Get 2 Choppin

I was recently reminded how coddled the youth of this county’s upper middle class and above tend to be when faced with adversity or criticism. Not only is everything (good or bad) within a hair’s reach of their greasy little fingers, but more than likely they will not even be held responsible for any consequent decisions and often encouraged when they make the choice to stick their tail between their Ugg covered legs and run.

I blame society. The marketing industry bombards this age bracket with the latest and greatest materialistic mumbo jumbo that will help the teen terrors climb the social status ladder faster than a blackmailing single female executive (if you know what I mean). It may have gone from Izod to the I-pod but having the IT thing puts you on another level. No matter how many teen movies that come out that make fun or light of such cliquish adolescent behavior and how everyone always thinks that they were friends with everyone, we all know that this pecking order exists. The cruelty factor is about three levels higher than Gitmo during Bush’s last term.

I blame the parents. I always thought they cut the umbilical cord at birth but I think the latest trend veers toward having it attached until well into the teens. Why do teens need to put ICE next to mom or dad’s number in their cell, couldn’t someone just pick up the umbilical cord and attach a tin can to it like you did when you were a kid to get a hold of them. The parents of this nation are raising the largest group of namby pamby’s this country has seen since the child coal miners’ strike of 1912 and hell those kids were fighting for a live canary, a candle, and ten minutes of fresh air a day. Today’s youth have a hissy fit if you take away their cell phone during class.

I blame you. I understand that you hormone filled insolent pricks are going through a rebellious stage but here is a fucking lesson you should learn and learn fast: When a boss, professor, or superior criticizes, don’t go into turtle mode, sucking your thumb, and crying to your mommy about how “everybody hates me, and oh yeah other people were doing the same thing and didn’t get yelled at” and don’t then proceed to change majors or quit or job because you hit a rough patch the size your under-developed brain. How about instead you buck up and take the criticism for what it is: a fucking attempt to make you less of a jackass in whatever you do. For your information, you do not come out of the womb with a fucking ounce of wisdom. If God wasn’t nice enough to put some stuff like sucking your momma’s tit on auto-pilot your soft little gel filled body wouldn’t last a damn day. Thus when you make the same mistake over and over and over again and get yelled at because you don’t get the lesson that is trying to be taught to you for the umpteenth time, don’t blame it on anybody but your namby pamby ass because you are about as useful to society as a bag of used cocoons and probably will have about as much backbone as the caterpillar that once lived there.

I can almost guarantee that the lazy, good-for-nothing, fucktards that read this website did not have an iota of a clue that the third Friday in May was National Bike to Work Day. Well now you know. Of course being the environmentally astute individual that I am, I, John E. Bravo, pulled out the steel horse and went to town (actually work in this case).

Typically when I am high up in the saddle of the steel and two wheel vehicle variety, I tend to make it my goal to pass anybody and everybody that gets in my way as I say, “From grandma to gimp, no one’s going to crimp the speed of this pimp”.  Usually, as I speed past the sedentary soldiers of misfortune, I gently tap them on the back and say, “Fag tag, you’re a homo because it looks like you’re in slo-mo”.

Today was different though, as I cranked out the revolutions reeling in my next victim, a wave of compassion for my fellow biker came over me. As I was quickly closing in on the biker in front of me and was getting poised for the passing passionate pedaling position, I instead gently pulled up in the rear drafting position and dropped my pride down a couple gears. It instantly hit me that this was my cycling compadre, a fellow member of the traveling brother hood of the biker shorts, my pedaling pal, the missing chain-link, he was the real deal on two wheels, he was Richard Gear in the spin-off to Runaway Bride, entitled Gone from the Peleton, the Breakway Biker. He my bicycling muddy buddy.

We coasted along for a couple of miles, as we whizzed pass people I kept it close enough so it would appear like we were an early morning biker gang out to hassle all the dirty sidewalking rascals like we were the kings of the castle. We were the Bad Ass Blood Biker Brigade, we were the Crips on a Cycling Trip, we were the Pedaling Pegged Up Posse. We may have not been on a bike built for two but we sure as hell were the Terrifying Ten Speed Tandem. 

The time came for us to head our separate ways. I gave him the Hang Ten, the Two Finger V (a.k.a. peace sign) followed by the number one finger salute which in biker lingo stands for hanging on a 10 Speed with two wheels is better than being in one car any day.

I must confess that I’m a tad bit overly sensitive about certain things. For instance I pride myself in taking care of this magnificent body that God gave me by following a strict exercise regimen and a healthy diet (albeit occasionally interspersed with French onion dip and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream). Those in the inner circle of get2choppin.com know that I, John E. Bravo the spokesman of g2c, have solemnly sworn to live and breathe the “Crossfit” lifestyle and uphold its credo that states, “Our warm-up is your work-out”. Yes, Crossfit is basically stating that they are better than you, which is why I love it. You want to see my abs? Well too bad, but close your eyes and run your hand over a storm grate and you’ll get the picture.

The founder of Crossfit honors fallen soldiers, firefighters, and police officers by creating workouts that reflect the toughness of that individual (and profession) and thus solidify the memory of the fallen forever in the realm of our consciousness every time this HERO WOD (Workout of the Day) crosses our paths. The latest Hero workout was entitled “Hansen” and was tough beyond belief. Trust me. Jokingly amongst my “friends” after the workout I changed my status to say, “John E. Bravo thinks the ‘Hansen’ Hero workout today was about as easy flowing as a deaf person singing Mmm Bop”.

This apparently did not go over very well amongst one of my “friends” who immediately commented, “Tasteless”. I do not understand how he could consider it tasteless, unless he means that it is a very bland statement and I need to spice it up. I just figured Facebook is not in Braille so they would not even be able to read it, ouch sorry my bad, blind people read Braille not the deafies (speaking of Braille, if a blind person ran their hands over my abs, you know what it would say to them: sexy). Honestly do you think if deaf people heard themselves sing they would be offended by that statement, all I’m saying is they are a little off key, kind of like Cuba is off Key West. Do you think deaf lawyers get sick of attending all those hearings? Okay I’ll stop. Am I still within earshot? …How about now, can you hear me?

I wish to let my “friends” and readers know they should follow this simple rule regarding things I write whether it is on Facebook, get2choppin.com or the guys bathroom at fast food restaurants (sorry about that one Wham but we always have a good time when we go out and I thought others might like to join us also): Never Take Anything I Say Seriously (Unless I preface it with an asterisk which means *this is comment is really serious).

 *I despise people that cannot take a joke.

*If I were blind I’d have a license plate that read, “CU L8TR”.

*If I were blind I’d drive a car built in Europe and sit in the  passenger seat and make it look like I was the driver.

 *If I were deaf I’d have a bumper sticker that read, “I can’t hear your honking not because I’m deaf but because I don’t give a fuck”.    

I have to admit I recently joined one of those new 24-hour gyms that are popping up everywhere. Snap Fitness, Fitness 19, and my personal gym, Anytime Fitness are just a few of the gym names that are scaling down their facilities but still catering to the varied time demands of their clientele while providing a quality workout environment but I do have a few complaints I need to put on the choppin’ block.

I don’t want to people to get the wrong idea; I didn’t need to join the gym for my own personal fitness reasons. I don’t want to brag but I have the body of an ancient Greek Warrior, imagine Brad Pitt as Achilles but a tad bit more muscular and better looking and who likes to occasionally eat French onion dip and cupcake ice cream (not together of course). Okay dudes quit drooling and get over it. I joined for the camaraderie and spirited competitive drive that the g2c crossfit crew provides. This core group has established itself at Anytime Fitness in Madison Heights as a forced to be reckoned with.

I do have a few complaints though. I previously had a membership at a Powerhouse affiliate but was tired of the meathead mafia environment that tends to lend itself to these types of workout environments. I thought I could escape that by going to a smaller gym but the weaker brethren of these knuckle-fuckers have seeped into Anytime Fitness.

I am not one to stand in the way of people’s health goals but when there is only one straight bar in the entire gym and you spend 45 minutes on it doing fucking 30 sets of bicep curls I am going to get upset. Especially when there are 2 EZ curl bars that are specifically made for dumb fucks that still want to do the antiquated bodybuilder routine they read in Muscle & Fitness when they were 12. So let me guess it is Chest and Bi’s day with some supersets thrown in to really feel the burn.

I get it that you get a hard-on every time your pathetic ass sees a picture of Arnold in his prime all glistening in oil and doing a front double bicep pose for Mr. Weider on Santa Monica pier. I get it that your scrawny ass probably got picked on in high school by the jocks. I get it that you wear a shirt that says, “Shut up and Train”, yet you spend five minutes between each set flexing and chatting up your spotter about what a great pump you got. I get it that you are scared because I spend 20 minutes in the gym busting my ass and sweating harder than you did at the last Mr. Olympia pre-walkout rub down and I look better and am way stronger than you and I am mean as hell when you get in the way of one of my timed workouts. I get it but that doesn’t mean I accept it as an excuse for errant behavior. 

I will admit I am exercise elitist but I have earned the right to say that. One Crossfit (if your clueless as to what Crossfit is then just do some research and google it you lazy fucker) slogan is, “Our warm-up is your workout” but that is almost a slap in the face to Crossfit because a crossfitter would never spend 45 minutes warming up with bicep curls. I could maybe possibly understand if it was 9 pm at night and they were heading to the bar and they wanted to get the infamous “bar pump” on, you know some sets of push-ups and bicep curls to fill themselves out a little, but it was 1 pm when these schmucks were working out. I personally would not do this or condone this among my friends but I am sure it happens.

The other thing that drives me nuts and belongs on the Choppin’ block is the overly friendly personal trainer that has to say hi to everyone that walks in the gym while he is even in the middle of a training session. If I were his paying client I would wait until he turned his gregarious ass and fake an injury and sue the shit out of him. Of course you could just wait it out because the horrible form that he is teaching you will eventually lead to a slipped disk anyways but why go through that type of ordeal. Another hint if the trainer is in worse shape than you I would suggest not hiring him. I understand you can’t judge a book by the cover but if you have good eyesight you should realize you don’t need the large print version.