Recipe: Sunday Morning Protein Shake

Ingredients:

• Two cartons of milk
• One muppet trainer
• Three almonds
• A few nuts and bolts
• A sweat band
• A self indulgent guava (guayaba)

Method: Knock Yourself Out. Simple.

Digression: Heck, bodybuilders and trainers. I salute you. My experiences at Bally's have reinforced some of my conclusions when it comes to these newly developing species. They are one big muscle. Most of them. Big mooks, the size of frigates, corvettes and every naval vessel conceived minus the intelligence. The ladies have more definition than Hi-Definition. The men, are embedded with a trivial 32 kb cache. Short term memory is a thing of the past.

Then there is Paul Doe. (I partly concealed his name since it'll take him a few years to realize what internet means and a few more to understand the art of blogging. Right now, to him blog is a new kind of toilet seat, I reckon.) The man, the muscle, the super muppet, the redefinition of vitamin driven village idiot. His favorite activity is bouncing twelve pound exercise balls off of a trussed, built up training area so as to generate maximum noise and cause severe irritation to other dedicated plus size people working on their abs. The likes of me. I like to call him The Wall. Cause he's huge. I mean huge like HUGE! A gargantuan jack rabbit in a world of peanut sized marmots. You could glue an entire propaganda poster designed by the Soviets from the old days and you'd still see his silly incisor upon the sickle and the hammer. Yep, his incisor is huge too, its like an armor-tooth. His intelligence level is unparalleled. He is the kind that can convince you that one fish plus one fish is equal to holy fish. Don't even think about math, it's nothing short of devicing Operation Overlord, all over again. Facial expressions, human emotions weren't designed for tough guys. This tough guy wasn't designed to feel. Maybe he feels hungry sometimes or even the urge to poop. But that's the basic garbage in garbage out apostle. Big Paul Doe isn't human. He falls into the category of homoproteinsapiens.

Such is my love for this kind. Paul recognises you every full moon day, and on other occasions his 'recognition-coherente' skills are limited to twelve pound excerise balls and tall glasses of protein shake. When he smiles at you to show his courtesy, the incisor shines on you like God's own palm. And then there is his girl. The Lady-Paul. She beats him hands down at it all. If he was Czar of a new state known as 'Muscleville', she would be the Goddess worshipped by the muscles. Offerings would be made in large amounts of heat patches, pungent perfumes, tofu and soyabean based concoctions and arm and head bands. She walks around the gym floor sporting a cap with a three inch perfume enabled force field, sweats and a whistle ready to give anyone the count of fifty on all their fours. You cross her path mister and she'll lift that pretty head of hers, come closer to you as you choke on her vile scents and beckon Paul. Your ass, after this is bench-pressing history.

To conclude, I have nothing against the personal training kind. I'm desperately trying to lose some well accumulated pounds due to the nature of my new hobby, which I unfortunately cannot reveal at this time. My trainer, Reuben is Godsent. A very good friend and a ray of light in a dark sea of lard. But I hate to read stupid words of inspiration like "You are strong, let the weak catch up.." in little offices for this elite kind. I am a little bothered by your egomaniacal disposition. Firstly, no one's weak. You may have spent a lifetime trying to stay in shape and guide others. We were busy trying to get an education and make the world a better place. Please be courteous enough to return a smile. We're only human. And love, friendship, courtesy and brotherhood will only make this world a better place.