all of the above.  Honestly, if I tell you to do 3 sets of 8 repetitions of a squat, and another trainer tells you that you should do 8 sets of 3, you’re probably not going to do either one of them anyway, so quit wasting your time.  Seriously, you’re better off working on your tan, it’s your only hope.  A truly educated person would know that it doesn’t matter how many sets and reps you do if you’re not doing them correctly anyway. 

So that’s it for me this week.  I hope some of you–any of you– are able to take some of the offense-laden boner-advice that’s been offered up here, and put it to good use.  For those of you who choose not to however, that’s cool too.  Remember, if it weren’t for your shittiness, I wouldn’t look so fucking good to all you ladies out there.  After all, that ain’t a rat’s tail you see poppin’ out a my sweatpants sucka…It’s a massive fucking boner!

Slippery Stewart Sho Seemed Stunning Since Squirshin’ into Them Scrotum Squeezers!

I don’t think that I’m smarter than you are, I know I am.  This is not, however, because I think I know more than you do in any given particular subject.  Anyone who knows me has probably heard me say that the reason I think I’m so smart has everything to do with the fact that I choose to surround myself with people who are, in fact, smarter than I am, people that I can learn from.  I am in constant learning mode, which is precisely the reason I can confidently say that, with the exception of a few of you, I am, without question, smarter than you are.  I pride myself on paying attention, and strongly suggest that some of you fucking idiots try listening to someone other than yourself every now and again.  After all, you’re a stupid moron.

The following excerpts are direct quotes that I plucked from some of the recent e-mails I have gotten from some of you offering your feedback.  It should be noted that all of these comments were written by people who are not slippery, ass tossers, and who’s opinions I respect very much.  I thank all of you who wrote a boner, and wanted to share some of your thoughts with everyone else.  I hope that’s ok.

Professor Cinderblock, a great writer from Colorado for whom I have much respect, wrote this in response to the Workout Poll posted yesterday and today:   

“I’d rather hear about some supine boners than this honkey trash.  Lunge one from the hip bone out that little pocket they place there for sur-prise.”

Thank you Professor C. Block.  I appreciate your thoughts, and think that you’re right.  I asked you guys to spot me with your nuts on my forehead, and this has been the best spot I’ve gotten on this subject.  I’m sending you an e-fist bump for this one.   I’m definitely pullin’ the weasel grease, and gittin’ back to wank-danglys and tittie-flippers.  Thanks for reading!

In response to the brilliant job that ESPN: The Swedish Ocho’s news team did in providing us with footage / evidence that our good buddy Andy Ray has not only been located back in Sweden, but is indeed working as a “basket coach,” and looking an awful lot like me.  Weird shit, but he is a cool mutha.  Don’t know what I’m talking about?  Check out this link from The Ocho (http://www.bt.se/sport/tv-boras-vann-basketrysare-avgorande-poang-i-sista-sekund.  Scroll down to the clip of the basketball game, and fast forward it to the 52-second mark to see our boy Andy Ray speaking jibberish on tv.  We love you Andy Ray!  Anyway, here’s what you guys thought:

T “The Bull” Dogg writes: 

“I’m convinced that Andy Ray was telling a story about a makeshift bong that he made out of a beer can instead of commenting on the game.  He probably should come over and coach, considering the way the Spurs are playing.”

Great point T “Bull” D!  I’m sure the person he was talking to, who also speaks jibberish, was not phased at all when Andy non-sensibly responded to his question in a way that was totally unrelated.  Thanks for reading!

On the same subject, Prof. Block in Colorado wrote:

“Andy Ray, you look so damn serious!  It seemed like the whole time you were thinking about little dogs jumping over tiny fences, and gnomes, and fat, perverted Chinese girls smoking pot.  What the hell are you up to?  When you going to come over to coach the Spurs?”

After reading So Why Do My Pubes Look Like They Need Ironing? Doug Adams, Inventor of the Rat Tail, had this to say:

“Best quote of the day: I was reading me the latest from world-renowned blogger The Long and Strong Boner, when a co-worker walked by and saw the picture that was (on the screen).  Her quote: ‘Oh my, that man is awful looking.’  Jealous.”

No question Doug Tail.  Bitch is jealous as can be.  God only knows what she must have really felt like when laying her eyes on the picture of that little pimp, who just happens to be the dude that keeps getting in my trash, and occassionally works security for me.  Fuck her.  Thanks for reading!

And finally, another valued member of my advisory board, Prickly Von Metric, had this to say–from Chicago–about his favorite bits of Boner logic thus far:

“Boner, here are my faves: 1.) If You Are Shitty and You Know It, Clap Your Hands (Toot, Toot!)  Best line of all the blogs…’Plus, I think my great-grandfather’s nephew’s slave still has a friend in the coat-hanger business, and he might still think you’re worth the price of my urine.’  2.) Damn Tiny, Is That a Baby Inside Your Belly…(This blog) gets at one of your root causes that often gets lost in the buuuuuuulshit: fitness education…’Here’s a true statement: 55 percent of the American population is overweight.  38 percent of that 55 percent is obese.  That means for every motherfucker that you see who is so fat you can’t help but not notice, there are another two that won’t even leave their fucking house, maybe even their bed, and here you are dipping yer french fries in their bed sores.  Shit ain’t funny.  Be real with yourself.’  3.)  (Although I) couldn’t find my 3rd favorite in your archive, but fo sho the one that brought a very special person back into my thoughts: the one about “The Hand.”

Thank you Prickly!  I too found myself getting a little overcome with emotion when remiscing about The Hand, and thinking back to how glad he must be that he got that awesome tattoo on his arm of the flaming tennis ball, right before he got cut from the tennis team.  He was an amazing dude.  And thank you all for reading!

The Results Are In, But Let’s Try This One More Time.

I want to give a huge thanks to all three people who voted on the first Boner poll.  It was a tight one, but “yes” to posting a daily workout on here edged out “maybe” in a thrilling 2 votes to 1.  Listen guys, I’m going to go ahead and do you a favor by at least posting a very simple one that you can do within 30-45 minutes, and not have to be bothered by the idiot who’s staring you down while waiting for you to finish using what are apparently the last two 45 lb. plates in the gym.  Hurry up pussy, he’s trying to work his neck muscles here.  Let’s get something straight first, and this is purely for your own good: Besides exercising in jeans, there is nothing I can think of that is more ridiculous than those of you who are still doing a traditional “bodybuilding” style workout, and reserving an entire day, or workout, to one exclusive group of muscles.  More specifically, if you still go to the gym, and spend a whole day, hour, or workout targeting just your arms, then you must be the one who left the lights on in that Dalorean that’s illegally parked outside.  Drive that shit back to 1955 McFly, and take your jar of flat-top pomade, and your talcum powder with you, you are a poor excuse for a fat person with botulism.  So try this seemingly-simple number on for size, and do me a favor and humor me by taking one more stab at this here little Boner poll for people who don’t want to suck at life anymore.  Keep the questions coming in, and thanks to Tony Kansas City for helping the Boner further increase his reach when trying to rid the city of all the swollen up, chest-bumping, jackasstubators.

Good luck with this workout, it doesn’t require any weights, so let’s see how tough you really are Loves-To-Bench-Press guy!

Warm-Up (5 min.):

Walking lunges, forward, 1 x 10 (each leg).  

Med. Ball Cross-Body Lift, Low to High, Kneeling, 1 x 10 (each side).

Alt. Knee/Hip Extensions, Supine (lying, face-up) (Bicycle crunches), 1 x 15 (each side).

Superman (face down on floor, arms/legs extended, lift both off ground at same time), 1 x 15.

Strength (20 min.):

Push-Ups, 2 x 20.

Prisoner Squats (hands behind head, no weights),  2 x 30.

Single-Leg, Supine, Hip Extension (from push-up position, lift heel towards ceiling, maintaining straight leg, and flat back),  2 x 12.

Tricep Dips, 2 x 15.

Cardio / Aerobic (15 min.):

Treadmill, Bike or Stair Climber, Program: Random or Hill; Level 8; 12 min. + 3 min. cool down.

Flexibility (5 min.):

Active, or Static Stretching, or Foam Roll, targeting at least two different muscle groups.

Do I expect most of you to understand how to do this very simple workout, which can be done literally anywhere?  About as much as I expect hair to start growing out my ass, Takashi.

Baby That Ain’t My Dick, It’s Simply My Rat’s Tail.

I told you guys that my buddy Doug Adams, who invented the rat tail, and is the head of this here Boner’s Cubicle Gang Unit, sent me an excellent e-mail yesterday.  Thanks for the great insight Doug Tail, this is definitely the type of typical, run-of-the-mill, everyday bastard that exists, and should be avoided if possible, at all costs!  Here, in his own words, is Doug’s e-mail, as was written to me:

“You know what would be a good topic for the Boner?  How stupid people are when they buy food with labels that say they are ‘Healthy.’  I just listened to my fellow office-cubicle partner talk extensively about how he is ‘on a diet, but that the weight just has not been coming off.’  He eats Snack Wells because they are ‘healthy,’ the most enormous salad on the planet, with a meager 12 oz. of ‘South Beach Diet’ ranch dressing, and chases it down with an iced tea, lots of Splenda.  He also talks about how Wii Fit is a ‘really good workout.’  Please tell me that this is a rarity.  Shit, if I am a fat-ass because I likes me the pizza, and hate liftin’ weights because they’s heavy….at least I’m not going to lie to myself that my diet is not working, when pounding me some CheezeToes just because they have zero grams trans fat.  Fuck you Mr. Snack on These Nuts.”

I’m sorry that this is not a rarity Doug Rat.  This pussy needs to have his face kicked in, and maybe even be thrown into prison.   This shitty little victim of a man, is the perfect example of why people, when faced with the decision to exercise and learn the basics of human nutrition in order to actually lose some of that nasty fat that surrounds the small growth on his belly, formerly known as his dick.   It’s not that I give a goddam that wanks such as this just want to be pitiful and feel helpless.  That’s not my problem, but quit the fucking whining Dungeon Master.  That greasy lettuce, and disgusting pube stache that so man-fully dusts your upper lip is probably the best thing you got going for you right now.  Read a fucking book asshole, or do what you do best and look up some information between games of virtual-yoga on your Wii fit.  That really is a tough workout though, for a retarded fucking puss with a crustache and neck tie.  How’s your “fantasy” football league going?  Probably about as well as the “fantasy” relationship you’re having with your “fantasy” girlfriend is: horrible.  The old saying about never quitting is true for the rest of us, but you need to just quit, like, yesterday.  You’re a loser that seems to have gotten your ”diet” advice from your mom’s Richard Simmons tapes, which are still in her basement, right next to your twin bed.  It’s great that your box of cookies says ‘healthy’ on it, but try eating something that you can’t write on, like a vegetable for God’s sake.  And if you do decide to introduce any food that actually happens to be green, then stick that can of Febreeze that you’ve been using as deodorent deep up into your ass and pull the trigger homeboy.  I’d hate to be the mom that has to smell the gas you’re going to be spitting out when your systems don’t know what to do with something that didn’t come out of a box. 

So, as you can see, I don’t have much of an opinion about that.  Anyway, I’m off to help someone who actually cares to better himself.  And if you do happen to see that Milton Waddams trying to pollute your cube space, mace the motherfucker.  Have a nice lunch.

So Why Do My Pubes Look Like They Need Ironing?

I want to apologize and make an important correction, and I want you fuckers to turn that annoying buzzer-sound off that you hear when your head gets too close to a microwave.  Dude, I’m serious, out of respect this dude has total anonymity, as he is, without doubt, a living Kansas City legend.   His name is NOT Jellly Joe Earl, as I incorrectly referred to him in previous columns, it is in fact, Jellybean Joe Earl, and I do apologize sincerely.  There are a couple underground, true old-school living works of art and history in this city, and I certainly would not claim to know them all, but I do know some of the greatest ones, and none are as sharp, informed, opinionated, outrageous, and interesting as this pimp, who will be 70 years old next September.  I know what most of you pussies are probably thinking, “Ahhhhhhh, yeah, yeah, an old man who works out, cute, right, that’s great, now get the hell out of my face.”  Well listen here Shit-for-Brains, he’s a 70-year-old man who could whoop your ass and steal your girlfriend.  He exercises smart and he exercises hard, he still runs his business, and no one would ever guess that he was as old as he is because he doesn’t look like it, or act like it.  This GrandDaddy of KC Pimpmanship was telling me about the muthafuckin’ dust bowl the other day…the dust bowl!  That’s incredible!  This dude has clout in my book, so he’s getting the proper name printed as a correction, and he is going to get the majority of credit for inspiring today’s long-awaited feature story on the state of pubic hair in 2009.  So without further ado, ladies and germs, I am proud to present to you, 2009’s Pubey Lewis and the News: Discussion of Pubic Styles Today!

Pubic Hair?  What?  Why?

Pubic hair is most likely nothing more than a hangover from our much hairier (and presumably less fashion-conscious) ancestors. Hair, like the fur and feathers on our cousins in the animal kingdom, kept homo habilis and his predecessors warm, in those oh-so dark days before synthetic fur coats and Gucci underpants. 

Warmth clearly has very little to do with it nowadays, unless of course you’re unlucky enough to be caught in the altogether on a windswept stretch of Alaskan tundra, when you can relax with the knowledge that your privates are warmly insulated. Or not. Pubic hair plays a largely sexual role for us today. We’re born pube-free as an indication of infancy and sexual immaturity. Ascension into puberty is clearly delineated by the arrival of pubic hair – pubic maturity indicates we’re ready for the fun stuff (well, if the procreation and upbringing of children can truly be called fun). Pubic hair acts as nature’s signpost when two naked people get together, telegraphing the way to the closest adult entertainment centers. And, so they tell me, pubic hair also acts to gather your erogenous scents, the oft-eulogized pheromones. Well, every little helps.

So Why Do My Pubes Look Like They Need Ironing?

Fuzzy pubes were here well before you got addicted to corn curly snacks. The untamed look is driven by our hair follicles. Each follicle provides an individual launching pad under your skin for each individual hair to push through your epidermis to the outside world. At the outset of puberty, our bodies release androgens, sex hormones which, among other things, let the follicles in your pubic area know that it’s time to grow a nice neat triangle of pubic hair. Or, in my case, perhaps not so neat. Your pubic hair follicles are very, very sensitive to androgens, and because they are specially kinky (I mean that in the curly sense), they tend to push out pubic hair that’s typically kinkier and coarser than the material that covers your head.  Unless we’re talking about Pube Head and Doll Head, who both have pubes that have been used as plugs on the top of their heads.

Pubic Hair Styles

Pubic grooming, as you are gathering, is all the rage nowadays. Particularly, of course, among the ranks of the chic and the well-heeled. And you don’t have even to have a hankering to reveal your carefully-landscaped privates on the beaches of southern Europe. Nope, just to be remotely in-vogue nowadays, you need to invest in your bush as a fashion accessory no less important than your next Prada handbag.

You may remember how Sex In The City’s Carrie Bradshaw took her pubes in for a service and a trim during a visit to Los Angeles, and inadvertently left with a full on bikini wax – without, we are given to understand, the merest hint of a ‘landing strip’. A burgeoning collection of posh beauty salons in LA, Manhattan and London will willingly relieve you of a princely sum in exchange for removing most, if not all, of what you have ‘down there’. To top it off, some will then make use of the pubic hair-free area as a blank canvas for the crafting of a tastefully sexy tattoo, stylishly airbrushed perilously close to your most precious assets.

Thank you for that excellent report Pubey Lewis.  Great job! 

Alright Cube Gangstas, I gotta real gem sent to me by Doug “Tail” Adams, about a certain kind of pussy in his office.  It’s so good, and it’s coming up, so stay tuned.  It’s not like you’re getting any work done anyway.  And finally, I’m considering posting free daily workouts on here, but I want you guys to be completely honest with me and tell me if I’d be wasting my time.  Shit, I hope this thing works…probably won’t, but enjoy your day, as much as you can anyway.  You’re alive, and that’s a good thing, for most of you anyway.  Aur Revoir.

Did That Under Armour Shirt Just Take A Shit, Or Did Wally Put On A Couple lbs?

“If you want to change your life, you first must change the way you think.”  I’m sure you’ve heard that before, as I certainly have many times, and while I don’t remember where it came from, it really doesn’t matter because it’s just the truth.  This is one of the things that I can assure you is true when it comes to–anything really–but certainly when it comes to becoming healthier.  If you can’t wrap your puny shit-for-brains, idiotic mind around that concept, and/or embrace and accept it, then you are the loser we’re laughing at Shitbag.  I know most of you have heard me say it, but goddamnit there was a time when people used to think the world was fucking flat for Christ’s sake.  How would you have liked to have been the Boner who had to break that small tid-bit of breaking news to the world.  Think that dude was called crazy?  Of course he was.  People laughed at him, and probably thought this motherfucker was a goddam lunatic.  Well what would you think of someone who tried to tell you that the world was flat today?  Exactly my point.  Until you can understand the reason you are fat, acknowledge it, and then consciously choose to change it, then it’s just gonna get worse.  What’s the definition of insanity?  To do the same thing over and over again (or perform a repeated behavior, for those of you who aren’t completely retarded), and expect a different result.  Well news flash Wally (in the awesome tank-top), that “gym-science” your’e using, the one that’s rooted in principles based on acecdotal evidence that stemmed from the mostly-male population of bodybuilding gym-rats in the 70s and 80s, is what many real athletes today might call ”off tha chain!”  In a very you-poor-stupid-fat-bastard sort of way, of course.  Seriously, think about it.  Do you still sport a skinny-tie to work, worn fully-loaded with the sleeves of your sportcoat rolled up, and a nice perm in the back of your head?    Yeah…sweet.  Is that a star twinkling off in the distance, or are you also wearing that pimp cubic-zirconia single-stud earring that you like so much?  Awesome.  Anyway, that’s news for today.  Not because it happened, but because it doesn’t happen enough.  If you’re fat, sloppy, and girls hate you, then do something different.  Take another look.  Shut the fuck up and listen, instead of going on and on about what an amazing guitar player you are on that one video game where you don’t even have to really know how to play an actual guitar.  That’s not a knock on those of you who like to play Guitar Hero.  No, I don’t play that game, but I don’t play games in general.  I do, however, know how to play a couple real instruments though, and even did so professionally for a few years….(are you listening Silver Chevy?)  Silver Chevy was the last name of the lead vocalist in the band I played in.  He’s damn good, and chances are you have probably heard him and his music before whether you know it or not, and his name ain’t really Silver Chevy.  Although it does consist of another metal / American car-maker-turned-broke-ass-beggar combo.  Think Gold Ford…you hear me Lovitz?  Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this: If you are one of the seemingly blind bastards who has been coming to the gym on a regular, or even semi-regular basis for at least a year if not more, and the only thing that you have to show for it is that you are a little fatter this year than you were last year, and your back hurts a little more, then sorry to have to be the one that kicks you in the face moron, but I don’t think you’re doing that shit right.  Don’t take it from me though.  After all, what the fuck would I know, right Lil’ Ditka, you miniture, weird-looking, mini-pimp?  If you didn’t hear me the first time, take a look at www.coreperformance.com to get an idea of how to exercise in the 21st century. 

Gonna try to get to the pube story tomorrow Jelly Joe Earl, but I’ll see you before that.  To the rest of you, I hope you were less worthless today than you were yesterday.  Love a Boner.

Stop, Look and Listen, Here Comes That Little Ditka!

I want to share an email with you that was sent to me yesterday from another one of my very satisfied boner-onlookers, who also happens to be a client, and a friend of mine.  As you may have noticed in the past, I may–or may not–be very careful about protecting a person’s identity based on my level of respect for them.  This dude is not a velvety, smooth-skinned weasel, and he too thinks the rest of you are complete fucking idiots, so we’s just gonna call him Ron Mexico.  Here is what Ronnie had to say, and this is, as always, a direct quote:

Listen, I’m not here to make the bulge in your pants swell, but I took your {advice} for 30 days and felt great.  Then I ran out, and am sitting here with pud-in-hand waiting for my shipment to arrive, and am I feel tired and run down.  I think I’m starting to catch a cold.  Maybe it’s coincidence, or maybe {your advice} is as awesome as Lil’ Ditka after all.”

Thanks for that Ronnie.  And for those who are wondering, Lil’ Ditka is every bit as cool as the name makes him sound.  He is a longtime member / pimp at the club that I train out of, and he is so cool it makes my butt pucker up, just like that one golfer’s did on the Jim Rome show.  Anyway, imagine regular Ditka if you will, then give him a nice, bitchin’ leathery tan, shrink him down to about a squatty 5 feet 4 inch frame, and squirsh his neck down to the point it doesn’t even look like he has one.  Next, make a long whoooooshing sound with your mouth, as if you were blowing hot air up someone’s ass (I know you guys are good at that), and then finish it off with a “…ite.”  That would describe the color of his chicklet-style veneers.  They are wwwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhite, and I think they glow in the dark.  I don’t even need to tell you that Lil’ Ditka has a sweet mustache because that goes with the name, but when you got no neck, a leathery tan and glow in the dark veneers, your mustache is just going to be that much more amazing.  Homeslice wears his Lil’ Ditka-workout pants very high on his abnormally-short torso, and he sports the classic-looking “dead rodent” style of combover.  I can assure you that it is every bit as disgusting as it sounds.  And as a sidenote, I am in the process of formulating a Lil’ Ditka cologne that would rival Panther in it’s pungency. 

So you got the visual in your head, now you gotta imagine what truly elevates Lil’ Ditka to the status of “true playa.”  See Lil’ Ditka knows he’s a fucking pimp.  He doesn’t need, want, or require the approval of anyone else…at all…to reinforce this fact.  He’s a very old-school style pimp, and much like Panther cologne, sixty percent of the time, his shit works every time.  How do I know this?  Why don’t we start with the fact that Lil’ D never enters any room without taking a lap first.  He’s flashing those shiny wwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhhhite badboys, shootin’ off finger points to only the luckiest of ladies, and bitch don’t even ask about the faces Ditka makes when he sits down for a few rounds of awesomeness on the bicep machine.  If you don’t know, you bettah ax somebody…bitch!  Now I don’t know how you fuckwads do it, but traditional gym-etiquette would have it that you would get the fuck up off the machine during your 15-minute recovery period between sets.  Not Ditka.  Another sidenote: Lil’ Ditka originally went by the name Mini-Magnum P.I.  It wasn’t until a client of mine suggested the name Lil’ Ditka, which was an obvious stroke of genius, that he made the official switch.  Same dude though.  As I was saying, Lil’ Ditka don’t get up for nobody when he’s using the machines.  Sheeeeeeeeeet, why the fuck would he?  He does, after all, sport a dead-rodent with a mustache and waves.  Anyway, what makes it even better though is that not only does he not get up, he’s the dude that will sit there watching you workout, with that shiny, glow-in-the-dark, weasely smile on his face.  Look on his face, as he’s staring at you shameless in the reflection of the mirror, just screams something along the lines of “Stupid pussy.  That poor pantywaste don’t have a goddam clue what the fuck he’s doing.”  Yet he is the one with the furry tub-of-lard that’s jammed packed, and spilling out of  his Under Armour shirt.  I love Lil’ Ditka.

The above story has absolutely anything to do with the original point of today’s news.  I have no idea how I got sidetracked, but since the artist formerly known as Mini-Magnum P.I. is in the top-5 best gym guys of all time, I hope you felt as though you are even less cool than you were 5 minutes ago.  Excuse me while I have to go back to train now, but stay tuned piglets, there are more reasons as to why you get laughed at, not with.

This Is Not A Newspaper For Slick Pussies Who Give Themselves A Boner.

I told all of you that I was going to start delivering news that makes a fucking difference in your life, and as much as I’d like to get into things such as how we have a mayor who is uglier than bigfoot’s dick, a homicide rate that increases daily, and why you should wear Panther cologne, I’m not going to.  You put that talking rectum into office in the same way you stuffed that cheesy meat loaf down your pie hole, so if you want to cry about it now, then go find a fucking support group that will lie to you and tell you that you aren’t a fat, worthless member of society.  As for the rest of you, here is some information that might help you get laid for the first time: open your fucking eyes, and get the Taquitos out your mouth.  If you hadn’t noticed, the rate of obesity, cancer, disease and dysfunction (that includes penile dysfunction Limp Dick), has slightly increased over the last 50 years.  And by slightly increased, I mean shot through the fucking roof.  If your dumb ass is banking on the fact that you “might be lucky and not catch anything,” then you, my friend, are already fucking delusional.  What?  I shouldn’t go there because you know someone who is currently battling cancer?  Fuck yourself pussy.  Don’t tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about.  My own dad, who just happened to be a damn good medical doctor (pulmonary specialist), dropped dead at the age of 52 after suffering a massive heart attack.  I know what the fuck I’m talking about.  It doesn’t have to be this way for you.  Unless your lazy ass does something to actively prevent it, however, then all I can do is wish you good luck, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.  You see, I didn’t write the rules, and I don’t care enough to tell you how you should live your life.  I’m simply saying that while a seat belt certainly doesn’t save every life, you ain’t gonna catch me not wearing mine.

So what kind of things should you be doing?  For starters, get off your disgusting fat ass.  If you can’t do that, then you aren’t going to be anything but a nasty slob, especially to others.  Some other things that would make you better off today than you were yesterday would be to take fish oil, or some type of Omega-3 essential-fatty-acid supplement every single day.  I’m not going to get into all the reasons why this is so important.  Google it if you want to know more, but this is something that every person needs to be doing.  Second, if you are ”slightly overweight,” or what I like to refer to as “fucking fat,” then chances are that you are extremely malnourished.  You see, as far as we humans have come on an evolutionary scale, we have not come near far enough for our bodies to have adapted to the rat feces that we eat on a daily basis.  The solution?  Find a high quality nutritional supplement that has, at a minimum, all the B Vitamins, is highly absorbable, and contains all essential vitamins and minerals that you aren’t coming anywhere close to getting in your diet.  Finally, lay of the motherfucking chemicals.  Look, what I said the other day about the longer a food’s shelf life, the shorter the human life, was not an exaggeration.  Look around you.  You think the reason Kansas City is crawling with cover models is because them Double Stuffed cookies are loaded with high-quality ingredients?  Right.  Keep telling yourself that everything is going to be ok, and let me know how that works out for you. 

So that I don’t come across as pushing an agenda, I’m not going to mention what I think the best nutritional supplement is, but there is definitely one that stands head and shoulders above the rest, and it will make your dick bigger.  That’s not a joke.  Most of you know what I’m talking about, as many of you have unsolicitedly asked me if there was a reason you became a porn star overnight.  There is a reason, but if you want to know about that, then ask somebody.  Until then, how’s that for a verbal murdering of you fat fucks?  Not bad, huh?  I already said that I have no intention of turning this here into forum into a preacher’s pulpit, but based on the feedback I’ve gotten from many of you pieces of man candy, you aren’t opposed to a little advice that would normally cost you $76 an hour.  So there you go, delivered as promise, whether you like the way I say it or not.  I don’t give a shit whether anyone uses any of this free expertise or not, but I am looking for some ganja if any of you can help me out. 

Sorry I didn’t get to today’s article on pubic hair Jelly Joe Earl, I meant to, but got off on that story of neighborhood heroism earlier and lost my train of thought.  It’s on the docket, so I promise to deliver in the next day or two, and for those of you looking to sport a new pube-do over the holidays, check back for what is sure to be some of the hottest trends for the holidays. 

Finally, for real this time, I forgot to post the picture of Ogre You Asshole that I meant to attach with the story from earlier today, so here you go.  Until tomorrow, stay limp and noodly you fat wanks, I’ll be back to offend and insult as many people as I can in a few hours.

Put Yo Muthafuckin Hands Up, You Under Citizen’s Arrest!

So I was getting out of bed the other day and stepped on my dick, which is nothing unusual, then proceeded to stare blankly out the window like I normally do at that time in the morning.  I usually don’t turn the lights on right away because it’s still dark at 5:30, which I I don’t expect most of you to know, and the bright light stings my eyes.  Anyways, some dude was walking down the street, which is again nothing unusual for my neighborhood, but then he stopped in the neighbor’s driveway and just started looking around as if he were waiting for a bus to come or some weird shit like that.  Now you got to just picture me here, it’s early as hell, I’m sittin’ in the dark in my underpants with my hair all fucked up and a blank look on my face, and I ain’t movin’ a goddam muscle.  So I’m watchin’ this motherfucker for a bit, and all the sudden he takes off up through the dude’s yard, disappearing to the side of the house where I can’t see him, but can hear that he is jarring at the window, trying to break in.  Ok, now I’m gettin’ all amped up, lovin’ this shit because my immediate reaction was that I’m gettin’ ready to make a muthafuckin’ citizen’s arrest!  Then, just as I’m fixin’ to tear off after this dude in my drawers, I realized that I had to stop and think about this for a minute.  It certainly wasn’t because I didn’t want to tell this dude to put his fuckin’ hands up, and that he was under citizen’s arrest.  You see it just so happens that the old pussy’s house who was getting broken into is a first-rate fucking asshole.  He hates himself, and he damn sure hates you and me.  And because this shithead is hell-bent on lettin’ the whole world know about it, I wasn’t sure that I didn’t think it would have served his punk-ass right. 

I swear to God, besides having gotten into numerous fights with this dickhead, I actually caught his ass on video throwing a bucket of water over the fence where my dogs were playing, and you bet your sweet ass I’m trying to figure out how to get that shit posted on here so all you all can see it.  Stay tuned for that.

Anyway, after giving it some serious consideration, I decided that because I had recently elected myself block-captain, I was under obligation to send this son of a bitch a message, and let him know that he was fuckin’ around in the wrong neighborhood.  How’s that for chivalry ladies?  So sure enough, I call the cops to make sure they’re on their way, grab my mag light, some string and some tape, run over to the asshole’s house and fish hook this mutha with my bare hands.  I start beating the shit out of him, and then I tied that pussy’s ass up to the tree with his goddam hands taped together, and…then…                              wait for it….wait for it…you, guessed it: I pissed in his face.  Went to work after that, and left a note taped to the dude’s face letting the cops know that I took care of it.  Hells yeah.

You like that shit?  I thought so.  Here’s the thing: the whole story is very true up until the point about the note I left taped to his face.  That ain’t true.  The rest is.  So what’s the point, you ask?  The point is not to come fucking around in my neighborhood, even if you are trying to break in to the biggest-asshole-on-the-planet’s-house, because after I whoop your ass, I’ll piss in your face.

Ok, that was a story that I had been meaning to tell you guys for a while now, and I know that with today being a big news day and all, that those of you who read the Boner Files daily as your source for local news and information, there are some other things going on that I’m gonna need to touch on later today.  Some big-ass news that I do want to leave you with right now though, is that Ogre, aka Ogre You Asshole, is gonna be the featured celebrity guest at some party.  I can’t tell you what the party is because you probably ain’t invited, but if any of you want me to get my picture taken with him, or get anything signed for you, let me know, and we might be able to work something out.  Without looking at any of the information, check how nicely this mutha has aged since he starred in the best movie that was made in the 80s…Revenge of the Nerds.  I plan to be back before this long-ass day has ended.  JohnThom, Prickly Von, T “Bull” Dogg, and obviously Kid Nipple, I got your e-mails, and will either respond to you pubicly on here later, or get back to you before days end.  In the meantime, try this fun exercise out for size, pun very much intended:  Carry a little notepad or piece of scratch paper with you for the rest of the afternoon, and count how many people you see who are so fucking fat that you can barely see their facial features.  It’s fun, and you’ll be shocked at what you find!  Have a nice time!

A Neat Boner Names His Pubes.

I used to be in a gang.  I can’t tell you what the name of it was because there’s a decent chance that we might have been the hard-core g’s that threw eggs at your car as you drove anywhere through Prairie Village between the years of ‘93 and ‘97, and the hours of 10 p.m. to 1 a.m.  We was some bad muthas, I tell you what.  In fact, I wonder whatever happened that one pimp, Mr. Drip?  You guys remember who Mr. Drip was?  Let me tell you a little about Ed Drip.  He was this one teeny, tiny motherfucker who I think probably had progeria, now that I look back on it.  Just like that dude on ESPN.  Anyway, when we was some lil’ gangstas, we used to make this little pimp fight.  Kind of like a human cock fight, I guess you could say.  We called it Battle of the Little Guys, and it was off the muthafuckin’ chain!  The reason I’m telling you about the battle of little pimps is because with the recent popularity of UFC, and what not, I’m thinkin’ this was a good idear that they must have stole from me.  Anyway, I’m fixin’ to steal it back.  That’s right, I’m startin’ a fight club, and I ain’t gonna be in it, but you should.  The first major bout that I want to put on, in that one alley where I hooked up with that one real hot chick (remember that Richard Natchez Ediger?), is probably going to be soon, so, watch for it, or a dude named Ed Drip.  Tell him the Punk-Ass White Boys are lookin’ for him again. 

Ok, now for the real reason I put a dirty pair of underbritches back on (inside out), and came back to talk a little shit for another day, is because I’ve been rock hard for what is soon to be one month now, and there have been a couple times where I thought the only dude laughing was me.  However, thanks to a couple a fellers who are a hell of a lot cooler than the majority of you, I realize that I have been making the world a better place for at least me and them after all!  Now these here fellers, out of appreciation, have earned a very distinguished honor, and they’s agreed to help a boner out.  So in the first of what I hope will someday sprout itself into a huge, nasty, amazonian-style bush of awesomeness, put your meat hooks together and make a little noise for my first three honorary Pubic-Hair Chairs!!!  Yeah, yeah!!!  Hell yeah!!!  Give me a P! Pee! Now give me a U! You!  Now give me a BIC, just like the pen!  Sheeeeeeeeeeeeet, what’s that smell?  That smells like some pubes!  These here three hair-chairmen are gonna be helping a boner out by havin’ their own categories of favorite erection-reflections.  The three pimps names are Doug “The Tail” Adams, who invented the rat tail, Prickly Von Metricsystem, and T “The Bull” Dogg.  They’s smart, and they’s all from Kansas City, which is more than I can say for most people.  They also have great tans, and they all wear Panther cologne, which they bought from that fuck stick Richard Natchez Ediger, who sells that nasty, pungent odor out the back of his car, but only on days that end in ‘y,’ and aren’t Flag Day or Chanukkah.  Anyway, be looking for them to catalogue a nice, rigid collection of stiffy-jiffy’s for your home library or comic book collection.  Also, stay tuned over the next 30 days, as each of them will have their own slow-news-day in which a bio, as well as a made up story about their lives, will be posted right here, on the inside of these skid-filled undergarments.  Thank you for reading, and have a pleasantly unusual day.

 

Cucumbers, Olives and Penies, Mmmmmmmm!

Some of you probably aren’t going to like this, but in order for me to keep this here meat whistle hard on a daily basis, I’ve decided that there are just going to be days that I have to talk about something other than rat tails, boners, and fish sticks.  Today will be one of those days. 

My good friend Doug Adams, who invented rat tails, asked me a question earlier today that I thought might be good brain food for those of you who still have a brain.  The question was (and this is a direct quote for anyone keeping score), “Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeet, do you have a workout up yo goddam sleeve that makes 15 lbs. disappear, ta da ma?  I ate me too much gravy over the past 4 days, and my current cubicle activity is not cutting it.”  That’s a great question Doug R. Tail, and thank you for asking what everyone else needs to be asking for themselves.  The truth is that if losing 15 lbs ta da ma (an abbreviation for “than a muthafucka”) is really what you want to do, then I have good news: a workout is not even needed to achieve this!   Now I can just picture all the fat-bastards who just came in their sweatpants when they read that line, but hold your hair pieces cube-ganstas, it gets better.  Not only does someone trying to lose 15 lbs not need to worry about exercising, but they also don’t need to worry about eating either.  Ha ha!  Did I just ruin your celebration Pig Steve?  Ask any anorexic, and they can tell you that losing 15 lbs is easy.  Don’t eat!  Standing in a sauna for about 30-45 minutes will also help accelerate the process, but don’t drink any water before you weigh yourself, and these two things combined should have you there by the end of tomorrow! 

Here’s the catch.  Obviously, I know Doug Tail, and so I know what he means when he asks that question.  If I didn’t know him however, I would have answered his question with one of my own: what do you want to lose 15 lbs of?  That’s the difference maker.  If you are fat, which most people are, then typically it is 15 lbs of fat that they are asking how to lose, yet very rarely does anyone ever specify that, and without specification, my answer to the original question is appropriate and accurate.  It just so happens that I don’t condone Manorexia, or any version of it (including bodybuilding), and therefore would not advise trying to lose weight by starving yourself.  Remember, total body weight stems from a number of things, primarily body fat, lean tissue, and water (blood), which makes up over 50 percent of a person’s weight.  So while a person very well might have more than 15 lbs of body fat to lose, unless you want to turn into a skinny pussy, chances are you are wanting to maintain, if not increase, some of the definition that those noodly limbs have never had, and that can only be done through resistance training, a.k.a. weight training (although resistance can come from far more things than just dumbbells and barbells), but I’m going to save that conversation for another day.  As I was saying, I wouldn’t ever seriously tell someone to stop eating, however, the formula for losing weight has always been, and always will be the same: to lose, one must expend more energy than they consume.  If you take in more than you expend, you will gain weight, be it fat, or muscle.  This is why people trying to get stronger must increase their intake of protein.  Opposite would be true for someone trying to ditch the spare tire from around their waist, just that they would need to eat less.  There is no magic formula here.  It’s a classic case of something that sounds very easy, but is in actuality quite difficult to do.  There’s a reason most people, especially around here, aren’t exactly looking what I would describe as “fit” these days.  I’d have to look it up, but I believe that a pound of fat is equal to (or somewhere close to) 2,000 calories…check me on that Ralph Sampson.  The important thing to know or to remember is this: if you want to lose one pound a week, of whatever, then you must create a deficit of 250 calories a day for all seven days.  If you want to lose two pounds a week, the deficit must be 500 calories a day.  It really is that simple, you just have to now do it, every day.  Cutting 250 calories a day could be accomplished by cutting out two of those Nascar Lights that come from the six-pack that you carry with you on your belt loops.  Another way to stop eating so much would be to eat higher quality foods.  That, or you could always start smoking cigarrettes.  Last thing I’ll say about this before I retire for the evening is to remember how important it is to make the distinction between appearance and actual health.  After all, it’s better to be alive at 200 lbs. than it is to be dead at 175, for most of you anyway.  Keep the questions coming, and the pube staches growing.  I’ll be back tomorrow with tips on how to make holiday sweaters using human hair.  Stay tuned.

Any Friend of Tony Kansas City, Is A Friend of This Hard-On!

Typically I reserve Sunday’s for sleeping, eating, and every now and again, I’ll get up to poop.  After a long week of watching moron’s flop around like fish on the floor, while performing what they–in all seriousness–think is a “kick-ass ab routine,” one day away from it all is usually in order.  Nevertheless, today is a special exception, as I would like to stand erect, shoot off a finger-point and a one-eyed wink to those of you linking from the site of everyone’s favorite local blogger Tony Kansas City.  I very much appreciate his endorsement, and can assure any newcomer to the Boner In Sweat Pants blog of two things: One, is that if you currently reside in Kansas City, there is a 77 percent chance you are fat, and two, you can count on the Bisp to remind you of that fact daily.  Pull those strands of hair back over your bald spots fellas, that’s not meant to be a personal attack on you as an individual, it’s just that from the perspective of someone who has been silently observing the actions and behaviors of the local folk while trying to exercise, I’ve decided that any and all denial and softening of the truth is simply never going to do anybody any good.  So thicken your leathery-skin up Cowboys, because you might get offended along the way, but you might also become less of a loser.  If you do find yourself to be one who is taking offense, it might be time to take another look into that mirror of yours that’s been lying to you for all these years.  It’s tough love, a ”hate me now, thank me later” kind of thing.  Think Dr. Phil meets Satan, except with a mustache and waves.  Hang on for a bumpy ride, but keep checking back daily, you never know when you’ll be able to pull a little butt-nugget of information out these here sweat-drawers.  Enjoy the rest of your evening Cubicle Freaks.  This week is sure to be a tough one.

Fa La La La La, La La La–Fuck You Larry.

Walked into my favorite convenience store today, the Q-Tangle, and immediately got inconvenienced when this weasly bastard’s ring tone started going off in my face, singin’ some Fa La La La La pussy shit.  Then it made me think of a dude that will probably make you feel a lot better about your life.  His name is Larry “The Comb” Snuffleupagus.  Let me tell you about this pimp.  First of all, it goes without saying that this dude was sporting a mustache and a gold chain before they were even close to being cool, but what’s even more amazing was that he did, and still does, wear those glasses with the big-ass frames, the tinted-from-the-top-down ones, of course–in that 70s orangish-brown colored pimp-tint.  Without fail, as can be seen in every single solo-portrait of himself taken between ‘72 and ‘87, he’s got that slightly-longer-than-waist-length, slippery, brown pleather jacket on.  Usually a thin-wispy is dusting his upper lip, and always, there is a collared shirt being worn with some chest-lettuce springing out from Camp Nippleton.  You with me Swedes?  And to those of you who are not Swedish but still care, I was able to make contact with our boy Fred Rick the other day.  I’m not sure how he is doing, per se, but he did say that pubic hair definitely was making a huge comeback in Europe!  So here’s to your Bonnie Prince Charlie of groin gristle playas!  I know a guy who could use some of that fur and fromundabutta to help balance out his balding patches.  And don’t give me any of that “Eeeeewwwww, you’re a sick-fuck” nonsense either Tan Ron.  None of us believe you have a house in the Bahamas just because you whitened your veneers and passed out drunk, naked and scared in one of the beds at Linda’s Tan-O-Ram.  Nice bowler-wrist thing too.  That definitely adds a nice touch to the 6 hours-a-day that you waste on the elliptical.

What was I talking about?  Oh yeah, Comb Larry.  The other cool thing about the Comb that is not very cool at all: He is notorious for using healthclub towels to dry himself off, naked, floppin’ in the wind, in an over-the-shoulder, between-the-legs, hold-on-to-each-end, scrub back-and-forth sort of way.  It’s disgusting.  And shameless.  Disgusting and shameless.  Yet the hobo-tent he was apparently raised in didn’t seem to think to mention that someday other people are probably going to use those towells.  On their face.  Kind of a minor detail, but one that might have been worth mentioning, don’t you think, Parents of the Comb,  whatever species of rodent you might be?  Speaking of rodents, I forgot to mention that one of the things I am thankful for is the family of human-rodent hybrid celebrities.  This is a very special group of people that currently consists of Gary Gaetti, Mike Shanahan, Mike Kryzewski, and at least one other dude that I am forgetting.  Anyway, I gotta go now so I can catch some adult cartoons, while I eat a bowl of cereal in my tighty-whities.  But as a token of my appreciation for having wasted the last couple minutes of your life with stories of combs and chivalry, let me try to help you poor bastards out.  The reason you are the worst player on your league’s bowling team has less to do with the noodles sticking out of your arm holes, than it does the dog shit you slam into the hole in your face each night.  If you are what you eat, then you’re probably somewhere near the inside of the toilets at Union Station, no offense to the toilets at Union Station.  Here are some things to remember: If it was invented in the last 25 years, don’t eat it.  If the shit looks drastically altered from its natural state, or if it never had a natural state, don’t eat it.  The longer the shelf life, the shorter the human life.  Twinkies are not healthy, and if it comes from a box and has more than one ingredient containing the letters x, y, or z in it, then you, U.S. American’s, better hope it doesn’t end badly for you.  Now listen to this classip clip, and have an ok day today.

Dear-Lord-Baby-Jesus

If You Are Shitty and You Know It, Clap Them Hands (Toot, Toot!)

Do you use a community microwave at work?  Does it smell like a butthole and make you want to stick your head in it and reconsider your business degree?  I understand.  After all, all that shit they taught you in school about working hard and handing your TPS reports in on time has you close to winning that membership to the “Jelly of the Month” club, which definitely is the gift that keeps on giving year-round.  You know what else it has gotten you fat ass?  Some nice man-titties, a pet hamster named Liberace, and a boss who’s boss graduated 39th in his class at National American University (Online).   Now, I am dying to know how you’re doing anything to keep my friend’s kids out of that rusty van named ”Free Candy?” That’s right, the one that plays carnival music and is driven by a guy who calls himself “Mr. Happy.”  Just because a job offers “nifty benefits” and has you looking forward to retirement in 80 years–assuming the economy gets better, doesn’t mean your brain needs to match the size of your pencil.   Don’t fall for that bullshit suckas!  Don’t be a fucking dick who thinks a rickety-ass picket fence, your high-school-sweetheart who is now your wife and fucking hates you, and those hair plugs you’re wearing are making you seem successful, or at all appealing to the opposite sex, or the steamiest pile-of-feces you can find that still talks to you!  If the reason you punch a time clock in the morning is to deal with guys who have flat-tops, read underground magazines about little boys and clowns, love NASCAR and pack a gun every day, please send me the link to your blog.  I’m dying to read it.  Oops, I forgot they already made a movie called Office Space, and have a hit tv show on NBC called The Office.  Look on the bright side though, at least I’m not the only one who thinks you’re hilarious, or wants to fight you!  Plus, I think my great-grandfather’s nephew’s slave still has a friend in the coat hanger business, and he might still think you’re worth the price of my urine. 

I’m not angry, I’m annoyed.  Just because you go to a church where everyone is white and hates insert virtually anything and/or anyone here, then why don’t you make the world a better place, gather up the rest of your white, anglo-saxon, protestant, closet-freak, sloppy bastard friends and go “puh-raise the Lowered Ja-heeeeeeeeeeeeeesus, somewhere else?   Leave the felines behind, and get the fuck out of the way.  Ahhh, thank you.  Ok, as for the rest of you, here is my holiday gift to you, and no I don’t mean the kind of gift that your faux-friends from the office spent $7 on, and that you will undoubtedly either re-gift, or throw in the trash where it belongs.  Nope, today–according to the KC Star–is National Listening Day, so I want those of you reading this to listen up…please!  Many of you are budding community leaders, well-respected business people, and/or had the potential to be…right before you tested positive for retardation.  That’s ok though!  I happen to know retarded people who are actually much healthier, and much, much better looking than you are!  That means there is hope for you blobs with faces who have never come close to getting laid!!!  I’m serious!  All you have to do is keep reading this site, stop blaming everyone else, and try this workout-for-ladies on underneath them man-panties:

Step 1: Get off your fat, lazy ass.  Step 2: Move your body for 30+ minutes without stopping (yes, sex does count, just not for you Shithead (pronounced Shu-theed)…I said 30 minutes, not .30 seconds, and Step 3: go to www.coreperformance.com to get the best (free) online training help that I know of right now.  Remember, however, this is site that was designed for professional athletes, former athletes that can still play a little, and people who know how to read.  If this does not include you, then you might resemble this picture of your girlfriend’s really hot co-worker, who occassionally spends the nights while you’re driving home from that neck-tie meeting in Knob Knoster, Miz-zour-ah.  Have an unpleasant day.  

 

 

  

Why The Dwarf With The Smallest Penis Should Never Scramble the Eggs!

 I don’t care much for holidays.  It’s not so much that I’m a scrooge, it’s that I’m a Nihililst, and that shit can be exhausting.  I like the fact that I don’t have to work on the holidays, I just hate the fact that YOU don’t have to work on the holidays.  I like the holidays such as 4th of July, Arbor Day, and Cinco de Mayo; I don’t like holidays that have a religious, political, or consumer-driven agenda to them.  Today is Thanksgiving, and for many, this may be the only day of the year that they even try to find a speck of a reason to be thankful amidst the fucking shipwreck their life has become.   Kinda like tryin’ to find a piece of sawdust in a hay stack, a dinglebonnie in a shaggy dog, or a squeezin’ so hard you turn red as a bastard and almost pop, only to have one a-them little, marble-size turds come a whoodly-whoop-whoop-whoopin’ out yer garg-a-lee gnar-len! (Fuck me, I’m Irish).  Ain’t that right Lamar Latrelle?  That’s right, bring me over a couple dem tiddley-winkers that I like so much while you’re at it, why don’t ya?  If you don’t know what the fuck I just said, that’s ok, I’m talking to my buddies over in Sweden, and they don’t understand Yiddish either.  Shouts out to my homey’s across the pond–What up wit u Fred Rick?  What up wit u Andy Ray?  Thanks for the sardines and goldfish that we had for Easter that one time.  They were goooooooooooooooooooood!  Although I must say that after we feasted on them authentic Swedish Fish, damdest thing happened to me for the next few weeks. I don’t know why, but every time I would stand near a microwave, I’d temporarily forget who and where I was, and pee my pants a little bit.  Weird.  But as I was saying, pubic hair really is making a huge comeback, and I think that that’s what I am most thankful for on this force-feeding of Tur-duck-en meat and thankfulness.  And as the good practitioner of health-finkism that I am, I strongly support gratitude and appreciation.  It’s healthy, and there’s not enough of it today.  Gratitude and appreciation, however, in my book anyway, are very different from thankfulness.  For example, I am grateful that I am alive, I am thankful for comb-overs.  I appreciate intelligent people, I am thankful that there are so many dumbasses around me.  I am grateful for, and appreciate, all the smokin’ hot girls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing over the last three decades, I am thankful that I didn’t get any of you pregnant!  Have a great day of inexcusably excusing yourself, and gorging like a fat pig while increasing that waistline one more inch!!!  I am thankful for you!!!!  And don’t forget to save the neck for me!!!

Love Always,

Bisp.          

 

Damn Tiny, Is That a Baby Inside Your Belly, Or You Just Crush Some Beef Weeners From the Quik N’ Tasty?

Are you a fuckin’ pussy? 

Seriously, think about it.  Don’t sugar coat any bullshit just to make yourself feel not-so-miserable and worthless, but honestly, are you a huge fuckin’ pussy?  Now if you’re thinking to yourself, “Fuck him!  What makes him think he’s so great!”  Well, first of all I never said that, second I could probably answer that question in any number of ways, but I won’t get into it.  I will say that while I do have a mere three days left before I leave one age bracket for another, I’ve been doing a little erection-reflection over the last 10 years, and while there are naturally some things that I would do differently, for the most part I can honestly say that I free pretty good about this last decade.  Maybe you don’t think about it much, but how do you feel?  Again I ask the question, are you soft and mushy?  Has that baby’s big toe that you’re trying to pass off as a weenie feel neglected and resemble a canned mushroom?  Does your girlfriend describe your shittiness as flacid and noodly.  That third leg of yours (the miniature one in the middle) that officially makes you not-a-woman hasn’t budged since ‘92, but you keep telling yourself that’s just what happens when you get older?  I can tell you right now, that’s some bullshit, and you can keep telling yourself that, but until you get off your fat ass nothing is going to change.  If you think you feel like shit now, how are you gonna feel 10 years from now?  I’m not trying to use this forum as a pulpit, but part of my cause is to dispense some of what I have learned over the past decade to keep you from being the butt puppy we’re laughing at.  Hear that Steve Tony Hornby, we’re laughing at you, not with you.   You have two first names.  Off yourself.

If you think I’m being harsh, fuck you.  You’re probably one of the feces pieces bars I’m talking about.  And no, I’m not trying to shame you into hiring me as your trainer.  I train athletes, not man-pussies.  Here’s a true statement: 55 percent of the American population is overweight.  38 percent of that 55 percent is obese.  That means for every motherfucker that you see who is so fat you can’t help but not notice, there are another two that won’t even leave their fucking house, maybe even their bed, and here you are dipping yer french fries in their bed sores.  Shit ain’t funny.  Be real with yourself.  Even if you’re not fat as fuck, that doesn’t mean you’re healthy.  Those of you reading this who are clients of mine are good.  Not because I’m so damn good, but because you at least had the sense of mind to ask…someone who knows what the fuck they’re talking about.  And no, my biceps don’t resemble two bowling balls, I don’t wear tank tops made of dental floss, and my skin does not have that amazing looking Oopah-Loompah bronze tone.  Sorry.  If that’s what you’re going for though, all I can say is, you are so hot, you fuckin’ pussy.  Now listen to this classic clip:

Listen to clip

If Your Holiday Ain’t Happy, Then Stick It Into Them Taters!

I want to wish a sincere, happy holiday-sweater-wearing holiday to you Glory Holeman.  Bastard.  Ok, for real, no shit though, Happy Thanksgivemebackmyson! to you Mel-Gibson-fan.  And if you know what I’m talking about, you either do love Mel Gibson and are a fag, or you listen to Rome.  My guess is that if you are reading this, you would fall under the latter, and that’s wherein lies the problem.  You guys are the first generation downline in this pyramid scheme to rid the world of ass-pansies and dudes that honestly can’t be described in words.  I am not kidding. I know that all of you probably have some mental picture of me up in your melons, tap, tap, tapping away at this here little keyberd, while I crack myself up, pantless, eatin’ fish sticks off my boner.  Fuckin’ tattered-ass bird’s nest dancing in the wind above my bald spot, like sugar plum fairies, or them muthas on the Best of Soul Train.  Still hosted by Don Cornelius, Sundays at 11 on the Dubya B (Channel 7).  Great show.  Especially if any of you dudes are currently looking to learn any new dance moves.  Ain’t that right Cap’n Bil Barbrady?  You all remember the ol’ Cap’n Bil (with one L), Bar-muthahonkin’-barbah-rady, word?!?  Give me a B! Yeah!  Give me an I, fuck yeah!  Give me a L, but only one!  What’s that mean?!?  Bitch is the International Lover!!!  According to his homemade porn from a ways back.  No, I didn’t see it.  I heard about it via word-of-mouth, which makes it all that much better!  Keep fuckin’ my man!  Keep fuckin’!  The Cap’n is cool though.  Who doesn’t need to be fucking however, are all the slippery tan men of the world.  The very last thing that this planet needs is more offspring from you.  Hear me loud and clear Peckerhead, the gym is NOT a good place to discuss relationship issues loud enough for all of us to hear.  I don’t care what that dead rodent on your head told you to do, it ain’t workin’ for anybody you shameless turd.  So take those bitchin’ weightlifter gloves off your dingy little meat hooks asswipe, and get out of the way for those of us who have a reason to fucking be there. 

Disclaimer: I can’t come right out and tell you who it is I’m talking about, but I want to.  It is someone who is very real, has a book out, and is probably in my top 8 all-time biggest shitbags ever.  Absolutely, I would be happy to tell you the name of the pussy’s autobiography.  Just ask!  I can’t guarantee that you will feel anything but betrayed, and as if your life has been wasted a little bit by reading this non-famous asshole’s trials and tribulations from a life lived in the non-rough parts of Kansas City.  But at least you would be ridding the bookshelves, and the world, of this literary jibberish.  Can’t remember what the original point of this rambling was about, so I’m going to bed.  Stay hard, and be sure to save the turkey’s neck for me!

Bobbi wasn

Anybody Want Some Money?

Hey, any of you pussies want to get involved in the pyramid scam I’m starting?  I got a damn good idea, and rumor has it they’re about to downsize at Omnicorp and AdvanTech anyway.  No?  Well have a nice time working security for the next 30 years.  They don’t give you a gun, and they don’t really expect you to actually stop any crimes or anything, so it’s pretty much perfect for you.  Look at Dog the Bounty Hunter for the sake of his lettuce.  Sheeeeeeeeeeet.  Let me set something straight, just in case any of you assholes told your mom, girlfiend, wife, or whoever the fuck your sharing your parent’s basement with at the moment, to pet this here boner because you thought she’d get a kick out of a little toilet humor,  well, that’s cool.   This site wasn’t exactly written to be anything other than a man’s guide to things that matter most, such as rat tails, mustaches, and the latest trends of hairstyles, so if you do happen to be reading this, and you don’t have a fifth appendage, then, well… what?  I don’t care.  I’m just saying, don’t think I’m the dirtbag.  The reason I brought it up, however, is because I decided that in order to do what I set out to do–make the gym a better place for you and me–I need to do more than just slam all dudes who rock out to Eye of the Tiger, and pretend they are the fuckers who are in the midst of a bitchin’ 80s movie montage.  Get a life numb nuts.  What I was saying though was while we all know the type of imbicile I’m talking about, I feel like I need to try to dispense a little actual workout advice every day as a means of making sure it’s not your fucking face I’m unleashing mace into, or whose balls are “accidentally” spilling out of your banana hammocks.

Let’s start with this: Unless you use a rotary phone and the party line (yes, I’m talking to you JohnThom, I know how you love them party lines), then you can’t exercise like you did in ‘84, which was the last time you were awesome, with one of them little perms in the back of your head.  I’m not saying it’s because you’re too old, it’s because that way of thinking is fucking aincient.  Exercise science has come a long way since high-school weights class with Coach Reed.  The results are in, and while bench and squat are fine for dudes who go shirtless on treadmills, it’s time to start thinking about prevention, and how NOT to get injured or sick. 

What I do for a living has very little to do with tank tops, nut-cradling shorts, and bulges that may or may not be botulism (right Professor K-Roy?)  People are living longer now than ever before, but quality of life is going to shit after the age of 55 or 60 for most.  Think about it.  How many pharmaceuticals are you taking right now?  If it’s more than one or two, you may want to start asking some questions.  It’s only gonna get worse from here, unless you start taking care of your shit, and I don’t mean that little baby’s finger sticking out from between your loins.  Fuck having big guns, or a freshly waxed six-pack.  That shit doesn’t even matter.  Move your body for 30 min a day.  Just walk.   If you don’t move, you’re gonna die.  And that pretty much sums that shit on up.

Now don’t go thinkin’ I’m getting soft on you wankers.  I just need to give people more of a reason to come back and read this shit every day.  I’m tryin’ to work this here boner angler, so tell your cube mates and all of your bosses’ bosses to come check me out.  The ladies and germs you work with could all use the advice.  Believe me.  Lates.

Hold My Thing While I Go Pee.

One of the things I’ve always thought was awesome was people’s choice of attire when it comes to exercising.  I’m not exactly sure how many of these people a.) have a mirror, b.) don’t use a mirror, or c.) look at themselves before they leave the house and think “hell yeah.”  Like the dude who intentionally squirshes his nut sac out of his shorts.  How do I know it’s intentional?  Because I myself have been wearing shorts of all sizes and kinds for a long time, and my balls have never once just popped out.  Have yours?  If you answered yes, then you might also wear jewelry when you work out.  Oh yeah my man, that IS bad ass! Whether it’s a pinkie-ring, a purdy man-bracelet, or a phat gold chain, or all of the above.  Gold man-jewelry is really hot this year, so get you some shiznit at the Landing Mall.  Something not to do, and a few of you fat, nasty slobs who don’t see anything wrong with being on the bike or treadmill…shirtless.  I’ve already told you a few times, you can’t do that.  And why is it always the most disgusting pigs that think this is perfectly fine too?  Last warning before you’re getting the mace fat ass, so if any of you guys are thinking about tearing that mustard-stained, hole-ridden badboy off, please don’t bother.  We can already see your glorified man-pussy cascading out from underneath it.   The last thing I love about these old dudes–I’m hoping for pictures of Mini-Magnum, aka Lil Ditka, Mini-Sylvester Stallone, and Sir Nose D’ Voidafunk by next week–is how they love to put out “the vibe.”  They think that if they shamelessly stare at a female for long enough, it will melt them like a greasy piece of hot-buttered man bacon.  Ain’t that right Lil’ Ditka?

Hey Natchez-Ediger, did you get your underpants back from Willy?  You know, that dude you met at Rosedale Park a few nights ago, and invited back to your ”storage unit?”

Hey Swedes, are you there?  Can you hear me?  Well sug min kuk muthafuckas, because jag bajsade har!

Later.

Dudes Who Wrestle Other Dudes Because They Love The Sport.

So, you might be asking yourself, what in the fuck would make that soft, pasty, white man-loin ask a ridiculous question like this?  After all, don’t all dudes like to come home after a long day at work, crack open a can of room-temperature Busch, maybe a Miller High Life (the champaigne of beers), unbutton their trousers, and go for a little man-on-man wrestle action?  You know who you are.  You’ve been doing it since you were a little kid, I just saw you at the gym, and I’ve never liked you.  Dudes who love wrestling with other dudes are the guys that drive around in monster trucks and have stickers of Calvin urinating on a Ford or Chevy logo, which by the way, are fucking stupid.  If you are trying to make a personal statement about yourself by way of bumper-sticker, then you’re doing an excellent job.  Nothing screams “I love my weiner, but hate myself” like a hilarious Calvin pissing sticker.  Likes-To-Wrestle guy also LOVES to go to the gym, especially Gold’s Gym, at least according to your late-night backpage.com classified.  Right now, I’d like to end the week with a little insight as to why monster trucks, urinating cartoon characters, and sweaty men who wear tight uni-suits while rolling around on the ground fit so perfectly in a gym setting:  Reason number one, there are mirrors everywhere.  You fuckers love looking at your shit in the mirror.  I don’t know how it ever came to this point for you slick, velvety weasels, but I’m gonna try to help you out a little, so take my advice.  Just because you made your teeny little thang stand up because you out-benched the wet noodle you brought as your ”lifting partner” (wink, wink), you still suck very much, and yes, I could kick your ass in a fight, thanks for staring me down though.

Reason two: the only other two people on the planet that are impressed with your stupid sounding man-grunts, frosted tips and bulbous biceps, are the other bodybuiding freak in the room, and maybe your dad.  Check that, unless your dad is Cousin Eddie, has an RV, or a neck that is redder than a baboon’s ass, he probably thinks you’re a dipshit too.   

I’m going to leave you truck-driving losers with one last piece of advice: do us all a favor and off yourself.  You are annoying, and in the way.  No, I don’t want to wrestle you, but I will fuck you up if you continue to wear shirts that look like they came fresh off the sale rack at Baby Gap.  You can wear tighter pants, but that doesn’t make your bulge any bigger. 

And finally Cubicle Gangtas, JC Penny’s is having a hot sale on their 2008 Clip-On Skinny Ties this weekend, so be sure to hit that up, and as the good T-Dogg so elegantly put it yesterday:  wear Sex Panther cologne…because 60 percent of the time, it works every time!  See you Monday.

Is That A Canned Mushroom in Your Pocket, or You Just Thrilled To Be Here?

Every job has things that suck about them, and mine is certainly no exception.  For example, I fucking hate having to get up as early as I do every morning, especially since I like to get drunk at night and eat fish sticks off my boner.  And believe it or not, that can at times be problematic.  When I don’t get enough sleep, and typically by Friday, I have accumulated somewhere between 15 and 20 hours.  Total.  For the week.  I have a tendency to be a little grumpy in the morning.  And by a little grumpy, it means that if you make that noise one more time while your stupid girlfriend watches you bench press, I will mace you.  I’ve found that mace can be one of the more effective tools when it comes to being in a bad mood.  I have maced 17 people total this year, and there are still two months left to go.  Reasons why I would love to give you a big, hard kick to the groin, there are many, but I’d say the top three would be the following:  You fucking stink.  Listen you degenerate nasty bastard, that foul and disgusting odor that’s coming from the sweat, lint and dirt that lives in the underflaps of your scrotum, well, we can smell that, and it’s pissing me off.                                    Another example of why a good fitness trainer might mace you is if you wear a skull cap when you exercise.  Listen, we all know that your miniature piece of masculinity most likely resembles a thickly cut piece of bacon with a toenail hanging off the end of it, but there is not, nor has there ever been an acceptable reason to exercise indoors with a skull or stocking cap on.  Take it off, or your getting the mace.  Another reason, and a damn good one, is if you are a bodybuilder.  Period.  Man or woman.  Doesn’t matter.  You’re a complete fucking idiot.  Seriously, I wish that I could paint a picture with words that would do some–any–justice to some of these goddam ass-clowns, but I can’t, so I’ll try anyway.  Imagine you are sitting on the terlet, and you are trying to pinch off a fat loaf that doesn’t seem to want to be born yet.  You’re pushing like a motherfucker, half-standing, half-squatting because you don’t want your butt skin to come into contact with the millions of disgusting ass germs that have been there before you, there’s remnants of someone who clearly ate his last 17 meals at Taco Bell, with maybe a few visits to Fritz’ Chili mixed in, and your face is turning redder than the fat, swollen bastard in the cubicle next to you who sweats all day.  Now, purse your lips up, and make your mouth look like it’s a puckered-butthole.  If you’re head looks like it’s a zit that’s about to pop, and your mouth is a puckered butt, then you doing it just right!  Can I make a suggestion?  Go buy a bunch of cats because they MIGHT be your best shot at a friend.  You think that’s funny?  Cats suck, but you do too.  Sorry.  I love animals, and appreciate cats, but let’s face it, if you’re a bodybuilding dude who loves cats, and muscles.  That, and something deep inside is really fucked up. 

I gotta go train the client who sports a cool-looking bulge now.  I’m glad it’s Friday.  And be sure to check back later today all you Cubicle Gangstas.  I’ll be back before this slab of man meat breaks for the week’s end.

The Name is Richard Natchez Ediger, But You Can Call Me Raymond.

Hello, I wanted to take a serious moment to introduce myself, and tell the whole world a little bit about the real boner, the man behind the nut-huggums.  My birth name is Richard Natchez Ediger, and I was born a poor black child in the southern delta portion of some backward, racist stinkin’ portion of the region just above the Mason-Dixon line, but in Canada, and with waves.

The reason I decided to take myself out from the man-diaper I’ve been wearing for the past few days has nothing to do with the fact that it was starting to come apart (it didn’t say anywhere on the box that you shouldn’t wear it in the shower…I know.  What the fuck?!?)  It is because I do not want to be confused with this one pussy who happens to share the same last name that I do.                                                       Obviously I can’t tell you his real name for legal reasons, but it starts with a J and it ends in osh, and it’s Josh.  Ediger.  And for confidentiality purposes, you can send me a private email, and I would be more than happy to sell you the rest of his personal information, including social security number, home address, a sweet picture of him at the Elvis Festival of ’94, and a DNA sample–just in case this inquiry happens to be coming from the Maury Povitch Show, and you want to know if this punk is or isn’t the father of your girlfriend’s baby’s hairdresser’s nail-tech girl. 

But if you wanna know that shit for real, seriously give me a call.  Better yet, give him a call.  He loves to talk on the cell phone.  Doesn’t matter if you’ve never met him.  He’ll just chat up any ol’ body.   Ever since he got laid off from his job at Ini-Tech, he’s apparently just been livin’ the dream.  Doesn’t have to get out of bed until noon, may or may not decide to put any pants on that day, and has just been sellin’ bottles of Panther cologne like you wouldn’t believe.  You remember, the cologne that was in Anchorman, the one that has a real pungent odor, and smells a little like the ranch sauce that they serve at Dan Swanky’s, which is where we went for Dangle’s birthday that one time with waves, and he was wearing his little shorts.

Also I want to give a loud shout out with a one-eyed wink to my homeboy Cal Broaddus.  Congratulations on making it into Penthouse.                I swear to god I’m not making that up.  Buddy mine, weird fucker, but cool, moves out to California, fuck, didn’t have any idea he was leaving, and he tells the Boner that he’s moving from Chicago.  He left Kansas City a few years ago.  So that pretty much sums that up.  I am quite happy to say that I have had the fortunate opportunity to get to spend a couple days with the C Broad out in Los Angeles, which is where he lives.  Let me clarify, he’s technically in West Hollywood, and people tell me that’s an expensive area to rent in.  So I’m expecting his place was probably gonna be pretty nice, and it was, if you enjoy gale-force aromas that slap you upside the head, and smells nothing short of raw, human-sewage that sits on your face like a Dirty Sanchez (like that one T-Dogg?!?), which is essentially a thin, wispy mustache that is painted on with poop.  It is VERY pungent!  Kind of like Panther Cologne, with waves.  And it had a faint dirty armpit-like aftertaste, except it was more of a deep, stinging, chemical-sick, acid-tart, yellow-body-fluid feeling that kind of burned my skin a little.

Other than that, that pretty much sums it all up.  Check back tomorrow for dialogue on the emerging popularity of the ”skullet,” when worn with a boner and holiday sweater.

Nothing Wrong With A Little “Bulge” Now and Again.

There is nothing shameful about sportin’ a little bulge every so often.  This–like the Rat Tail–is another one of those things that I wouldn’t do personally, but definitely you should!  If you don’t know what a kick-ass bulge consists of, then check out Cousin Eddie’s bulge in Chrismas Vacation.  I think it’s the same scene where he’s wearin’ a dickey underneath his thin, see-through, sweater, slammin’ egg nog and bulging out of his green polyester pants so bad that it looks like somebody just took a can of spray paint to his pouch.  Enough about that though.  I want to tell you the reason I decided to paint a Bob Ross-like image of the best “live” bulge I’ve ever seen in my entire life…ever.  Before we get into this verbal-masterpiece of genital genius though, I want to clarify a very important point, and I want to make this crystal fucking clear: If any dude, for whatever reason, no matter what, without exception, ever, ever, ever sports a bulge in his loin area on purpose, then I don’t give a shit, who, what, where, nothing.  You are a complete fucking douche bag!  There is absolutely, positively, no getting around this.  If you wear tight pants because you think you have an awesome package, then you suck, and should be placed right up there with O.J. as potentially the worst human being on the planet.  Quick sidenote for those who give a shit, while O.J. has at least clinched a share of worst-human-ever status, Kris Kaeman of the LA Clippers is still the ugliest man on the planet.  I’m still hear arguments for Benito Santiago and/or Edward James Olmos, but Kris Kaeman gets it because his middle name is Kenneth, and that makes his intials a ridiculous, but most-likely intentional KKK.  Not to get off subject, but can you imagine what kind of inbred, backwood hillbillie shitbag parents would tag their kid with the initials KKK?  Unbelievable.  Like I was saying though, and without trying to harp on it, but if you leave the house wearing pants that you originally bought for your 7-year-old nephew, then you should have a full can of mace sprayed directly into your eyes.  You all know the type of greased-up, hairless weasels I’m talking about.  That is not the type of bulge, or dude, that I would, or am talking about here.  What makes this particular bulge so utterly amazing, is that the pimp wearin’ it is completely, 100 percent oblivious to it, which is also the reason this particular dude is so cool. 

Now I know what all of you cubicle crusaders are asking right now, “But wait… Mr. Boner!  Mr. Boner in Them Sweat Pants, how is it even possible to pack a fat bulge without noticing?”                                                    To which Mr. Boner replies, “Clip your ties back on gangstas, I’m going to explain.  Some other time though.”  I hate to cut this party off mid-stream, but I’m a hungry erection, and I gots me a special invite from the Shriners of Post #172 to join them in catchin’ what’s left of that tasty-lookin’ buffet from last night’s function down at the Isle of Capri Riverboat Casino.  So I gotta run before they run out of the yellah, or the blue. 

Until next time, stay hard.

Dudes Who Exercise in Jeans.

For the most part, I think the title says it all.  Dudes who work out in jeans are off the chain.  I’m not sure if I can think of anything that screams “I’m an asshole” any louder than does a dude wearing jeans to the gym. 

Some people might think I’m being a little harsh here, others know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about.  Chances are, if you’re working out in jeans, you also collect comic books, have a pube stache, and hang out at the local roller rink, where you still shoot-the-duck and are a real bad-ass on the “grab-it” crane game, where that rigged fucking metal claw comes down and trys to grab that pimp gold watch you’re trying to win for your girl…who’s 11-years-old…next March.

Ha!  If any of you bastards have been to the SkateLand, or whatever the fuck they call that roller rink in Shawnee, the one that’s been there since the 80s and used to be a Shoney’s, then you might have a rat tail, definitely workout in jeans, and quite frankly are probably pretty awesome.  Not that I would expect any of the four of you have hung out there in recent months.  None of you are near cool enough.  Sheeeeeeeeeeeeet, I bet you brown-eyes don’t even know how to skate backwards, much less have a pony tail that flows in the artificial breeze.  I on the other hand, know someone who still frequents that place quite a bit.  Some of you may know him from way back in the day, some of you will have never had the pleasure of meeting him, but the pimp’s name is Justin “The Hand” Hanlon-Scanlon. 

The Hand is a throwback who was also way, way, way ahead of his time, and I’m not sure that time has been anywhere close to showing up anytime soon either.  Mind you I haven’t seen the dude since 1997, but just think of what a guy named “The Hand” must be like.  Not only would this particular hand work out in blue jeans, but he was also known to shoot off a finger-point and a wink while struttin’ past the babes at the strip joint where he’s the number-one top-scorer on the Trivia Hunt in Monte-gaw Springs.

Damn, I gotta go now because I gotta take this phone call from the dude who sold me a human-hair fur coat on e-bay, but be sure to check back in the coming days.  I’ll be introducing Lil’ Ditka, The World’s Faggiest Fag, and Lil’ Sylvester Stallone….with waves.

The Most Bitchin-ist Rat Tail Ever!

It’s very possible that I’m the only one reading this, and considering the fact that I am also the one writing it, I’m totally cool with the fact that I can sit here and entertain myself for a while.  But today, Boner, I am going to reminisce about something that came to mind today as I was sitting on the toilet, growing a tail, and that is the bad-ass rat tail that my friend, who from this point shall just be named Rat Tail, used to sport in the late 80s.

It was amazing.  It was thick, it was long as shit, and it was way ahead of its time.  Hairstyles today have for some reason become a type of fascination for me.  In many ways, I can truly see how they could be considered fine works of art.  They often have names, typically they say a lot about the person wearing them, and many times, hairdos come in, and then out, and then back into style again.  The rat tail has never seemed to make this type of comeback however, and I think that now is the right time.

Of course, I’m not gonna grow one, but I think you should.  They are pimp!  Think about it, there are curly, little ones; there are thick, long, tapered ones like my buddy’s; they can be worn on the inside of a shirt, or the outside, depending on the occassion of course, and they are definitely more classy than the less-evolved “mullet” category that the rat tail species was born out of.  Speaking of mullets, that joke is over.  Dudes who grow their hair a little bit longer than they ever have in their whole lives, and then take the family’s kitchen scissors that mom has had in the drawer and used for everything ranging from opening packaged foods, to clipping dingleberries off the family dog since 1984.  You know, the ones with the orange handles.  Admit it, you know your mom used to cut your cabbage with those badboys too!  Anyway, they take those shears and cut it a little shorter on the type to try to be the funny-guy who gets a quick, played-out laugh from other losers he hangs out with.  Well stop it.  Not funny, not cool.  Unless you drove a Camaro in 1986 or before, wear a pinky ring, and have a mustache that still smells like the same Camaro you used to drive back in the day, then it’s not funny.

Rat tails, however, are very funny, but cool.  Think about it.  Who predominately used to have rat tails?  Dudes that played indoor soccer, right?  And if I remember correctly, they were usually goal keepers.  You know, pants with built-in knee pads, neon green shirts with lightly-padded elbow covers, maybe a single, fake-diamond stud in one ear, and always, a bitchin’ rat tail.  I mean, who wouldn’t think that a rat tail comeback would not be spectacular?!?  I can tell you one thing, they were a hell of a lot cooler than what they eventually turned into in the early 90s, which were those greasy, guido-looking, glorified short-longs where they would be curly, possibly even permed into just the back.  Those sucked.  And I bet if I can get the four of you to look at my prideful new web log, you all had one of these at some point in your life.

I didn’t.

Welcome to the world of the Boner in Sweat Pants…

Be forewarned.  You are about to enter a world that once seen through the eyes of one’s mind, can never be returned from. 

Dipshits in spandex, assholes with faces, strippers with dementia: What do they have in common?  They all religiously perform a ritual that to them, would be referred to as “working out.”  To this semi-professional erect one, however, its been more appropriately titled ”Jackassturbation.” 

The line in the song, about being blind, but now can see, well as it turns out that’s not just a line from The Bible (As Told By Guys with Famous Mustaches.)  I just don’t think we’re using the same mirror.  Boners don’t discriminate, and they don’t hate or cause any harm (that matters).  And I’m not saying that because I DON’T want to introduce you to the inside of my spraypaint can full o’ mace, pepper spray, or anything else that can properly express my gratitude for makin’ me look so awesome.  Chicks dig me because you exist.    Like any “special” love child who worked his way just under the ”Fat-But-Can-Still-Wipe-My-Own-Ass” mark would impress you, they can be ridiculous, and bizarre.  Fascinating, but loveable, just not in a very loving sort of way.   Sometimes the boners that accidentally hit you in the forehead can be very guy-next-door-ish… if you happen to live in or around Westwood, Kansas.   It could be your dad, your brother, son, cousin or Aunt Lily-Chester.  It could be your mom, sister, aunt, girlfriend, or manservant.

It could be your Uncle Ramon dressed up as your aunt’s belly dancer’s manservant, but only on days that end in “y,” and not Flag Day.  Or Chanukkah.

Doesn’t matter.  They’re all there at some point over the past 7 years.  Many are repeat, often daily offenders of every social misconduct that could possibly exist.

There’s a “wet area” that consists of a jacuzzi, sauna, steamroom and indoor, heated pool.  There’s also a dude that, legally, I cannot name–not because I give a shit about protecting his identity…(every person who has a clue what I’m talking about would know who I’m talking about) and yes, his first name does happen to be James, and his last name does rhymes with Deez…………Nutz! 

Sorry, song just jumped into my head about this fairy-tale, studio gangsta, who was ”rollin’ down the street, smokin’ endo, sippin a cold Butt’ry Nipple.  Laid back, with his mind on his weiner and his weiner on his mind.”  

But that’s all to come…soon…it’s already late, and has already made me a little bit crazy, they tell me.  Or told me.  Today.  So stay tuned for reality tv, with words, and waves…right here in the heart of good ol’ Kansas City!

Dog The Bounty Hunty has Nice Hair.

It’s late, and I’m tired, and I’m gonna get up and do this whole thing again bright and early, but I’m not whining.  Every day is a new inspiration for why I should feel very good about myself.  In the meantime however, because this is the first evening of posting, and I have a feeling I know the majority of you that I’ve convinced to look at a website titled boner in sweat pants, I’m going to leave you with a very serious question to marinate on, maybe even give your two cents on, although many of your two cents is worth much less than that on an actual monetary-value scale system.  And now I’ve forgotten what the damn question even was.  Shit.

Try this one out for some thought-food.  What could possibly be cooler, and perhaps smell dirtier, than Dog The Bounty Hunter’s lettuce?