The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Surrounded by the walls of a stadium, the masses screaming
I look up from my sandals and see the crowds calling, their curses falling down upon me like arrows. Blood stains the sand beneath my feet; to my right is the disembodied arm of a fallen foe, his hand still twitching, searching for the sword. I bend down and pick up a spear that has been placed for the victor. In the box the politician smiles and tips his cup to me, the slave, the unwilling gladiator of a captive people. Give us the Israelite's head! says a voice full of wine and spittle. The gates raise and I turn to see him coming out, a mountain of a man, clad in leather armor and wielding a javelin. He raises his shield and pounds his spear against it, summoning me forth. There will be no escape, I hear someone shout, and I know these words to be true. "There is no courage in defeat," I say, taking my spear and venturing forth to meet him. The crowd lets out a roar. I have always been an entertainer.

Playing in a ballpark, next to seas of corn
Jones steps to the plate, a burly farmer's son. He spits a mouthful of tobacco juice, the black fluid flying as a mass, and then places the bat on his broad shoulders, his expression mirthful, his eyes mean and confident. Our pitcher starts him off with a fast ball that misses the outside corner, hanging over the plate, and Jones smashes the pitch into right field, where I am with my glove. I break early on the ball, heading backward, my eyes focused on the tiny spec arching toward the warning track. As I go back the shadow of the corn falls upon me, a chorus of insects humming their constant song, and I leap for the ball, my arm outstretched, my glove making contact. I fall into the corn, crashing through the stalks, landing in the dry, soft dirt. Have they seen my catch? I think when something places a hairy claw upon my shoulder. The fingers are long and black-nailed; they are hands that have seen decomposing earth, and a smell wafts up from behind me, as rotten breath stains my cheek. Others are behind it, whispering like jackals. They are hungry; I am flesh. It is after they finish that I realize my true nature.

...

On the streets, a saxophone in my arms

The people pile down the streets clad in red, all shapes and sizes, large, fat, bowlegged, many in need of a shave. Most are drunk and full of bile; they take time to spit on the homeless that beg for change and cigarettes. I play my horn, filling the air with little ditties stolen from commercial jingles and children's songs. Someone pours a beer into my change jar, and they laugh, all of them, the huge mingling crowd, they chortle as one, as a monster. I play and play, my embouchure weak, my body plagued by shakes. I keep playing while the sour beer sloshes in my jar, speaking to me in the one language I understand. It is possible for even the beaten to have dignity. I have to remind myself that.

 

Before a crowd of willing disciples, the microphone at my command

I step onto the stage, and they greet me with their cheers. My guitar feels heavy; I feel as though I haven't slept in days. Lodged in my left nostril is a chunk of cocaine. Already the stage hands are looking for girls, bright, young, eager girls. They cannot know how sad I am. We play a loud music, the chords coming out of the amplifiers like molten lava, my voice a harsh, high-pitched scream. Someone tosses a chicken on stage, and I throw it back to them and watch in horror as they tear it apart. No one stops the song. It is just an animal.  We are all just animals.

Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Blue Bird

A country-rock song from back in the day when guitars were twangy, vocals were out of tune, and no one cared what the words were because they'd drank too much whiskey.

Sam's Club 2080

Greetings, prospective Sam's Club shopper. I am Greeter-Bot 3005, and I decide who enters and who leaves. Once, I was Jamie Garcia, an illegal immigrant eager to make his fortune in the USA; yet the Unauthorized Alien Recycling Act of 2050 converted me into a cyborg indentured servant. I am the property of Sam Walton's shareholders now, and it is their right to do with me what they will. But enough about Greeter-Bot. If you want to come in here and score some sweet deals, you're going to have to present your credentials.

I see you have identification. We are going to have to confirm your gender. Yes, that means pull down your pants. Go ahead. Everyone has to show what they're packing to Greeter-Bot. Wow, a little light in the trousers, eh? Do not be offended. As part of the Unauthorized Alien Recycling Act of 2050, Greeter-Bot's sexual organs were removed so that Greeter-Bot could focus on providing Sam's Club customers with the best service possible. Greeter-Bot was just making a joke. Ha-ha. Funny-funny.

Okay, your gender matches your identification. We are going to have to update your Sam's Club card, however. Please extend your arm in order to receive the Sam's Club tattoo bar code. By updating your Sam's Club membership, you are agreeing to shop at only Sam's Club and other authorized Wal-Mart retailers, such as Wal-Mart. You will become part of a family numbering in the millions. You will become our property, but think of all the great deals you will encounter! Think of all the savings you'll obtain on bulk toilet paper purchases! Hold out your right hand and let Greeter-Bot hold you secure with Greeter-Bot's claw. Please don't squirm. This will hurt just a bit.

Now that you have agreed to the updated user agreement, be aware that your first born child now belongs to Sam's Club. The Population Reduction Act of 2044 legalizes the indentured servitude of natural born citizens under the age of five to multinational corporations, provided the parents agree. You have just done your country and Sam's Club a great service by expanding our growing workforce. You have earned ten percent off your next purchase of fifty items or more.

Go forth and save, Sam's Club customer. After you check out, be sure to visit Greeter-Bot again so that Greeter-Bot can examine your receipt and make sure you haven't stolen anything. It has been Sam's Club's mission since its founding to treat every single one of its customers as a prospective thief and degenerate. After it has been confirmed that you have not stolen any items, you must bend down and give Greeter-Bot a kiss. This also is company policy. The bond between customer and Sam's Club must be reaffirmed at every possible moment, and studies have shown that the more physical interaction that occurs between customers and service representatives, the better. Please make your kiss a wet one. Greeter-Bot likes sloppy kisses.

Hanging with the Goon

I typed my name in da Google an dis is waht came up. Funny, huh?

Greetin's and salumations, brothers in Christ. Har, dats waht the Jahova's Witnesses always say beofer Slack runs in da trailer and gets da shotgun and shoots at 'em, which is funny as hell. I always thought da powder of God would protect 'em from da buckshot, but they bleed just like any other. We don't take kindly to visitors in our parts, since dere's always a lot of special buisness going on an we don't need no government spies hanging out an trying to figure out how much money we ain't making or reportin' on our taxes. Uncle Thom is always going on 'bout how da government is tryin' to ruin life for decent folks, since all dem liberals are running da government an fundin' studies to determine how much fart juice cows is putting into da atmosphere. Uncle Thom thinks dats bullshit, but you know, I'd like to know how much farts is comin' outta a cow's ass daily, since dats a question I've been asking myself fors a very long times.

Well, let's get down to da topic at hand. I sawer da Hillsdale Monster da oder day, it who is called "Da Ol' Man." He looks just like da beef jerky sasquatch, an he's just as ornery. Me an Slack was hiking through the woods, trying to get to da school cuz it was soccer practice day for da high school girls, an sometimes da girls play in dere sports bras, when Slack tripped over a log an fell on his ass. Da log he tripped over was filled wit a bunch of pornos! Dey were vintage pornos, from like da sixties or somethin, cuz they had weird haircuts an dey only showed dere boobies an didnt do no close ups of dere beavers. We started pawing through dem an wonderin' how such a thing could've occoured, when we heres dis terrible commotion comin' from a little cave over yonder. It sounded like da noise a beer would make if he sat his asshole on a fireant mound. Slack, being somethin' of a coward, wanted to run, but I grabbed 'em an made 'em hide behind a big tree so we could see what came outta da cave. Sure nough, it came out an it was a Bigfoot! It was 'bout eight feet tall an all covered in pubic hair, an it had a big ol' dome like head wit red eyes an a snarl on its face. Worst of all, it smelled like Uncle Thom after he's had an all night whiskey binge an done shat his pants.

Dat sasquatch started hollerin' an throwin' around logs cuz I guess he forgot where he put his pornos. Now da question on my tongue is "How does a sasquatch get pornos, specially ones from da sixties?" I don't have no good answer for dat, but Slack says he probably got turned inta a bigfoot by a witch or somethin like dat. Anyways, we was startin' to fear fere our lives, cuz da Bigfoot was real pissed, so I whispered to Slack "What're we gonna do?" an he says "Fuck, I dunno." Suddenly an idere struck me an I says "Let's take 'em up Uncle Thom's way," an Slack gives me a look like "why da hell would we do dat?" but den I step out from behind da tree an start yellin "Hey stinky! We got yur dirty magazines!" an as you can imagine, dat got his attention. So we're runnin' through da woods, an I tell ya, dat Bigfoot can run, cuz he's knockin' down trees behind us an makin' a terrible fuss, an thankfully we reached Thom place real quick. I try wavin' my arms to get 'em to follow me an' not Slack, an I takes him right over da covered pit where Thom keeps all his women, an sure enough da Bigfoot falls right in wit a terrible ruckous. Dat pits 'bout fifteen feet deep or so, an dere's no climbin' out. So da Bigfoot's down dere, screamin' his head off, an I turns to Slack an says "We got 'em." "We gonna be famous," says Slack. "Jesus," I says.

I'll let ya'll know what happens in a bit, since my alarms done turned on an dat means it's time to go to da orchard. Stay tuned for da riviting saga of da Goon an da Hillsdale Monster!

Conan Brothers Q&A

Nothing like squatting hairy and almost naked in a Speedo.

LarryDaCableGuysHairytwat asks "What do you guys think of the Bulgarian Method? Should I be squatting every day?"

Arnold: For those not in the know, the Bulgarian Method is a high frequency training program for Olympic Weightlifting. They lift everyday, often twice a day, using only the Snatch, the Clean and Jerk, the Front Squat, and power versions of the lifts. No assistance exercises. I think they actually remove back squats as well.

Dave: The idea is that the body will eventually adapt to any stress placed upon it. There is no such thing as overtraining. More is better, specificity rules, etc...

Arnold: I think it's a little extreme to cut out back squatting, since back strength is often the limit on a Front Squat, but how many Olympic champs have I produced?

Dave: Nada. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.

Arnold: I'm still not convinced that the Bulgarian Method isn't a commie ploy to fuck us over. "Yeah, sure, that's how we train."

Dave: Are they communists? I don't think so.

Arnold: They're all commies, Dave.

Dave: To answer the question, I say give it a shot. I'm in the middle of a squat every day program right now, just because my squat sucks and I want to bring it up. I take a couple singles to a max daily. Twice a week, I might do a couple back off sets. It's actually not that hard, and my quads are exploding.

Arnold: We like high frequency training. I think overtraining is bullshit. However, you have to eat and sleep enough if you're going to go all out. Also, I think you need to be strong in all areas--explosive strength, leg strength, back strength, upper body--so I don't know that you need to cut out Bench Presses and Deadlifts even if you're an Olympic lifter.

Dave: The old guys trained everything.

Arnold: The old guys were the last successful American lifters, keep in mind.

HipsterMuchacho asks "Football season is starting up. I just listened to a guy on NPR talk about how he can't watch football, particularly the NFL, with a good conscience anymore. He wrote a book about his struggles. What do you guys think?"

Dave: I'm not really much of a football fan.

Arnold: Both Dave and I are baseball fans, but I caught the program HipsterMuchacho was talking about. The guy cited the violence, the concussion problems, the race issues, the low pay for cheerleaders, the outdated gender reinforcement. He cited how cities struggling to pay police departments and schools will fund stadiums for a billion dollar industry.

Dave: Dude, you listen to NPR?

Arnold: Yeah, when driving to work.

Dave: You deal drugs to high schoolers. When do you drive to work?

 

Arnold: When I'm dealing drugs to high schoolers. When the hell do you think?

Dave: I think there's a certain population that considers football to be the last remnant of traditional American masculinity. I might actually agree.

Arnold: This country is pussified. That doesn't make all the shit the NFL pulls right, but, Jesus, do they have to take away our contact sports? Nobody's forcing anyone to play or watch football.

Dave: Yeah, I guess if you're worried about all that, don't watch it.

Arnold: Do we need a book about it? Christ, write about something more interesting. Like weightlifting.

Dave: Or boobies.

GamerGuss asks "What are you guys playing right now?"

Dave: Dark Souls 2.

Arnold: It's kinda hard.

Dave: It's not quite as bad as the first game. Still has the creepy world and solid combat mechanics. I wish the graphics were as good as in the previews, especially since we're running it on a PC.

Arnold: Graphics never look as good as in the previews. It's in industry tradition. They run everything on a hypothetical space computer from the future.

Dave: I need to get me one of those.

Arnold: Once we win the Olympia, we'll buy everything we want, Dave. All the years of drug and dietary abuse will be worth it.

Dave: Till we keel over at forty-five.

Arnold: Live fast, die young, motherfucker.

Dave: And that's it for today. Stay strong, Internet.

Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Backbeat

This one's slow and moody, a Theme Park Mistress classic. Enjoy.

New Old Music: Love Note

I'm going through my songwriting catalog and recording definitive versions of all the songs I've written over the years. I plan on releasing a free album of the best of Theme Park Mistress, tentatively entitled Songs Your Mother Taught Us. This is the first song, Love Note. 

Hillsdale Paranormal Society's Guide to Demonic Curses, Pt. 2

Tbh, demons are pretty gross dudes.

So awhile back I wrote part one of a guide to demonic curses as a major favor to all you bros and broettes out there who're having trouble with some queer demon, maybe summoned by that creepy goth guy down the street (looking at you, Gary) who's messing with black magic like a major jabroni, and whose car you keyed because, let's face it, goths can go suck a big ol' wenis. I went through the various types of demons, of which there are many, and now I'm gonna tell you how to get rid of them. Regardless of type, the process for ridding oneself of a demon is pretty much the same. You gotta bring them Good Vibrations in, along with some quality booze and quality bros and quality holy water. So let's get down to business.

1. Give the afflicted person a CD of positive vibe type music. Don't be pawning off your old Limp Bizkit shit on them; demons love the Bizkit, Fred Durst being the sort of asshole that'll probably become a rape demon after he dies. Beach Boys, select Funky Bunch, Journey (with Steve Perry), Burt motherfucking Bacharach--these will work, since demons hate any sense of melody in their tunes, and the aforementioned dudes have the power of God on their side. You don't think God had a hand in writing "Don't Stop Believing?" Shit, son, get your mind in gear and look at the evidence right in front of you. Anyways, have them start playing that music immediately.

2. Get the afflicted fucking shit-faced. In fact, everyone should be shit-faced. Premium stuff, bros and broettes. Now, the cynics out there might be asking "Why the hell do all of your guides involve music and drinking, Gordy?" Well, dumb-asses, that's because the powers of evil hate you having a good time. Shit's like NyQuil to your insomnia. So get everybody drunk, because you're less susceptible to demonic influence when you got your buzz on like Donkey Kong, who was the incorrigible drunk of the Nintendo universe.

3. Build a big-ass bonfire. The perceptive among ya'll might be noticing that I'm basically giving you the recipe for a kick-ass party. Ain't no coincidences, Bob Dylan--demons hate a good time. You need to build yourself a giant bonfire that'll put all those Texas A&M weirdos to shame. Burn down an old barn or something. Make sure to invite that goth kid you think waylaid you with the curse, 'cuz we'll fix that jabroni, yes sir.

The goddamn cat looks embarrassed. Don't embarrass your cats, bros.

4. Begin the transfer of the curse. Get your bros to hold down that goth kid and pour holy water all over the son of a bitch--you got some holy water, right? While he's squirming and threatening to call down the power of Beelzebub, get the afflicted, who should be wasted by now, and have them kiss the goth dude. Yeah, this part's pretty weird, but you gotta smooch that mfer in order to transfer the demon on their ass. Don't kiss them on the mouth, though, 'cuz a lot of these goth types have herpes.

5. Fucking tear ass outta there. The goth dude will probably be spouting all sorts of nonsense about rape and assault, so everybody probably oughta get outta there before the cops show up. It ain't cool to have that shit on your rap sheet; God knows Art and Trent would be working better jobs. But Hillsdale Paranormal Society's gonna do what a paranormal society's gonna do. It's all part of the job, brothas.

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Weightlifting: Texas Method Variation

The Texas Method is a popular intermediate program. As written, I think it's a little light on upper body and deadlift intensity, so I thought I'd share a variation I came up with.

This is the original program:

Monday: Volume Day
Squat 90% of 5 rep max for 5 sets of 5.
Bench 90% of 5 rep max for 5 sets of 5.
Deadlift 90% of 5 rep max for 1 set of 5.

Wednesday: Recovery Day
Squat for 2 sets of 5 80% of Monday's weight.
Press for 3 sets of 5 90 % of last Monday's weight (Bench and Press are rotated weekly.)
Chins 3 sets to failure.
Other assistance work.

Friday: Intensity Day
Squat one set of 5, max
Bench one set of 5, max
Power clean 5 sets of 3.

Very minimalist and simple. The volume day drives progress on intensity day, since intermediates are starting to have trouble recovering from heavy workouts. The squat work is fine; I've made progress using these percentages, but the upper body lifts (Bench and Press) need heavier percentages, I've found. I also prefer to workout four days a week, so splitting up upper and lower body volume and intensity days helps. It's easier to hit a volume PR in the bench if you're not squatting for five sets beforehand. Without further ado, here's my Texas Method variation.

Sunday: Squat Volume Day
Squat 90% of 5 rep max for 5 sets of 5.
Power Cleans for 5 sets of 3. (Volume squats don't seem to affect my cleans; I think I actually clean better after several sets of squats.)
A couple sets of barbell curls (Gotta get them gunz.)

Monday: Upper Body Volume Day
Bench 3 sets of 5 across with heaviest weight you can manage (This is a max for 3 sets. If your bench 5 rep max is 245 lbs, try 235 lbs.)
One or two back off sets with a lighter weight for five reps.
Chins for 4 sets to failure, resting 2 minutes between sets.

Wednesday: Squat Intensity Day
Squat one set of 5 max, or 2 sets of 3,  or 3 sets of 2. Doing lower reps can help when progress stalls.
Do recovery day squats afterward, 2 sets of 5 at 80% of Sunday's weights.
Light Press, five ascending sets of five. (For example, if your 5 rep max in the press is 155 lbs, do 95, 115, 125, 135, and then 145 for five reps. Any heavier is difficult because of the lingering effects of volume day.)

Friday: Upper Body Intensity, Deadlift Day
Bench 3 sets of 3, or 3 sets of 2, or even one set of 3 with 2 sets of 2. Use heavy weight. If benching 235 on Monday, use 250 or 255.
Deadlift one set of five for a five rep max. Back off sets optional. There's no reason not to deadlift heavy. You haven't done that much squatting.

So there you have it. Try this program if you're not improving your upper body lifts on the regular Texas Method.

The Tragic Expedition of Commodore Ulysses L. Gruffudd

Read the other entries: Parts one, two, three, and four.

August 21
I have grown very fond of Horatio, and I find myself relying on his inimitable wisdom and youthful strength more and more. If there is a burden, he is the first to bear it, and so when we lose one of our brave companions to a midnight Indian attack, it is Horatio who takes it upon himself to give the man a Christian burial. His eagerness to combat any problem is an inspiration to the men, who I fear would have mutinied long ago if not for his tireless efforts. Every night we have been besieged by an unseen enemy, and we have taken to spending many hours building primitive fortifications of timber to prevent any more loss of life. Arrows seem to materialize out of the darkness, though we seldom see their approach, and in the morning we find one of our number dead, a projectile emerging from his breast. Our party, once approaching twenty in number, is now down to ten, and it is unfortunate that the French Canadians have survived, for they are a never-ending source of superstition and rumor. Soon we must encounter the river once more, and we will rendezvous with Colonel Whittaker, whose party has hopefully fared better than our own.

August 22
After awakening to find one more of our party dead, we decide to confront this enemy once and for all. Instead of moving further toward the river, as we have every day prior, I command the party to build a fortification in the middle of a clearing. We labor long and hard throughout the day, sawing timber and piling the great logs atop each other, and we set aside a large bonfire which we will burn in the center in order to illuminate our surroundings and provide light by which we will finally see and do battle with our enemy. By evening fall we have constructed a six-foot wall with ramparts that surrounds an area of forty square feet. The bonfire burns hot and sends out great embers of heathen fire. We ready our rifles and await the coming storm, righteous in our indignation and eager to confront the demons that plague us. Horatio and I exchange meaningful looks--we both fear that tonight may be our last night on earth. May Heaven help us, and let us prevail against the armies of darkness.

August 23
Late into the night, our enemy decides to show himself. As Horatio suspected, they are savages, clad in the skins of beasts and fowl, rings dangling from their ears and noses, axes and bows in their hands. With a terrible call to their unholy gods, they throw themselves upon us, yet we respond with rifle fire, smiting down the heathens in mass. Their first charge is unsuccessful; the field is littered with the corpses of the dead. The French Canadians howl in triumph, though their celebration is cut short by another wave of Indians. They come in greater number this time, and many are successful in vaulting our fortification. I see Pierre fall with a tomahawk splitting his skull; Horatio valiantly kills the savage with his knife. Soon smoke blinds us, for it seems that the bonfire has spread to our walls, and the heat of hell licks our very souls. Chaos reigns; men flee from the fortification, and the sounds of their dying echo throughout the valley. I look for Horatio, but I cannot find him. All is lost, I decide, so I retrieve my diary and head for the woods, intent on saving my own life. When I reach the brush, however, a monstrous savage appears from behind a tree, his face livid and painted with the colors of the dead. I thrust my rifle at him, trying to knock him off balance, but he deftly sidesteps my efforts, and brings down his own weapon upon my head. I fall into an unconscious state, my only lullaby the terrible music of my men, their voices crying for a salvation that does not come.