Training

For the past few months I have been going to the gym with two coworkers in the morning before work. They are relatively inexperienced when it comes to strength training, so I offered to help them get stronger, lose fat, etc. If not for my guidance they would surely fall prey to the roving gangs of feral Crossfitters that plague gyms across the country. Aside from the fucking ice cream isle at every grocery store, the gym is the one place in the world I feel comfortable and knowledgeable; I am almost obligated to share some of that knowledge with these two soft, gelatinous barbell plebeians.

From time to time I wonder if they even need my assistance. Do they really need me to guard them from a gym's undesirables? As we slide our cards at the front counter, an employee unironically says to us "rise and grind, huh?" as we check in at 9 am. This serves to strengthen my resolve to guide my flock.

Our training sessions have not been without conflict. As with most commercial gyms, this one does not allow personal training from third parties. Despite not receiving any compensation from my coworkers - they cheap af lmao, broke ass bitches - I have had a few of the staff talk to me to make sure nothing illicit is going on. Today is one such day, as I am approached by the gym's assistant manager while my training partners are adorably fumbling with some dumbbells. 

"Hi! My name is Assistant Manager! Because I can't mind my own fucking business, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be leading a workout with these two here?" She has the type of haircut that guarantees she has called the cops on black people using a public pool at least twice in her life.

"I'm leading the workout but we are all doing the same thing and I'm not getting paid." I hope that a harmless lie may abate her curiosity. "These are two at-risk ethnic youth and I am trying to prepare them for the Big Math Exam in Act 3." She looks at my two white coworkers, then back to me.

"Interesting. Are you White Savior certified?"

I motion to my perfectly even, ebony skin. "Yes." She pauses, so I reassure her. "I... long live Trump." 

Her eyes pick up on my indignation at the parade of questions. "Oh, I don't mean to be a pain. It's just gym policy that any personal training must be done through one of our many certified personal trainers." A few squat racks down I see one of her personal trainers with a client. He is currently wearing one of those dorky Bane breathing masks and breaking his client's back. His screams are ignored by the assistant manager.

"Where are they certified, if you don't mind me asking? I may be interested in personal training services in the future." A sly jest; I know these dipshits have useless certifications and little experience. I'm hesitant to ask them for a spot, let alone help designing a training program.

She beams with pride. "A little bit all over the place. Donovan, the guy over there, trained with turn of the century circus strongmen and leaped forward 100 years in time for reasons unknown, Conner was raised by wolves and is non verbal, Pamela is just super cute so we let her work here, and Megan has certifications in Excel, PowerPoint, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch."

"That last one was cereal."

"Yes, we are serious about only hiring the best. The policy is for safety reasons, I'm sure you understand."

"Your staff is currently running a no holds barred cage match near the yoga area."

"Battles to the death are excellent for developing cardiovascular endurance and killer instinct. Also, I hate to bring this up, but you need to have the proper footwear when inside the weight room."

I look down to see that I am barefoot. "What? I had shoes on when I walked in here. Where did-"

She pulls my Chuck Taylors from behind my ears. "Is this your card? Wait, fuck! I meant are these your shoes? All of our staff are trained street level magicians." Satisfied with our nonsensical back and forth, she leaves me to my wards so that we may begin our training in earnest. 

My goal is for my coworkers to eventually have the tools, knowledge, and confidence to design their own training programs in the future. This should be everyone's goal, as personal trainers are useful to begin one's training, but should not be relied upon to maintain one's training. Unless you want to see some sick ass magic tricks, that shit was wild.

Costume

Dear Dominic,

I'm really in a pickle, brother. For the longest time I've wanted to dress up as pre-racism Hulk Hogan for Halloween; y'know, when he was A Real American® rocking 24 inch pythons and kept his views of black people well hidden. Part of the problem is that I've been procrastinating on fixing my diet, and the other part of the problem is the refugee crisis in Syria has really been distracting me. Hard to focus with all that craziness, brother. Because of those two issues, right now I look less Hulkster and more dumpster. Long story short, I have roughly 30 hours to lose 30 lbs and fit into the Hulk Hogan costume I literally just bought, brother. I know, I know, I shouldn't be waiting til the last minute to get in shape. Procrastinating has been a problem family and friends have insisted I address but that will have to wait for another time. Right now I need a weight loss miracle, brother.

Friendly Advice Taker


Dear FAT,

"Look less Hulkster and more dumpster?" Don't you ever try that People magazine prose bullshit again or I swear to God I will end you. Almost threw away your letter when I read that. That line made me physically ill and if my usually superb advice is less than stellar you will only have yourself to blame.

If you want to go from flab to fab in less than two days you'll have to think outside the box a bit. Eating sensibly and exercising regularly is all well and good but in your case more drastic measures are necessary to achieve the Hulkster's legendary physique. First things first, drown out the naysayers.

"Experts" will tell you it's impossible to lose 30 lbs in under 48 hours; experts also said Trump would never beat Hillary, and now he is the most powerful man in the free world. Sure, he hasn't passed any meaningful legislation in the nine months he's been in office. Sure, he hasn't made any progress on getting that fucking wall up. Sure, he hasn't refused the bait of getting into petty Twitter wars with every D-list celebrity who calls him a cunt. But y'know what? He's still MY president. Take that, liberals.

Now normally I would only advise using one, maybe two, of the following weight loss techniques at a time, but if Hulkamania is to run all over Halloween then you're going to have to implement all of them. If at any time in the next two days you want to quit or give up, ask yourself what would Hulk Hogan do? Would he quit? Or would he cheat on his wife and call black people niggers? I think you know the answer. Here are the techniques, in no particular order.

Sweat more. Athletes who compete in sports with weight classes (think MMA or powerlifting) will often cut water weight by sweating it out. Put on some sweatpants, a hoodie, and jump on an airdyne bike until you've lost a few pounds. Afterwards relax in a sauna for a few more pounds.

Bleed yourself. Blood is thicker than water, sweat is basically water, so blood is thicker than sweat, therefore an ounce of blood weighs more than an ounce of water. That's just science. Go to your local physician and get some leeches for proper bloodletting. Be cautious, though; if your physician is a woman then she is most likely a witch and should be burnt at the stake.

Shame yourself. Although we live in the age of body positivity, nothing kick starts a solid weight loss regimen like unnecessarily critical dissection of every minor bodily flaw and a self perception that is completely incongruous with reality. Go full ballerina-trying-to-secure-her-spot-in-elite-ballet-company-at-grave-cost-to-both-physical-and-mental-health, really cut loose here. (Sample shaming in next tip)

Don't eat. You can't gain weight if you don't put food into your fat fucking mouth. Besides, once whatever disappointing Halloween party you attend finishes - where people will no doubt be too distracted by your double chin to notice your love handles - you can stop at Wal Mart and pick up some cheap candy, you obese piece of shit. God, you disgust me. (See? Easy)

No sleeping. Your body's metabolism slows when asleep, ergo no sleep. Plus I imagine you don't want to get blood all over your mattress.

Smoke cigarettes. C'mon dude, don't be lame. All the other kids are doing it; even Julie is. From third period? She'd totally go for you if you started smoking, I'm sure. Dude! You're the only one with a brother over 18, how else are we going to get cigarettes! Just smoke one, and if you don't like it, I won't keep pushing.

Negro spirituals. For this one you'll have to get out of character as the Hulkster since I feel he wouldn't approve. Between the conditioning work and bleeding and lack of food, you'll be experiencing at least minor discomfort. While it won't directly aid weight loss, negro spirituals do make arduous tasks slightly more palatable. 

These techniques carry with them some inherent danger, so while I won't say they will probably kill you, I will say they should kill you. The human body is only so durable. However, if you survive, you will unleash a Hulkamania not seen since he slammed Andre the Giant in '87. Good luck, brother! 

Return

After roughly five years I have made the trek back to the world of academia to finally finish my undergraduate degree. Despite being told my entire life that it is never too late to complete one's degree, I feel more sheepish than triumphant in my return. Currently I'm only taking two classes. I'm 28, just two years short of 30, colloquially referred to as the "your shit should be together by now" age. 30 is more than halfway to 50, which is only 15 years away from the retirement age of 65, which is only 13 years away from the average age of death in the US. Basically I'm almost dead and still don't have my diploma.

First day of Motor Development we are told to introduce ourselves to our neighbors. A cheery eyed young woman sits to my left and introduces herself. Because I am bad with names, faces, and feet, her name escapes me. "I'm Dominic," I say, "just trying to finish my degree after a long layoff."

"Oh really? What made you decide to come back?" The Germans use the word sehnsucht to describe a sense of intense longing, a simple word for the complex emotion of yearning for a life, an idea, that has escaped me thus far. Her demeanor implies a hopefulness, an optimism that I wish not to tarnish with my truth. I stare deep into her eyes.

"To serve as a cautionary tale, my dear." She absorbs the gravity of my words - intent and sincerity - and is visibly uncomfortable. "Also," I roll up my pants to better show off my footwear, "to bring back Heelys." I pull off some hella sick ass tricks with my Heelys, much to the delight of my peers and professor.

"Damn bro, save some pussy for the rest of us," says my professor as I Heely out of class eight minutes after it started. 

I've found that media depictions of the modern day college student have been vastly blown out of proportion. Sure, we are required to spit on a picture of Milo Yiannopolous before entering any academic building. Sure, my statistics class spent the first two weeks going over appropriate pronouns (one lecture devoted entirely to the Elven) before getting down to brass tacks. Sure, both of my professors insist on passing around complimentary e-cigarettes along with scantrons. Sure, one registered Republican is burnt at the stake each month to appease Mount Sanders, lest it erupt and engulf us in socialist flame and ash. Ignoring all that I've mostly found my peers to be an affable bunch that hardly represent the SJW stereotype perpetuated by the media. Except for this one dude in my Stats lab.

He's an older gentleman - mid 40s - rocking the shit out of the try-hard glasses/fuckboy haircut combo. His gaze for our 21 year old instructor walks the precarious line between awkwardly seductive and dude-chill-the-fuck-out-she's-a-person-not-a-prime-Brazilian-steak. Aside from his date rapey stares, what annoys me the most about him is he feels the need to fucking interject at every momentary respite in the lecture. Jokes no one needs, insights no one finds profound, sentences devoid of substance. He's what happens when the word pretentious goes super Saiyan.

As far as actual course work is concerned, my return has been like riding a bike. By "a bike" I mean "a unicycle on fire" and "riding" I mean "being bludgeoned to death with." This is a good sign, as my previous attempt at being a college student consisted of no cycling in any form. I have refined a schedule of class, workout, study, cry on a park bench while eating lasagna, work, more study, cry until physically incapable of producing anymore tears, and sleep. Repeat until the end of the semester. With only five weeks left to go, I think I can manage. 

Cowboys

Dear God,

What's up Bro - can I call You Bro? - what have You been up to? I mean aside from further destabilizing the Middle East. I'm not judging, Bro, we all have our hobbies. Some people like to jog, some people like to paint, You happen to enjoy petty wars between dozens of loosely affiliated coalitions fighting over whose dirt is most deserving of Your favor. To each his own. But I'm not here to clumsily talk about international politics (we literally just elected a guy for that), I'm here for something more important, more salient. 

As I'm sure You know since You're You, the NFL playoffs are currently underway. Appreciate You helping the Patriots cover the spread, as that saved my ass with biracial Italian mobster Anthony "Fat Tony Toni Tone" Roselli. Dude's a real pain. Now I know prayer doesn't work on a 1:1 scale; I can't pray for something and expect it to happen, obviously. I also know You aren't real and have mostly outlived Your usefulness as a coping mechanism for goat herders' death anxiety, but none of that matters right now. What matters is that You need to have the Green Bay Packers beat the Dallas Cowboys. 

Now I know what You're thinking; "Oh my Me, I just helped with the Patriots game! A 16 point spread against a pretty solid defense!? You can't seriously be asking Ol' Magic Fingers to whip up some more shenanigans." Your Holiness, You are absolutely correct (as usual). To continue to aid my crippling gambling addiction would be both immoral and irresponsible. This prayer is not for my own monetary gain, nor is it even to see the Packers win, even more norer is it to see the Cowboys themselves lose. I am praying to see Cowboys fans lose. 

You're mysterious. We get that. But jeez, Bro, did You have to only use the autism clay when forming the most annoying fan base in all of sports? Since they started winning a few months ago not a day has gone by without hearing or reading a grown man doing his damnedest to mask depression and a failing marriage proclaim WE DEM BOYZ like he's part of some elite strike force that specializes in being annoying as fuck. I didn't even add caps locks for effect, that's how they write it. I was recently assaulted by a gang of Cowboys fans - each more mouth breathery than the last - at a 7/11 when I refused to respond to one of their cereal eating gestures with "let Zeke eat." And these fucking flags! My heart bleeds for the Peruvian children forced to produce each and every one of these flags flown from lawns, doors, cars, and anywhere else that doesn't really need a sports team flag. 

I can forgive the utter lack of tact and humility displayed by Cowboys fans. I can forgive the cannibalization of former franchise quarterback and five time Aww Shucks Face Award winner Tony Romo. I can forgive the tangible hubris known as AT&T Stadium. I can even forgive the fair weather nature inherent to the Cowboys fan base, but I cannot forgive the cumulative awfulness of Cowboys fans.

So if You're awesome (which You are) then please have the Cowboys lose in a manner that would produce the highest amount of grown man tears. Late fumble, missed field goal, that sort of thing. Oh, wait! It might be a bit much but if we could have a showing of Dez Bryant's latest one man play The Catch Vol 2: Not This Shit Again, that would be fantastic.  

Amen. 

Halloween

Phil Philson: Hubris Consulting, home of superfluous titles, inaccurate job descriptions, questionable ethics, and zany costumes! We're here for the 35th annual RC Cola™ Office Halloween Party Costume Competition, where adults careening towards middle age temporarily embrace a facade of youthful exuberance by dressing as ironically humorous characters while battling unironic mid-life crises.

Boom Boom: Chill with the big words, bro.

Phil: As always, I'm joined by my partner, Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal. How are you doing tonight, Boom Boom?

Boom: I'd be better if I wasn't consistently court-ordered to provide commentary for random shit.

Phil: That's right, Boom, the energy here is electric. And a big part of that energy is thanks to our longtime sponsor RC Cola™. RC Cola™, when literally no other drink is available. This year's OHPCC is primed to be one of the most competitive Halloween office parties in recent memory. Not since the great Crow vs Duffman clashes of the mid 90s have we had so many fierce competitors. 

Boom: We got everything from sexy superheroes to insanely accurate superheroes. You see that dude in the Iron Man suit with working rocket boots? Does he even work here?

Phil: I am being told that not only does he not work for Hubris Consulting, he does not reside in this state. Apparently he has been flying around the country fighting crime.

Boom: Aaaaaand he just flew away. 

Phil: Our first contestant of the evening - or should I say, first contestants- is a group of Harley Quinns. Far and away the most popular costume of the evening, for expediency's sake we have grouped all 16 Harleys as one competitor.

Boom: Still not as bad as that time when half the office came dressed as Elsa from Frozen.  

Phil: Unfortunately with so many dressed as the same character, this is really going to hurt their originality scores. Tough break for these ladies and one gentleman. 

Boom: Except for that one. Harley number 12, you see her? Jesus. She got that double take booty. She got that "ay bro, I'ma call you back," booty. She got that 9/11 never forget booty. 

Phil: On that note we would like to extend our condolences to all the families affected by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Truly a day filled with sorrow, but what better way to drown your sorrows than with a nice, room temperature RC Cola™? RC Cola™, because you've already given up on life. Moving along our next two contestants are the reigning Couples Costume champions, dressed tonight as the formidable political music duo Daft Trump and Hill Khalifa.

Boom: The glowing electric hair on Daft Trump is wonderfully executed, but what really puts this couple over the top is how Hill Khalifa has combined all the elements that make Wiz a fuckboy with all the elements that make Hillary a shit human being. 

Phil: Tattoo covered pantsuit was an excellent decision, as was the giant bag that says "deleted emails." Our third contestant is sporting tonight's first completely original costume, with a character of his own design. And he is... oh boy.

Boom: Your dick is out, bro.

Contestant 3: You mean my dicks are out. 

Boom: What the actual fuck?

Contestant 3: I'm Tri Dick, the Man with Three Dicks. He's an OC and the main protagonist from my Harry Potter fan fiction. In the latest story he gets into a disagreement with Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and Snape, and solves it the only way Tri Dick knows how.

Phil: While I'm sure it makes for riveting storytelling, your costume clearly breaks the no nudity clause of the contest, so I'm afraid you are disqualified. Next up we have Father... bear with me, Gascoigne? 

Contestant 4: It's pronounced Father "Gass-coin." He's the first main boss from the critically acclaimed PS4 exclusive, Bloodborne. Father Gascoigne is actually a very tragic character. You see, for some time now the good Father has been losing his grip on reality, and on the night of The Hunt he does the unthinkable and gives into his beastly instincts, allowing himself to be completely engulfed in bloodlust, after accidentally killing his own wife, who had forgotten to bring the music box used to revert him back-

Boom: You've only been talking for like 20 seconds and I already genuinely hate you. 

Phil: The hat is well crafted, Boom, good eye. Contestant number 5 is the Bride of Frankenstein. I'm loving the make up application.

Contestant 5: Actually, I'm the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster, if we want to be technical.

Boom: A spade's a spade, toots.

Phil: Apologies, miss.

Contestant 5: And to be more technical, I'm dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster in a meta comedy where I'm actually the real Bride of Frankenstein's Monster but everyone just thinks I'm only dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster.

Phil: And I'm being told that contestant 5's costume has such a needlessly convoluted backstory that she wins the competition! Even though we had no less than 20 more contestants to go through!

Contestant 18: So I got dressed up as the dude from Drive for the the fifth year in a row for nothing?

Boom: I mean, you still look hella rad, bro.

Contestant 18: Thanks bro.

Phil: Contestant 5 has secured one of the most impressive, expedient wins in OHPCC history! While you're enjoying the taste of victory, contestant 5, why not enjoy the taste of an already opened RC Cola™? RC Cola™, the official drink of clinical depression. As always I'm Phil Philson and he's Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal-

Boom: Seriously man, the booty on Harley number 12...

Phil: On behalf of everyone here at Hubris Consulting, thanks for tuning in. Be sure to keep it right here for the new hit show Bees Stinging People, the only show on television that exclusively fills its runtime with bees stinging people. Thank you, and goodnight!  

Argue

For the better part of three months I have conducted informal research into the nature of man, of good and evil, of existence. Three months spent firmly entrenched in the belly of the beast, with little but my wits and resolve to guide me through. A Faustian journey who's only accepted currency is sanity. 

I've been arguing politics with strangers on the internet. 

"But Dominic," the naysayers naysay, "your task shall bear no fruit. Trying to educate people on the internet is akin to squeezing blood from stone." First off bro, I don't know who the fuck you are and secondly, what's with all this bloody fruit rock talk? You calling me queer, you libtard jew nigger faggot? How about you take your homo rocks and get the fuck out of my country. Fucking sheeple, stay woke. 

Apologies. After so much time in comment sections of various facebook, youtube, and yahoo posts I've grown accustomed to the... customs of the belligerently retarded. To attack at the faintest of slights, the most innocuous of statements. To vehemently crucify a stranger as if packersfan85 is all that is standing between you and Valhalla.

It mattered not the subject; from Obama's birthplace to Hillary's voting record to Trump's everything, all conversations in which I partook transpired and ended the same way. Conservative/liberal caricature posts a comment on an article or video of dubious integrity, I offer a level headed rebuttal with as many sources as possible, caricature ignores evidence and doubles down on craziness, I sit back in my chair dumbfounded by such intense ignorance, scene. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained.

The memes. If it wasn't for the occasional clever meme buried within comment sections the world over, I do not think I would have had the fortitude to continue my research. Harambe alone was enough to get me through August.   

My work has brought little joy these past few months. Brushing digital shoulders with the best of the worst America has to offer, those who find hastily made white text pseudo-memes viable sources of information, has dulled me to the point that 'irate' is the only emotion I can muster when browsing online. My studies have not shed light onto a subject as much as they have confirmed a belief; we do not want to learn, we want to be right. A sobering confirmation, akin to the true nature of Santa Claus or learning your favorite actor is a Scientologist.

And yet, I soldier on, as any true activist should. Oh yes, I do consider myself an activist. Some of us work on the front lines, building affordable housing in Sudan, helping women start their own businesses in Guatemala, or teaching Tomi Lahren how to read in Dallas. Others such as myself fight the good fight against the subterranean of the internet, the old racists, the young dipshits, the blissfully ignorant and the ignorantly blissful, those with strong opinions and weak resolve. I mean, if y'all only knew how many times I've had to read "wake up sheeple" or "I'm not racist but HERE'S SOME FUCKING RACISM," you'd understand the dire necessity of people serving at the vanguard of the internet, the place where oblivion and entropy coalesce.    

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will call thou a nigger.  

September

Few days offer such a smorgasbord of mismatched emotions and misplaced xenophobia quite like September 11. At this point the itinerary is almost routine. News broadcasts and articles offer reflection in between stories of a faraway natural disaster and the size of Kanye's poop (spoiler alert, he's been getting his fiber). Sporting events will parade out any first responders yet to be claimed by asbestos for the singing of the national anthem, moment of silence, and back to watching grown men move a ball around a field. That one co-worker who twists the most tangential of relations into a story about how 9/11 really made him depressed for a solid week because he loves America THIS MUCH and seeing the good ol' US of A hurt in any capacity is just too much for his empathy meter to bear even though you can distinctly recall this insincere fuck literally walk over homeless people during your lunch break.

In our quest to never forget 9/11 the tragedy, we have remembered 9/11 the spectacle.

If there is anything we can be sure of memory, is that it will fade. If we don't forget that which must not be forgotten, we can be sure our children will, or their children will. There are kids in grade school for whom 9/11 is question #5 on a Social Studies test. Stated purpose becomes intent, intent open to interpretation. Revision. 'Never forget' is less a declaration and more a challenge.

December 7 has gone from a day which will live in infamy to about a week removed from eight maids a-milking. Memorial Day - memory could not be more implicitly encouraged - has Animorphed™ from a day of solemnity to opening weekend for a shitty summer blockbuster reboot no one asked for. I mean, how many times are we going to allow Hollywood to fuck up the X-Men?

The memory of 9/11 is disjointed and unsure in our minds, yet we do remember. What we are remembering is clear. The why is less so. 

It can't be the violent loss of civilian life, as hundreds of thousands of civilians deaths in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and a plethora of other clusterfucks masquerading as countries have passed through our news tickers with the same frequency and gravity as weather reports. Or gorillas getting shot. Kids today tell me dead gorillas are all the rage. It can't be the loss of American life specifically, as at least 10,000 Americans have been killed by drunk drivers every year for the past 30 years, yet no showings of phony solidarity or patriotism. Not too many corny, emotionally manipulative country songs about drunk driving released either. 

No, no, the deaths themselves are not the reason. A large part, but a part. The spectacle of 9/11, the explosions, the fire, the screaming, the bravery, the tears, the demands for justice, the president's declaration of war on a concept (groundbreaking stuff), the star crossed lovers that are nation and unity, the divine purpose, all of it as personal for the man in Washington, D.C. as it is for the man in Washington state. The spectacle.

A somber memory is difficult to monetize. The memory of a spectacle, however, basically sells itself. You like french fries? Not anymore you don't, those are freedom fries. Here, have a flag lapel pin. Wouldn't want to confuse you with the enemy. Actually now that I think about it, I noticed you're not dressing like an asshole. Perhaps I could interest you in this all denim outfit emblazoned with American flags and bald eagles?

This is why I'm cynical. No opportunistic parasites are selling commemorative breast cancer plates or drunk driving fatality coins. But how quick were businesses big and small - businesses often championed by the American oligarchy as the very heart and soul of this country - to throw a rough sketch of the Twin Towers onto everything from fucking ties to overpriced wine? Never forget is what was asked of us. Difficult to forget something you put no effort into remembering in the first place.

So as the memory fades, as the solemn gives way to celebratory, all that remains is the spectacle.

I've never much enjoyed fireworks.