Writings » Home of the Dead 5 (Massive Internationals)

"Preparing for a Roman boyfriend is no joke, and neither is getting your bearings, your balls in gear, your shit together, etc."

1922-1993 was preaching to the choir, I had already completed a fourteen week weight training program in a matter of twenty minutes; tossing a load sauce onto every bronzerino mansaurus who posed so golden before my very eyes.

"The Total Weight Lifters' Guide to Arms of Pain??!!" 1922-1993 cried out with a scowl/naked chest; spilling his burrito all over, demanding my literature.  After fanning through the intro, he ripped my shit in half like a man with ground beef all over his chest ripping a phone book in half - you know, the one with the handlebar mustache.  "If you want to fill your skin to the maxpower, you need to make gains," said 1922-1993 - verbalizing all the knowledge of an old-ass once champion, of an old-ass now gaybo.  "Let's eat."

First course was an excruciating cherry pie.  Ingredients exclude fresh cherries, but include, in no particular order: sprinkles (rainbow), sprinkles (christmas theme), sprinkles (chocolate), fruit snacks (shaped like hammerheads, no makos), maraschinos (with stems),  pudding (vanilla), the list goes on.  Ingestion being a crucial matter of timing and sugar farts, I hit the gym fiercely; no pants, absolutely no socks, cowboy hat with cow print (ten gallon), gloves with the fingers cut off and sports goggles (chicago bulls era, made for a black-man-center).

"Shock it to the hole," I screamed, as four hundred pounds was less bench pressed and more dropped across the ribs - crushing the body like steamroller vs. kid in a wheelchair.  There was, however, no way we were going to let life-altering accidents stand in the way of life-ending travels.  I saw an awesome movie in the hospital, and we headed for Romania.