Get 2 Choppin

I have decided to enlarge the scope and magnitude of the get2choppin.com empire and have dove head first into the personal training/feel-better-about-your-pathetic-self-improvement business pool. The official unofficial name of the new fitness wing of the g2c house is simple enough: Get 2 choppin you lazy fat fuck and drop and give me twenty! 

I have enlisted the services of the trainer of the year (12 years running like a fucking marathon that never ends), Bad Bad Leroy Brown. This bad mamba jamba don’t take shit from no one and is the ideal candidate to lead the g2c community into the coming years as some fit mothertruckers.  He will whip you into shape, literally, I have the scar marks to prove it. Hell If I went tanning a bit I could audition for the stage remake of Amistad if you know what I mean.

You piss and moan about doing to many reps or that the weight is too heavy and he simply pisses and moans into your damn gatorade cup, “how about I give you a taste of some hard work”. There is no failing because he goes on the principle of it’s either 100 percent or its zero percent and if you ain’t willing to give your left testicle or your first born (which most likely will be his anyways because not only is he a bad mamba jamba but he is a sexy spandexy mothertrucker) then he will not take you as a client.

Don’t worry about Bad Bad Leroy Brown missing a rep because he is on his bluetooth (yes, other less professional trainers carry these and use them during sessions). Leroy will be all over your ass like dimples on a golf ball (don’t lie, you thought I was going to say on a fat guy’s  ass).  You will know if Leroy is in your gym when you hear him speaking in the third person, “I’m Bad Bad Leroy Brown and I say if you are strong enough to pick it up you are strong enough to set it down. So don’t drop the fucking weights you scrawny little spit fuck”.

It was another crazy weekend for the g2c crew. It still amazes me how as a group, we own every bar or venue that we attend. We are always the liveliest and most outgoing (not to mention best looking) group at the bar. Basically we are a bunch of good looking dudes that know how to have a great time. I mean I can’t comprehend why people don’t pay us to come and visit their establishment and be the life of the party. The key is not giving a complete shit and remembering that, “No one puts baby in the corner!” 

Of course with being somewhat of the main attraction we are bound to draw out the haters. Take for instance this past Thursday. Wham and I, John E. Bravo, were out minding our business just jokingly messing with the video DJ guy because he couldn’t get his equipment to work. When he finally got it to work he typed in across the scene, “F-U-C-K you Dousche Bags”. In good fun, I yelled back, “Hey moron you spelled douche bag wrong.” For some odd reason some meathead sitting across from me thought I was calling him a douche bag (which makes me think that he gets it alot) and got his panties in a bunch. We would have come to blows if Wham didn’t diffuse the situation by telling them that we were MMA fighters. They crawled back in their corner and let it be.

Then there was Friday. Some wasted moron (who almost fell into the bar) kept on turning around and licking his lips at Wham. He did not take too kindly to this behavior. After having his patience tested for over an hour, Wham blew up and got in his face and told him, “I will rip your tongue out and wipe your ass with it if you do that again.”

The amusing thing was that this moron (who was a regular) tried to get some of his “friends” to back him but they took one look at our group of six manly men and quickly became friends with us. I don’t know if it was my version of “Rockin’ Robin” with the high pitched “tweet, tweets” or Wham and I’s version of “Footloose” but the crowd turned in our favor. One of the guys told us after we had our dance off for “Footloose” that and I quote him, “You guys just ain’t right! You all crazy!”

Sidenote: The highlight of Friday night was Wham Dickham singing Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” and having the whole bar stand up and sing along. Plus having a customer video tape it and send it to her Marine brother currently serving in Iraq who texted back, “That is awesome”. 

This gets me to Saturday. There was no confrontation to mention but we did rule the place. We even went old school and pulled out the Howard Dean mishap quote, “We’re going to Washington, Beeeeeyaaaahh!”. We had the whole place giving us their best “Beeeeeyaaaahhhh”, it was a great stress reliever for these trying times. I even pulled out my Bruce Lee extended version, “Beeeeyaaaahhhhhhh!” with the added Martial Arts Punch and the frozen face to boot.

This really gets me to the point of this update. After the bar on Saturday, we retired to Wham’s house to continue the festivities. This is when we got crazy and realized people should not mess with us. K.C., Chef Sears and I, John E. Bravo decided to see if we could withstand the pain from a lashing from Wham’s belt. Don’t Ask. I stepped up and took the first lashing the resulting picture is being made into a “business” card for when we go out so as to save time and face for our detractors.

It will simply read

Fact: I had my friend whip me with a belt to see if I could take the pain.

Question: Do you really want to do this now?

It’s that time of year when that one local radio station, in this case WNIC 100.3, starts playing Christmas music super fucking early, the malls are packed with present shopping parasites that would gladly rip off your right arm and beat you over the head with it to get their hands on the hottest new toy that happens to be the last one on the shelf, and every other lawn in suburbia America is full of inflatable lawn ornaments.  Call me bad, bad, Leroy Brown but this makes me want to puke in every stocking across America.

Okay everybody pull out your best Russian accent and following along when I say, “In Roosha we spit on you greedy American capitalist peegs!” Yes we are the land of the free and the home of the black Friday post thanksgiving Christmas sales spectacular. It is the high octane that will propel the Christmas spending frenzy. I don’t want to be the bad guy who gets the Grinch role in the Christmas play but the holiday slogan should be: More, More, More…were looking for a bunch of present grubbing whores, shop here and get 30 percent off your purchase when you sign up for our perfect high percentage point platinum card before you walk out those doors!

Anyways I have come up with a few holiday games that will make the season fun. The first one is called Terry Tate Lawn Ornament Linebacker. Terry Tate used to be employed by Reebok as an office linebacker but in these dire economic times he is sadly out of work so in his honor every time you drive by an inflatable Homer Simpson or Jolly old Saint Nick hop out of your car and do your best Lawrence Taylor on coke impression and come blitzing off the end and take that lawn ornament quarterback’s head off. Just make the happy dance short in case any homeowners are watching.

The next game is called the Bar Santa Battle Royale. You know after a few drinks when you get that feeling that the inflatable Santa in the corner is staring you down, well he is. This is when it is time for you to go Muhammad Ali on his ass and get him in that corner and play his ribs like a xylophone. Remember to deliver that knock out haymaker punch before the bouncers turn you into a bowl full of jelly.  

This next snippet is for the ad executives that read my site. How about this for a beer commercial?

First scene: Show a bunch of different inflatable lawn ornaments from Bart to Homer to Santa to the Frosty to Rudolph to Baby Jesus in the manger (do they have an inflatable manger scene in a snow globe cause if not I got first dibs on the idea) and have them waving in the brisk winter wind looking as blissful as a bunch of Hindu cows on their way to slaughter.

Second scene: Darkness settles in and the homeowners turn off the power and they all slowly deflate and the lights in the house go off.

Third scene: Fade out/fade in again as they all inflate on their own and start walking off to some local inflatable bar filled with other inflatables and where as soon as they walk in the inflatable bartender hands them all a beer.

Fourth scene: In walks an inflatable Rabbi holding the Menorah candle. Everyone turns and looks and the inflatable Christmas Hulk bouncer turns to him and says to the Rabbi, “Read the sign Rabbi, No Shirt, No Jews, No Service. This is a Christmas party.”

Well I am bad, bad, Leroy Brown and I have to go get my BB gun ready for action because it is inflatable lawn ornament reindeer season.

I’m sorry that I am a bit of a sports elitist and I feel that the accruement of specific skills for each individual sport relative to the level (i.e. pee-wee, junior varsity, varsity, etc.) of play needs to be achieved for that athlete to be allowed to compete. I ask you, does that make me bad, bad Leroy Brown the baddest man in this whole damn town?

Recently I have gone about trying to help young athletes reach these levels through my own form of reverse psychology negative reinforcement. The necessity of this program came into fruition when traveling about I saw a youth soccer game in which the little kids were playing without a goalie, had a cookie break in the middle of the game, and they didn’t keep score. I mean what in the world kind of game are they teaching these kids; this isn’t frigging recess.

I decided to immediately stop in and start the negative reinforcement program pronto. The first step was to yell at a little boy who was getting circles ran around him on defense, literally they were running around him in circles while he was sitting on the ground pouting, so I kindly offered the advice, “Hey coach tell that boy that there is no crying in soccer”. Apparently the parents of this child weren’t too happy and they told me that the he was actually a she. The only response I could muster was, “Well then tell her to grow a pair and start getting tough on defense, you know it ain’t to late for testosterone therapy.”

The worst was the conditioning program of these teams or should I say lack of conditioning. As I scanned the field sitting on the bench was this little porker so I yelled in anger, “Hey coach tell Pudgy Paulie over there to lay off the pound cake and start pounding the pavement for some extra P.T., I mean I have seen petrified poop that played with more purpose than this portly pile of play-doh.” I mean does that make me bad, bad Leroy Brown the baddest man in this whole damn town?