Thursday, March 23, 2017

How Dumb Do You Have to Be to Think the World Is Flat?


So Shaq believes that the world is flat. How dumb do you have to be to believe the world is flat? Pointless Venture will tell you exactly how dumb. If you think the world is flat, then he following statements are most certainly true about you.

You think Dumb and Dumber was based on your life.

You have an irrational fear of numbers, based on your difficulties with mental math.

Your proudest achievement was not shitting your pants after riding a roller coaster at King's Island.

The only book you've ever finished was The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Whenever anyone flips a light switch, you stare in amazement at the ceiling and praise the gods.

When you fart, you turn around in befuddlement and stare at your ass, wondering where that sound came from.

You forbade your children from reading Harry Potter because it involves sorcery.

Money is the most important thing in your life, provided there's something else to eat.

When your computer crashes, you pick it up and shake it, telling it to "straighten up."

You often wonder if there are worms in your brains.

You believe that Jesus rode a Triceratops and that it was the coolest thing ever.

You've been to a Nickelback concert at least twice.

You've sent a Nigerian Prince money because every email is true.

In the last Presidential Election, you either wrote in "Herbert Mountain Dew Camacho" or you voted for Trump.

You believe in aliens, voodoo economics, or bigfoot.

Brown is your favorite color.

You once drank a bottle of cologne after running out of alcohol and/or paint thinner.

The person you most admire in the world is Steve Harvey.

Your favorite movie is whatever is currently playing at the local cinema.

People call you "Stinks," or "Tiny Brains."

You think that Halo invented the first person shooter genre.

You've seen the movie Shazam! and/or starred in it.

Your name is Shaquille.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Weightlifting: Embracing the Inner Bro--Building a Bigger Bench Press

Bench and curls every workout, bro.

I've always hated the bench. I'd much rather squat or power clean or even deadlift than lie down on a bench and work my chesticles. Last year I hardly benched at all, focusing instead on the military press as my main upper body lift (benching also hurt my right shoulder, which has some sort of chronic issue). However, after spending over two months working my military press damn near every day of the week, I finally said "screw it" and decided to take some time away from the lift. After all, all that pressing hadn't really added up to much. Sure, I hit a few rep PRs, but I was unable to raise my max beyond 190 lbs. So I decided to try the bench press again, and lo and behold, I was able to press without much shoulder pain. After tweaking my form, pressing felt fine, and I was transformed almost instantly into a bro. Who wants to suck at the one exercise everyone does? When someone asks if I lift weights, their next question is inevitably "How much do you bench?" Which answer is worse: "I don't" or "290 lbs?"

The most success I ever had at increasing my bench was performing a workout by the late, great Anthony Ditillo (link). It's a three time a week routine, but the amount of volume contained in each workout demands more time than I have. I usually only have about fifteen to twenty minutes to workout, so I tend to workout every day. Taking inspiration from the Ditillo workout and Bulgarian routines, I've started benching five times a week. I'll warm up with three sets (135 for 5, 185 for 3, 205 for 2) and then perform three more sets, varying my rep range depending on how I feel, then maybe add a back off set. Twice a week, I'll max to a heavy single. I vary my grip between close grip (pinky on power ring) to competition grip (index finger on power ring) from workout to workout. Below are my workouts from last week:

Sunday: Warm up, 225 paused, 245 paused, 255, 275, 225 for 5.
Monday: Close grip 135*5, 185*5, 205*10
Tuesday: Warm up, 245*3*3
Thursday: Close grip, warm up, 225*5, 205*5, 195*8
Friday: Warm up, 240 paused, 250 paused, 260 paused, 215 for 5 paused.

Each week I'll try to increase my weights, though each workout is determined by how I feel. This type of self-regulating training is a different approach than your typical set program, but it leaves room for bad days as well as good ones. As far as assistance work goes, I usually do light biceps and triceps workouts twice a week after benching (3 sets of 12 reps of curls and pressdowns), as well as some sort of upper back work (rows, pulldowns) and shoulder work (side laterals, DB presses) once a week. So there's the plan, we'll see how well it works.

Monday, March 6, 2017

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer


Wasting some time at the Ministry of Truth
The line stretches for hundreds of yards. People, all sorts of people, stand and wait for their turn. Hotdogs stuffed into security uniforms patrol the lobby, their eyes full of suspicion and low-intelligence. I stand with the rest and test my patience. It pays to be patient, said a man who never waited in a government line. Finally I reach the teller. "Present your prospective truth," she says, with about as much emotion as a rock. I show her the question. She looks long and hard at it before finally handing it back to me. "What is this?" she asks. The questions asks "Am I a human being?" "Well," I say, folding the piece of paper and putting it in my pocket. "Is it true?" One of the sausages moves behind me. "You are the arbiters of truth. Surely you must know!" I say. A hand takes me firmly by the shoulder. "Come with me, sir," says the creature. I know the woman behind the desk has the answer. I plead with them as they drag me to the dungeon for questioning. The questions they ask down there, of course, have no answers. When I emerge I will be white, pure, and clean like an immaculate piece of soap. Did you know that you can use fat to make soap? The golden truth is that I do not know anything besides what they tell me, what they approve. Still, I know I will be back with the same piece of paper. It might take months, years, decades. But I will be back.

Watching approved television, alone in my flat
He comes on the screen, orange-skinned, mouth-agape, the strands of his hair defying gravity as though they sense an opportunity to escape. He is impossibly old--it's a miracle, really, what they are able to accomplish using medical science and computer graphics technology. Some say that he is convalescent in a secret nursing home, using his eyelids to communicate. I don't know about that theory. I think he's alive, living out of malice, utilizing his hate and unrelenting narcissism to extend life far beyond what is normal. The world I live in--he created its sun-drenched streets, its interment camps, the smoking ruin where California used to be. When I look at him, I can't tell you what hate means. Perhaps that is his greatest victory.


At a restaurant, trying to enjoy my meal.
I order steak because it's the only thing on the menu. The waiter presents a charbroiled piece of fat and slaps it on my plate like I'm being punished. I am really--you can only call it a steak in the loosest sense of the word. Catsup is the only offered condiment. The steaks only come well-done. My theory is that it's because they never had any blood in them in the first place. I stare at a patch of peeling plaster as I shovel the "meat" into my mouth. "Thank you, Supreme Leader," I say in between every mouthful. I make sure everyone hears me say it.