Monday, January 19, 2009

Body by M.A.T.

Cut the fat and sculpt yourself into a svelte new you in just twenty minutes a day with the revolutionary Multimodal Activity Training (M.A.T.) system.

Here's the amazing story of how I, Steel-Cut, developed this extraordinary fitness regimen without the necessity of buying expensive fitness equipment made from space-age polymers. In fact, all you need is an ordinary pair of running shoes and your gym clothes! How's that for a clever achiever?

Everyone is busy. With responsibilities at home and work, who has time to workout anymore? Well, the secret in the MAT system is that you actually use a portion of your work commute time for personal fitness. In doing so, you not only save time and money, but you literally shape yourself into a new you while commuting to/from work.

With Body by M.A.T, it's as easy as one, two three!
1) Plan your route with the high tech MAT Trip Planner
2) Leave the car at home! Get to work by carpool or bus for $1.25.
3) At the end of the workday, change into your fitness gear and take the bus for a portion of your ride home. Now here's the important part: GET OFF THE BUS BEFORE YOUR NORMAL STOP. Proceed to walk or jog lightly home. Try a mile at first, then gradually increase the distance each week.

You can also bring your bicycle on the bus and increase the distance of your commute. One day, you may even decide to forgo the bus altogether!

When I was a kid, I was so skinny from riding my bike around town that I had to run around in the shower just to get wet. But later in life, I swallowed a lot McRibs with my aggressions. So I began working out. More Later, I found that I hated weight lifting and switched to racing bicycles. Even more later-er, I discovered that I really liked golf. So I let things go again and was beginning to wonder if John Daly and I were separated at birth. My wife noticed, too, because she said that she had a secret thing for chubby guys. And you know, I could tell that my wife was really liking me more. So life was great. I was fat and happy. Wait -- what is this about? Right. Anyway, so it was about that time that I noticed in a photo that I could no longer see that freakish vein in my neck. In fact, my neck looked like a stuffed sausage (which only woke my hunger). I decided to do something about it. Yeah, I heard about this Body by M.A.T system. I thought like, how stupid. Nobody takes the bus, right? But I tried it and went from chubby hubby to ripped in one session. Yes, I'm on the bike again, but I'm crushing whitey with the big stick, I've got extra energy in the evening nudge-nudge-wink-wink and I'm like inhaling McRibs faster than they can stamp 'em out. No regrets. And so I say, "Thank you Mr. Steel-Cut, Sir!" (now I want my two dollars) --F.H.

With anything related to FH, YMMV

So there you have it folks, a satisfied customer. Get out there and give it a try.

Next week: bus-bench crunches

Monday, January 12, 2009

Gibson's Pants

I grew up in Kirkwood, MO, a St. Louis suburb not unlike Omaha's Dundee. I went to a Catholic grade school. We had ordinary teachers, priests and nuns. We wore uniforms of navy blue corduroy pants and light blue collared shirts. Playground moms volunteered as recess supervisors and then returned for carpools in the afternoon with the catholic cruiser: a Pontiac/Buick/Oldsmobile station wagon. Looking back at those days is like reading the book of Genesis before Adam took the apple from Eve. It was a highly protected, orderly and a loving atmosphere where no child was left behind.

All of that goodness came to an end one day. I had just finished my lunch --PB&J, apple slices and a thermos of milk from my Kung Fu lunch box -- and had run along to join my second grade classmates for recess kickball. Though it was a warm spring day, the air had a foul odor to it. In the rock garden not far from the chapel, I summoned up the courage to ask a big fourth-grader, Steve Doyle, why it smelled so bad outside. His reply was abject and cold: "Gibson shit his pants."

Paradise lost. Doyle was the first kid that I heard cuss openly on those hallowed grounds. Suddenly, an awareness of my innocence was gone. It was as if we were all like crapped-his-pants-Gibson, having filth all over us. Poor us. Poor Gibson.

Although he later went on to do doctorate work in Biology, primary school was a hellacious proving ground for Gibson. I'm pretty sure every school has one like him. He's the kid whose pen was perpetually exploding in his mouth, who threw up all over his desk (and collaterally into the girl's hair seated in front of him), or as mentioned, who crapped his pants at recess. Of course, he was ridiculed by me and the rest of his classmates. Yet with vomit strands dangling squarish potato cubes from his chin, or smelling like a hamper full of dirty diapers, Gibson carried on courageously with his dignity in tact.

Anyway, I thought of Gibson yesterday during my ten mile run.

Although I took precaution by eating wisely and and visiting the toilet beforehand, I soon discovered that my GI tract had other plans.

Initially, I thought it was just gas. What usually works in this situation is to slow down and -- if you're a gentleman -- check over your shoulder/drop to the back of the pack in a group before let one squeak out. Anyhow, I tried this and it was nearly disastrous. Like Gibson. Whew! I still had eight miles to go!

While avoiding dumping in my pants, I was still feeling acutely awful. Fortunately, the port-a-potty in Elmwood saved the day. It was a godsend: no line, clean and plenty of T.P. What at a relief.

Gibson was like the Biblical goat driven out of town to carry away all of the wickedness of the group. If you're reading this, Gibson, I am sorry for those days. Even more, I will say this: as a second grader, you possessed more courage and grace than I'll ever have.