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Rainy day workout. Plus other stuff.

20 Minute Jiu Jitsu Mobility Routine 20 MINUTE FOLLOW ALONG JIU JITSU MOBILITY ROUTINE - SOLO DRILLS!!This is a mobility routine focusing on our feet, knees and hips to make sure we prevent sill...

Forget the coffee break, just eat a tablespoon of Nescafe Instant and read Tuesday Check In. In this issue-
- A story of odd DNA in my family. (Story in the newletter!!)
- Learn JayRod's Judo.
- A Wolverine vs Bear fight.
- What do Walnuts do?
- Breakfast with ricotta cheese.
And more amazing things from my thoughts.
Click on the link and raise your testosterone.

Tuesday Check In "The best things in life sometimes happen spontaneously." ~ Jason Statham

Friday Mix is here. The STORY is inside. (see how I did that?)
In this issue--

- Tiger's eating people in India.
- Do you want to be jacked like the cover model Mikey Musumeci?
- More Holupki recipes because I'm a Po**ck.
- Who had the best arms and how did he build them?
- Elbow Position in Wing Chun.
-- Plus way more reading because the STORY inside is epic.
Realize this is free and you follow me because I do cool sh*t!!

Click on the link and bring home some panties in your lunch box just to put some flavor in your marriage.

Friday Mix "I have to be grateful that I'm able to sacrifice." ~ Mikey Musumeci

Tom Jones,....

The year was 1998. Tom Jones, the Welsh and International Superstar was coming to the Jackie Gleason Theater. The crews for the legendary pros were always good. Loyal, relaxed and friendly. They were time efficient and knowledgeable. Not to be confused with other entertainers like Morrisey, who should be kicked out of hell for someplace worse. When his crews left you prayed to Crom that their entire bloodline met up with a Tsunami.

The load in progressed and work was easy, no tension and hardly anyone was doing rails. I checked on the Prop Crew setting up concessions in the lobby. I saw the poster for the show. It said, “Tom Jones Tour: Prepare to be Seduced”. This was certainly appropriate.

We finalized the stage and cut the excess crew with a return time of 11 pm for the tear out. Sound check started and the MAN himself entered. There is a reason why they call him, “The Voice”. He’s all that and a bag of cookies. A few of the classics and some new tunes including his collaboration of Prince’s Kiss, with the Art of Noise.

My wife, now ex, was home with the kids and asked me to get an autograph on her CD, “The Lead and How To Swing It.” I usually never, ever do this, because stagehands are basically jaded when it comes to celebrities and it’s uncomfortable. I did promise however, so I had to.

Tom’s stage manager was young, cool and charismatic. He and I got along well. About half an hour before doors opened, I asked the stage manager if I could get an autograph for my wife. Immediately I felt uncomfortable, but he was so enthusiastic. “Oh sure! Tom loves doing this and he loves the local crews!” So I was relieved.

Doors opened and the sellout crowd poured in. 3000 people roughly. In the first row were singing legends, El Puma, Willie Chirino, Lissette and Stephen Tiger. Literally the royalty of South Florida needed to see Tom.

Tom came roaring out of the backstage and he did not disappoint. He’s that damn good. The stage manager came over to me and handed me the CD. “It said, “Love, Tom Jones”. I thanked him and asked, “Does Tom normally charge for things like this?” The stage manager replied, “I asked Tom about that. He said, “Yes,... One night of sin.” I questioned him, “Can he say that??” The stage manager said with conviction, “Of course he can. He’s Tom Jones.”

The show literally blew the roof off the dump. As 11 pm approached, the Tear Out crew returned. One miserable, surly, bloated stagehand wandered in. He was obese and had a plastic heart valve. It was the product of bourbon and bad decisions. We often tried to overwork him to get the damn thing to stick, but so far, nadda.

The Bluto lookalike stagehand looked at his watch and in his vulgar tone asked, “When is this goddamn thing going to end??” I stepped forward and told him, “Are you kidding me?? Tom Jones is the opening act! Don Ho is warming up backstage!” Bluto coughed and laughed for about ten minutes. I think I finally got his plastic valve to get stuck. However as Tom Jones took his final bows amid a stage full of panties and a few sets of Depends, we took turns punching our fellow stagehand in the chest to restart the valve. We needed him for some heavy lifting.

In this issue-
Eskimo Olympics, Judo Girls, Healthy Cheesecake and if you don't sleep you will get senile!!! Much more and it's FREE. So remember me in your will. Click on the link and chill out.

Tuesday Check In "Inside the men were three bullets." ~ Once Upon A Time In The West

Years ago at a large theater load in, Uncle Jerry came limping into the building, not moving very quickly. The boys quickly asked what the problem was and Jerry wasn't shy to tell them he had a boil on his nut.

The work day went on and Uncle Jerry suffered with every little movement and the increasing pain.

Finally he decided to consult the highest medical authority in the building, Salvatore Gabundaza, the Union President. Sal was known to drop F Bombs easier than a ho**er drops her thong.

With assistance from deck carpenter Joey Alonzo, he led Uncle Jerry into an empty dressing room to manage his problem. They brought a rusted first aid kit that was stored next to the Armenian Sound Man's wine crate.

Jerry dropped his faded jeans, suspenders and belt. Then off came the Scooby Do boxer shorts. Next to a flaccid Johnson was a tomato sized boil hanging off what appeared to be a deflated boxing speed bag.

They immediately asked for assistance and had Kelvin, the Fly Man hold Jerry's arms in case he wiggled. The ashes from Kelvin's cigarette landed on Jerry's ball cap.

Sal had obtained a safety pin used to clip theater drops. It was as thick as a knitting needle with odd stains and crust. Sal used some Pinch from the Head Carpenter's road box to sterilize it. Joey held a small red fire extinguisher shaped container of powerful disinfectant, ready to spray from six feet away.

So with Jerry's arms pinned to his side in a bear hug that would kill a grizzly, Sal dove across the room with a thrust that Errol Flynn would savor. He stabbed the tomato sized appendage and perhaps went an inch deeper. We will never know. Joey almost simultaneously sprayed the disinfectant, landing squarely on the large puncture wound. It was at that point a blood curdling scream was emitted by Uncle Jerry. It rattled the metal in the ceiling, scared children down the block and a goat blew up in Mexico.

Kelvin dropped Jerry and he landed on his tailbone, but stagehands shake sh*t like that off. A pool of blood hit the floor and the room was in shock. Sal yelled, "Let's get him to the hospital and call the janitor to get this stuff cleaned up!!" The custodial staff was one old guy with a cigar named, "Old Man Jingo".

They shoved Jerry in a truck with an old packing blanket between his legs and sped off the ER. After a short wait, they carried Jerry to an examination room and dropped him on the table, again on his tailbone.

A rather distinguished and attractive Latin female physician came into the room staring at the medical file. Sal, Kelvin and Joey stood back in respect. She told Jerry to "quit his grinning and drop his linen". So Jerry obliged and the attractive doctor let out a laugh that lasted ten minutes as she yelled out "paquito!" at the top of her lungs as she gesticulated with her thumb and index finger the space of one half inch.

Later that day Uncle Jerry returned and worked 24 hours.

In this issue-
- Throw a Left Hook Like Alex Pereira.
- Keto Almond Butter Cookies
- Weasels Will Kill You
- The Reverse Grip Bench Press
So much more because I value you. (Cheesy. I know)
Click on the link and remember me in your will.

Friday Mix "We will live off of our body fat." ~ Steve Maxwell

I don't consume alcohol, but I began drinking wine during my time wandering through the art world. Everyone has that ONE night they regret. This is mine.
It was a Saturday afternoon and I didn't eat much. Some morning oatmeal and ample whey was it. I pulled on my jeans and t shirt while the Sinuous Armenian Princess with the Bulbous Ass got slutted up. She was just about ready and it was time for her to slip into her new bustier. "Do you know how to tighten these things?" she asked. I lied and said, "Yeah, sure." I put my knee on her back and gave it a yank, pretending it was a deadlift. Then I quickly tied two Sheepshanks, a Zeppelin Knot and a David Carradine Knot to secure it. She whispered in a tortured voice, "I think my liver split in half." I said, "Nonsense. Nut up."

We left with my promise to introduce a publisher to the various art venues along an art walk in the North Beach neighborhood of Fort Lauderdale. My stomach growled from lack of food, but that was not important. The Princess whispered, "I can't breathe!!" I told her, "Princess, beauty is not about comfort." She spat out the reply, "F*ck you!"

We met up with her publisher. A tall vegetarian woman in pink Lycra, a floral top and corsage of wilted flowers. She also wore a derby for some reason. We parted ways with the Princess who was tottering on her stilettos, singing, "Love for Sale".

As I traversed the night with the publisher in tow, I sipped bad wine from what appeared to be used plastic cups. I didn't feel at all woozy from several glasses of the grape. Usually after two glasses of good wine, I just find every single woman on my contact list and text her something romantic or sexually charged, but not tonight.

The night played on and the publisher got caught up in her Vegan-Anti GMO stance. She asked me what I ate and I told her only Golden Rice and Insulin. She didn't get it. Few would.

I kind of mocked her bad understanding of biology and she said I was Satan. I'm hardly a bad guy. It's not like I'm a Latin Garage Band Wannabe in Pompano Beach opportunizing three women at a time and whose photo was next to "Covert Narcissist" in the Psychology Journal of America.

The art crowd had locked up and headed toward 33rd Street Wine Bar. This was a local venue that catered to women who owned three or more cats, liked wine and were single.

I sat next to Eli, an amazing sculpture and we took turns, "mans-planing" things to the ladies.

Suddenly it happened. My stomach shifted and I closed my eyes from the weird feeling. As I opened them, the room was spinning. I was sicker than I have ever been in my life. I handed my wallet to the Princess who was holding court with her stuffed grape-leaf recipes and said, "Pay the bill, I'm going to die." I burst out the door toward my Jeep Wagon. I threw my keys at the Bulbous Assed hottie and yelled, "Drive the god dam Jeep." Then I threw up on the concrete. I expected relief, but it got worse. She floored it wearing six inch heels for extra leverage. We headed over the Intracoastal Waterway past a deserted bar where Erik Estrada sat alone wanting to sign autographs. We came to the red light at Federal Highway and I yelled, "Pull into the Target parking lot!". I then jumped out of the car and threw up twice. Half digested brussels sprouts littered the ground and I had eaten those a week ago. I climbed back and trembled with both chills and a feverish feeling.

We cut through the industrial area around Dixie Highway and while the nighttime residents were shady, I needed a Diet Coke like a galley slave needed a shower beer. The Princess pulled into a U Totem and dashed inside. I had the door open, inhaling the cool night air, asking God to let me die. Across the parking lot a singular crack addict walked toward the store with a bag in hand. He intercepted the sinuous Armenian and challenged her to a dance off. She yelled, "Crank up the radio, assh*le!!" So he started. The song was, Fatboy Slim's, Weapon of Choice." The crack addict actually surpassed Christopher Walken with his choreography. This would be hard to beat. The next song however was Rhythm Nation and the Girl with the Bulbous Ass nailed it. She won. The crack addict rewarded her with his paper bag. It included a can of Sterno, a crushed Oxy with a straw and a baggie of chronic. Also a half eaten sub from Publix.

We drove off into the night. The Princess muttered, "This sub is pretty good!" I asked, "How are the olives?" She replied, "Them boys is good!!!"

By the time we got home, I was less ill but seriously drunk. I tore into my contact list of single women and texted various sexual innuendo and marriage proposals. I'd deal with them in the morning. The Armenian finally quenched her Dan Blocker level appetite with a couple handfuls of spoiled pumpkin pie. She later paid for that dessert by visiting the porcelain gods with her thick mane of hair carefully clipped away from her lips.

I woke up, not feeling great, but with 7 texts to answer. Lesson learned.
In this issue -
- Become Invisible
- Fight way better
- What is Protein Fluff?
- The Physics of Raylan Givens
- Hissing Cockroaches

Remember who brings you the BEST, cool stuff. Click on the link and don't say I didn't warn you!

Tuesday Check In "I came here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. I'm all out of bubblegum." ~ They Live

It was a Friday night back in the 80's. We were shooting the last scenes for Miami Vice in downtown Miami. It was at a bank off of Brickell and this episode had a small stunt. I was on the Set Dressing crew. We had this elaborate and distinctive glass desk in a meeting room for a separate scene. To transport it and move it, the desk had to be de-constructed carefully with several men holding it to prevent glass from shattering and destroying it. It would be tightly bound in packing blankets that had the aroma of rat poison and stagehand urine. You just can't be too careful.

There was an open floor area for general banking and desks. Above that was a ring-shaped walkway like the track in some health clubs. Adjacent to the walkway were offices with glass doors. We had set up one office for a later scene with the distinctive desk.

The crew was dead tired, but the production staff looked worse. They literally had production assistants on the shoreline of Miami Beach screaming at the top of their lungs for the fast boats from Colombia to arrive with the Marching Powder for instant energy and a dynamic personality.

My friend, Billy and I were sitting at a desk in the upper ring. We watched as the stunt crew connected with Epada, a strange man who would wander in and seemed to know everyone and greet them with a hug and prolonged handshake. They'd whisper, "Timex or Rolex" and I'll leave it at that.

The first shot was a guy falling off of the upper ring into some boxes covered with canvas. Simple stunt. Don Johnson's stuntman, who will go nameless was walking up to every female extra saying, "I'm DJ's stuntman!!!" They often replied, "Don't touch me."

As Billy and I sat at the desk, we scoped the hotties. Occasionally muttering, "What about her?" "Bitchin' rack" etc. All men do this. Get over it.

Billy was fiddling with a pen at the desk. I will mention that he is easily one of the most responsible and technical people in the industry, hands down. Despite this, his curiosity led his finger to a concealed button underneath the desk. He said, "Look at this." and touched it. Then we both came to our senses and in utter terror mouthed the words, "Silent Alarm!!!". So Billy, a master of both technology and redundant systems, grabbed the bottom of his, "Mopar Rules" T Shirt and wiped his prints from the button and we dashed to the office with the huge, glass desk. We began to act like we were busy and had been for a while.

Within a minute, the cavalry arrived. OMG! Police, FBI, DEA, Robert Stack, Vic Morrow and Raylan Givens of Justified burst through the door. We kept our act up with a couple of rags, thick with stains, polishing the glass. Our movements were faster than Fort Lauderdale women in the cocktail hour of life at a Ladies Night.

Everything stopped as the head honcho screamed, "Who the hell set off the silent alarm?" We poked our heads out of the office and repeated, "Where is the son of a bitch? Let's get 'em!!" He then calmed down and said, "Be careful of what you touch everyone!" Adjacent to this action, about a dozen production staff ran to every available restroom and began flushing the toilets for some reason. But I digress.

The filming continues. We packed up and I got home at around 1:30 AM. I got up at 5:30 AM to drive 35 miles and work 16 hours building a rock concert. That lasted until 3 AM. Yes. Show business is glamorous.

In this issue-
- What's with Yakuza and little fingers?
- Red Velvet Cupcakes is not a Goth Band.
- Is your hair falling out? Let me fix that.
- The K Guard is not about coffee.

Of course more and more cool sh*t because you deserve it. Check out the links and support the newsletter. My coffee bill is outstanding. Click on the link. It's required.

Friday Mix "Your ego is not your amigo." ~ Mile 22

I currently have space for online clients. Please email me at [email protected] to get started. First come, first serve. Space is limited. Not all people are a good fit so let's find out if we work well together!!!

Some years ago at the Jackie Gleason Theater in Miami Beach, we had a touring Broadway show that required a 24 hour load in. That means we worked, with meal breaks, around the clock. This is not unusual and often common in the entertainment business.

Rather than having breakfast catered, they arranged for us to go to a famous, local deli to eat. They would foot the bill. So off we went. Down Alton Road, past the, "Bucket of Blood" stagehand bar to the deli.

Legendary stagehand, Uncle Jerry was first in line and asked the ridiculous question, "How's the brisket today?" The young man behind the counter gave the best reply known to man. "Sir,....the brisket,..... IS EXCELLENT!"

The tables and booths had a few early risers. Most of which made noise while chewing with their mouths open and complaining if you catch my drift. The kitchen was in full view and I could see the seasoned cook making the world famous tuna salad. He leaned over a huge metal vat with an inch of ashes at the end of his cigarette and stirred the delicious tuna with his forearm buried elbow deep in the culinary masterpiece. Bits and pieces of his salt and pepper forearm hair seasoned the tuna, along with drops of sweat from his sleeve-free arm and perhaps a bit of toenail. You just don't get food like this out of Miami Beach.

I had a turkey on rye. My friend, Fred Schwendel had a pastrami with ample mayo and extra pickle. Fred and I were more tired than two call girls at a Bitcoin Convention filled with Modafinil bowls. About halfway through our feast, Fred looked at me and said, "Tom, we have to think of our future. We have wives, young kids, mortgages and responsibilities. We had good parents, don't drink or do drugs. What we don't want to happen is getting old in the business. Old and ugly and crippled and bitter. We don't want to look like sh*t. Look at those two guys seated across the room. They are beaten and crippled and ugly. Let's not be like them!!!" I thought for a second, looked across the room and said, "Fred,.... that's a mirror."

In this issue--
- Keto Quiche is for real men.
- Zone 2 is manna. Believe it.
- Amla is what you need. Find out why.
- The Deadliest Drones is not a cover band in Pompano Beach.
- Watch a Shark Tank at B Team. You couldn't survive this.

As always, MORE, cause I'm that type of human. So click on the link and be seduced.

Tuesday Check In "Only ho**ers have two glasses of wine at lunch."

It was supposed to be a small bachelor party. This usually spells trouble, but what else is new? We didn't arrive, but ended up at the B***y Trap. This place was near the turnpike and a criminal detention center,...basically ideal real estate.

Our small group inhabited a dirty table that was reserved. That meant endless beer and adult entertainment. The feature act was a girl named Wendy Whoppers. I don't know if this name was Irish or Serbian and really didn't care.

The bachelor, named "Jim" for the sake of anonymity handled his beer well and was having a great time.

Wendy came on and did her act. Quite impressive in a cowgirl outfit, Lucite heels and tassels. I thought it was an odd choice since the thought of her riding a horse boggled the mind.

It was time for the finale and the bachelor to be embarrassed. Four girls brought him up on stage and made him sit on his hands while on a rickety chair. They pulled a B***y Trap T Shirt over his arms, essentially making him helpless. Then they danced around him and occasionally participated in a "B***y Trap 8 Pack". This was being motor boated from four different directions. Certainly something to tighten your cockles.

The song and dance finished and Jim stood up. One mischievous dancer grabbed the back of his underwear and gave it a yank as he stumbled off stage. He hit the floor and made it to our table. We decided to call it a night with no fights and no bath salts. Jim said he was going to the men's room. We met near the entrance and exited to our cars. Jim noticed a tightness around his shoulders that was annoying. (It should be noted that Jim was a bit frugal and only bought underwear every ten years.) On further examination the elastic from the waistband of his briefs was over his shoulders. The nubile dancer had actually given him a Nuclear We**ie and the nearly antique Fruit of the Looms had been torn apart. We departed into the night and I think we ended up at Denny's.

In this issue-
-The Guns of Justified
- Who or What is Imanari
- French Savate
- Polyphenols are good for you.
- A sleep supplement you may like.

Of course more, because I give and give. Click the link and visit my world. Find out how a Pittsburgh mill worker ended up in tropical paradise writing schlock like this.

Friday Mix "There are never enough walls to cover your back." ~ Raid 2

It was a charity event. World famous entertainers from around the world. A man I refer to, anonymously, as Stagehand 1, was designing the lighting and running the lighting board. I was doing several jobs as Propman, Audio Assistant and Stage Manager. We had the show built and were rehearsing the acts. All was going smoothly and the next entertainer was singer and actress, Lainie Kazan. She was also a Pl***oy model and Rat Pack babe. So sweet and quite endowed if you get my drift. I got her a stool and mentioned seeing her on the Bobby Vinton Summer TV Special, singing, "A Taste of Honey".

Her rehearsal went off well. I went out to grab the stool and she asked me, "Does that guy talk to the spotlights?" I replied, "Yes, he controls all the lighting cues too." She marched in his direction with her boobages arriving a few seconds before she did. She leaned provocatively over the lighting console. "Do you talk to the spotlights?" she purred. He replied with a nervous, "yes". She then stated, "Tell the spotlights to keep the lights on the b***s and off the stomach! On the b***s, off the stomach! If you do a good job, you'll get schtupped." Then she exited stage right as singer Julie Budd started to rehearse.

We had a slight break and I had a nice chat with Gloria Loring and Rich Little before their rehearsals. I wandered into the dressing room hallway to get a grasp of any potential issues and bump into this beautiful girl and baby. Being a father myself, I spent some time admiring such a wonderful sight. Suddenly a voice boomed out, "Isn't my daughter beautiful?" It was none other than Eddie Mekka, The Big Ragu! I don't think you get bigger than that.

Needless to say, the night was a success and the show ended. We dismantled the stage area. Stagehand 1 was in an unusual hurry.
As we left, I headed toward my Honda Element while Lainie Kazan and Stagehand 1 slipped into a limo chauffeured by an immense Latin man.

Reports are,....well,... neither of them slept much that night. Around 2 AM Lainie got up and said, "I'm calling my agent in LA. Stay in that position!!!" Stagehand 1's thighs were cramping, but he looked down at his phone and the Tuesday Check In showed up in his email.

In this issue-
-Mercury in Fish, "What? Me Worry?"
- Two Types of Chokes. Twice the fun.
- Dental Care and Long Life
- Dealing with Passive/Aggressive People
- Frankenstein's Monster. What if?

Of course, much more, but remember this sh*t is free. I do this from the kindness of my heart, immense ego and a disturbed mind.
Click on the link, enjoy the newsletter, hire me or buy some stuff.

Tuesday Check In "I think I've lied to every person I've met." ~ Mile 22

SPECIAL 5th OF JULY ISSUE! (What Bullsh*t!)

Decades ago there was a wrestling show in a Brooklyn auditorium with a large stagehand crew building it throughout the day. Part of the card was some midget wrestling with "Little Dick" and "Stubby Jones" facing off for the Midget Championship. The top of the card was a 3 on 1 match, with three local wrestlers challenging the legendary, "Bob, The One Man Mob". He was fully six foot eight and over 400 lbs. A living legend.
The day went on and the show got built. "Sticky Jones" was a Local 4 stagehand. A quiet man who likes jokes, the horses and long naps. He had been a fixture around here and in fact, he and the promoter went to the tracks together.
The show began and the midget match was over in a disqualification. Little Dick and Stubby Jones were both stomping on the referee. They finally chased him into the dressing rooms where they disappeared.
Two matches followed before the headliner, Bob, The One Man Mob, would enter. The stage manager was a kyphotic, older lady with a perpetual cigarette hanging from her lips. She was knocking on Bob's dressing room door with no luck. Finally the promoter yelled to Sticky, "Break open the door if you have to! We have to get Bob in the ring!!!!!!!!" So Sticky knocked hard and opened the door. Inside was Bob, sitting in the largest chair known to man, with his head rolled back and mouth open, moaning. Between his knees was Little Dick, orally gratifying The One Man Mob. They both looked up as Sticky opened the door. Bob yelled in a voice heard for miles, "I'LL GET YOU!!!!!!!!". Sticky turned and ran. He grabbed his tool bag and cooler and dove for an exit. With speed fueled by fear, he passed Usain Bolt on the way to the subway station. Diving for the closing doors of the train, he pulled his hat down low and trembled. When he got off, a renewed energy stimulated his pace to his home, where he hid under the covers for a few days.

In this issue-
- Extinct Elephants... Is there such a thing?
- How different proteins affect growth.
- What's this new magnesium all about?
- NickyRod teaches you how to wrestle up.
And more of course. Some cheap advertisements for me and all things kind and wonderful. Click the link and enjoy the hangover.

Friday Mix "Progress, not perfection." ~ The Equalizer

So I got a call from a legendary artist. "Tom, I'm having a massive exhibition in downtown Miami. I'd like you to attend." I thought this was a great idea. "What time does the action get started?" I asked. He replied, "One O'Clock". I said, "Oh! An afternoon show." He informed me that it was ONE AM. I sighed, hung up the phone and decided, life is short, let's do this. Hours later I snatched up the Armenian Princess with the sinuous muscles and bulbous ass to exit to Miami.
We arrived at a large house/club. They say Miami has beautiful people, I'm not too sure of that. There was enough filler and Colombian agriculture here to fill a salt mine. However we wandered through the crowd to find our host. He was taking photos with fans, next to his girlfriend of the night. Neptune Namaste'.
He spotted us and said, "Follow me." We headed down the halls filled with flashing lights, spandex and marching powder. The path leads to a separate room with a bar and DJ. My host shoved a drink in my hand and said, "Drink up!" I take a sip and that is when things changed. The Armenian Princess was on a table dancing for some Albanians. My friend slid on to the dance floor with all the grace of Baloo from Jungle Book. Then he hit his rhythm and gyrated like Rock'em, Sock'em Robots. His GF, Neptune Namaste' shook her decolletage like a paint mixer at K Mart. I passed out from the few sips of the unknown beverage.
Waking up in what appeared to be a warehouse, I felt OK, other than a dry mouth. Across the room, the famous artist was face down on a pile of rags, clutching a Coconut Yoohoo bottle. He was naked with what appeared to be a half full syringe of antibiotic sticking out of his ass cheek.
The Armenian Princess appeared, fresh as a daisy in torn jeans, Birkenstock's and a bag of Egg McMuffins. She yelled out, "How about some breakfast bi***es!!!!" I just really needed coffee.

In the Check In Today-
- There is plastic in your schwantz.
- A short but effective workout.
- The Athletic Heart
- Make some Mochi
- What is Theanine?
- and more, much more. Click the link, buy some books and hire me. I'm not expensive just because you can't afford me. More importantly, distract yourself. It's healthy.

Tuesday Check In "It doesn't matter." ~ Dwayne The Rock Johnson

Summer evenings come late in SoFlo. The temperature doesn't change much. My date and I decided on live music in a local club that catered to the single seniors of Fort Lauderdale. We found a seat at the bar and yes, the service was still bad. She was over six feet of ebony in stilettos and was wearing the hair of the day. Sporting cleavage and a loaded firearm.
The crowd's average age was deceased with most looking like death eating a cracker. Knee deep in Gentleman Jack and Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors.
While women are quite meticulous about camouflaging excess avoirdupois,...men,....not so much. At home they employed, ''the loose T Shirt trick". When they were out on the town, they chose to wear sport coats in South Florida Nuclear level heat. This had little to do with style and more with coverage. It hid the physique not built with kettlebells and whey, but on naps and sweets.
As the night rolled on a man entered. He was older than me and that is saying something. He had all the costuming mentioned earlier including a dead groundhog on his skull. He made his way stool to stool and hit on every woman in the joint, whether she was single, with a date or married. Rejection on steroids. He came to my date and said, "Hey Sister! I'll bet you are a Size 1!" Not exactly what a girl who prides herself on her b***y wants to hear. We both watched his hands for contact. Her strategy was a knee to the balls and the barrel to his temple. Mine was simple. Just choke the dude out. Her lack of response was louder than words and he moved on,.. eventually leaving and wasting a Sildenafil Citrate chubby.
I paid the bill, hit the men's room and was greeted by a young, Denzel look alike. He muttered, "Is that your girlfriend?" I replied, "Yes", and he moved on. This place was like canned ham in a pool of piranhas. We drove off into the night, leaving the land of Sansabelt slacks and Spanx behind. I had an early appointment for a Brazilian, but that's another story.
In this issue-
- Build a body that is nearly bulletproof.
- Victorian Raise is not a kinky thing.
- The final, final, bottom line on Keto.
- The Japanese Neck Tie
- Shish Tawook is not a terrorist.

And always more, more, more. Click the link, check it out, hire me and your life is complete.

Friday Mix "Run, Stretch, Lift Kettlebells." ~ Anton Anasenko, Honored Master of Sport