But Black is Slimming

Over the weekend I participated in my first Masters swim meet since 2002. It was the last official meet where the full body suit could be worn. Of course in my new line of vanity and outward reflection of my inner-self, I was more pumped about the fact the Blue Seventy suit was completely black. Slimming and contouring!

What the freak was I thinking… I felt like the bird man character on the trampoline in Cirque du Sloleil Mystere.

Thank goodness there were some people rolling super done-lap syndrome on the pool deck. Ab cruncher could've gone along way if they had put a little advertising dollar at the Belmont Pool. Not to say I'm kicking it wash board style, cuz its pretty obvious that my fat path was possibly one philly cheese steak away from the ole belly button pointing toward the floor. However, if your going to rock it Commander Speedo (ala French Canadians on South Beach), keep the tool shed covered.

Even though Blue Seventy speed was great and all, in the end it's all going back to the original "less is better" type of swim wear -- leaning on the taper and shave. Oh crap! I will have to firm up the core if Las Vegas Masters expect me to roll with an old school paper suite (imagine stuffing 10 pounds of mashed potatoes into a 5 pound bag).

Man my wife is never going to go to another swim meet if I bust out the old size 24 paper... heck, I could get arrested for exposing humanity to the evils of stretch-marks and razor burn. Not a good visual.

A Boy Named Sue

During my run to go sub-200, life has not slowed down a notch. Experience has taught me, lunches and dinners on the go are the engine to my demise. No biggie, there are tons of places in Las Vegas that have gone healthy (I guess that’s like going green but in a human-sphere way). Subway, Nevada Chicken Café, and hundreds if not five burrito shops with the lean and mean burrito bowl, have all assisted in my shrink.

All was good until about a month ago when I left my debit card in the local FDIC welfare institution. “No worries,” shrugs the audience in myopic boredom. Well that’s a roger ten-four on the "don’t worry be happy." That’s until OMG/WTF/LMAO pranksters at big Bank of America decided to send me the exact debit card my wife chose for herself last year.


“Ha, ha, ha, ha!!! Very funny… were you serious Mr. Marlow when you got this?” Asked the strangely androgynous sandwich shop clerk. “I get you.” As if I’m part of some emo Japan anime, fight club. What the freak is this world coming to when a man of my emotional fortitude is uncomfortable to drop a lame pink debit card because it will enlist an exhausted inquiry into one man's rationale. With the card held at arms length, just below eye level, it has become my pride to give them a little hung head “don’t bother trying to comprehend” sigh and talk to the hand combo.

So now I just hand my card backside up and play like the white noise over my cell phone is an important international toy conglomerate asking about the new Hello Kitty line. My eyes read “Can’t humor you now or fully acknowledge the next 20 seconds of your amusement, for what has become my life’s equivalent to the song, A Boy Named Sue.”

So give me my pink card back and don’t put tomatoes on my sandwich, you're the fruit cake!

The Weight Can't Wait

For those following the Easy & JT “Great Weight Rebated 2009”… final results are in.

Easy-E minus 10 pounds
JT Marlow minus 21 pounds

Easy-E will be wearing a maternity top for a wonderful night on the town next March when his lady and he get back into town. I think we’ll have to sit outside on the Strip, say Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris Las Vegas. E, I’ll let you pick!

Is it the scale, or is it notching up the belt?

Stepping on the scales this morning before a rumpus good ole spin class, I was pleasantly surprised of the progress I have made -- down 24 pounds in three months. As great as that should sound to me, I have been more concerned with the ever looming next notch on my waist belt.

Even more pressing is my quest to go down two pant sizes, putting me just outside of my early 20’s waist line. Wow that’s soooo, chasing the past, high school hero, “you remember when I looked like that?” type of mentality. WHO CARES! My wife thinks I’m hotter when I’m skinny, which leads her to believe other women think the same thing, resulting in Mr. Marlow getting the ever desired “upper hand.” If you don’t understand, you’ve been married to long or still playing the dating game.

For those that subscribe to this theory understand that destruction and eternal damnation will be upon those who inform the one with no hand before they realize hand has changed sides. This is a shallow threat not to violate the Oath of U.H.

You have been warned!

United Thugs of Jarvis - Part 2

Late last night, some where between the retched smell of warm catch-up and R.E.M. sleep, I unconsciously decided to take on fat from a spiritual front. Tapping the other 90% of my unused temporal power for what was to be a savage fight. I take my lucid dreams very serious – some of my most prolific concepts spawned while night kaleidoscoping. It was so vivid; sights exact, smells pungent, and the touch of battle so near. I’m giving these fat cells a once over, tearing through them with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Then things got weird about 30 past the cows coming home.

All of a sudden the battle turned horribly wrong, they turned the hoses on my forces and unleashed a massive belly button assault on the metabolic strong hold. Next thing I know the thunder of cannon shots are coming all over… Nothing like cowards to bring artillery to a knife fight. Well it was good fight, so full retreat until tomorrow night. But no, they were still coming strong, and somewhere in the mix those thugs brought in non-lethal Israeli sound devise. What the heck, it sounds just like my alarm.

It was a well planned counter offensive put on by the thugs, using the alarm clock tactic. To my surprise they were able to co-op my one year old son into bringing the heavy thunder with rabbit heel kicks to my kidneys and then sacrificing his 4am bottle for a strategic placement just north of my skivvies.
Point, fat cells.

United Thugs of Jarvis

Backstroke at 5:30am can produce some twisted visions… Monday I was doing a dolphin kick set that was giving my stomach fat a go “how’s your father.” All of a sudden I realized my physical make-up stores most of my extra lard in the mid-section. If I could every get my body to disperse it around my body a bit more evenly, then I might not look like an Idaho potato with #3 lead pencils for legs and pipe cleaner arms. Those freaking fat cells are cowards of Jarvis County (note the obscure Kenny Rogers inspiration you country fans)

My fat cells are nothing but thugs. Their always waiting until I go to sleep to gang up on my operation - then they retreat every morning all Lost Boys style. You slobs wouldn’t have a ribs chance in Memphis one on one with me… But no, they reek havoc on my inter city highway system; spray painting the arteries with stank plaque. Word is they are even planning a Thanksgiving offensive on my double chin; looking to recruit additional cells after the beat down I’ve put on their safe haven these past few months. Who are these fat cells… the freaking Taliban?!?!

You are reading this correct; I am currently picking a fight with the squaters in my belly. I ain’t got shame in my game!

…to be continued

The Scales Don’t Mind

I have dropped 19 pounds since the start of this mad dash, and from inside sources Easy-E has secret plans to sever a major limp if the race is photo finish worthy. Can’t win E if you keep stopping at In-n-Out in route to All You Can Eat Sushi… Algebra won’t save that math.

In a contest where it’s all about the scale, I have begun tricking the ole pound counter. Instead of logging in the L-Bs before a work out, I’ll wait until the sweat has rolled and the buzzer’s sounded to step on. Nothing new there, it’s a complete mental game – like setting your alarm clock and car clock 12 minutes fast to continue the illusion of urgency.

My personal goals and aspirations are one part uncultured insincere narcissism and three parts “how the freak am I going to ever look as good as him!?!” So please understand intentions don’t necessitate a cheat to win… its money holding me back. Heck, I can’t afford the plane ticket to Tijuana and my Spanish is so bad Dr. Still Ur Kidney would probably double D my chest and Botox my eyelids closed. But understand, all-right minded slouches game the system a bit. For me, the pre-weigh-in required me to eat a major meal and Zeus the cosmic forces to increase galactic gravity to that of Jupiter (for those keeping score at home, that’s two and a half times that of our wet rock).

If I’m already in this state of mind, then fasting and purging a week prior to the final weigh-in should be expected. I am no saint to my holy flesh temple, so come November 7th, there’s a possibility the post-weigh-in will see my first non-Karen-Carpenter Heimlich, non-fluid meal of the runner up month of deuce double zero to the nine.

And haters to my grind may say -- J’s to laid back to compete… I scoff at the italic notation, and purge in their general direction!

Smokey Mountain Infidelity

My wife always says to me, “I have way too much faith in you. I would never think of you cheating on me while traveling.” Now that’s why I love my wife… But in the same breath she calls me a dirty dog - a walking euphemism for dietary monogamy on the road, especially when that road leads to East Tennessee. I spent seven days last week in The Motherland and like all scoundrels justifying infidelity, “Baby, it ain’t if there’s a gastric ring on, but how easy it comes off.”

It wasn’t one act of indiscretion that concerned me, but rather 38 with a little burger named Krystal, twice with Big Ed’s Pizza, some daily wake and Easy Bakes, and a risky picnic romp with some gut busting banana pudding. If there was a Dr Drew for unfaithful dieters, I would be on speed dial. How was I going to explain the musk of flame broil or the rapid expansion of my manzier?!? Manning up to the whole thing might’ve been the best course for some, hence my shallow ways forced me to avoid eye contact with the scales in hope complete denial and time would heal the wounds propagated by one man’s cheating stomach.

Don't Define Me!

Over the past two months of changing my nutrition and exercise life I have come to understand the difference between lethargy, sloth, and apathy. Living off ten strong years as an athlete, it was my apathy toward eating right that prevented me from keeping the weight off. Fortunately, I confirmed sloth only stopped by for infrequent visits during Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday seasons. What killed me was lethargic behaviors; first blaming my lack of motivation on the summer heat or the short winter daylight, then using brain drain from graduate studies to take an average of 25 weeks off every year.

I have given in… I’m a swimmer for life. More importantly, when I train above casual swimming there has to be a meet to shoot for. Exercising for health sake is great, but for me, too many demos of the lazy-excuse sort seem to haunt me. It’s not about being a high school has been, rather a solid means to a successful end; long life and health to the end.

Solo Stationary Bike Sing Along

Spin class has become this decade’s equivalent to the arena rock concert sing along. You know the part in the show when the lead singer sticks the microphone out in the universal signal to get your whaling chorus on.

Sitting on my uncomfortable stationary bike this morning, the instructor had the freaking nerve to demand crowd participation during a horrendous remix of the timeless wedding line-dance, YMCA. ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?!?

I’m paying good money each month to have some fruit loop bark at me to drop him some spirit fingers. I’m a man in mid-thigh bike shorts, shaved legs, sweating like a pig at a BBQ, and sporting a light blue bandana. To say the least, I'm having gender issues at this stage of the workout. Dis guy not do'n spirit fingers at half past absurdly early.

A note to all you fitness instructors and wood-be front men; if you want me to sing, pay my admission and I’ll sing like a spring canary. Until then, shut up and let me get my hurt on!

The Before Shot

The camera adds an extra 100 pounds...

Worried that I would not loose any weight, there was a possibility that pictures from the weigh in would stay unpublished. However, since I have lost 15 L-B's so far I feel ok with putting or 'before" shots on the WWW...

I can't speak for Easy, which from what I hear from my Northern Nevada brethren, he is securing stock in Taco Bell and part owner of an all you can eat sushi joint in Bend, Oregon. Not saying that I got this wrapped up, but since its a contest between an old Rebel Men teammate... I gots this one!!!

It is my hope that Easy makes this thing interesting and comes through with a surprise liposuction or possibly a Tijuana gut amputation. Either way, I will confident that my Pacific Northwest brother will be wearing a beautiful maternity dress on our Vegas evening out before the 5th annual Silverman Triathlon.

The Value of Yoga

Over the past year I have come to value the cleansing effect of Yoga. From the spiritual centering to the mental power washing, it brings peace after a cumbersome stretch of potholes and morons. As an added element to my weight loss regime (and that is what it is), Yoga kicks my Ardha Chandrasana with the slightest variation. I love the challenge of attempting and failing at a Salamba Sirsasana or progressing to both toes off the ground in strength poses like the Bakasana. I’m completely amazed at men and women pulling off handstand from supported shoulder stands.

I come out after 70 minutes with one lazy eye and the mental fog burnt away. Taking all the day’s concerns, balling them up like Play Doh, surrounding them with unfinished stories, and then putting the whole mess off to the side for a spell. Holy Crap! Don’t tell the natural man that I left my ball of concerns in the studio last night.

Since Yoga is an individualized, personalized work out, it will be there when I return. Thank goodness for perseverance and self preservation, because pride sure as heck would’ve already thrown in the towel on this man doing weak kneed sci-fi Curly-Q’s.

How I Knew I Matured

When my favorite part of a PB&J went from the J to the PB.

Keep it Rigid

I have to give proper’s when proper’s are due. Former Rebel Guy Fieri and his program Dinners, Drive-ins, and Dives (or commonly referred to as, “Triple D”). In my opinion this is the best show on The Food Network and Top 5 fave for wasting away my free time. That is until I was shipped to this no walled fat reduction prison.

Since one of my uncompromising and stubborn rules is to forgo gastric pleasures after the Seinfeld reruns are over at 8pm, it never fails me, old Guy is on some made dash around the country to find his next eatery. I happen to park my remote control on his exploits and suffer greatly. Nothing like a good shocker to the hypothalamus about fifteen minutes after the point of no sustenance has come and passed for the evening.

I mumble in my mind “I’m teetering toward madness.” Holy mackerel honey! He just put a pound of cheddar on that burger! I’m doing living room laps with a serious case of audio-visual epilepsy, induced by this frosty tipped anti-christ - giving me ground sirloin, onion smothered turrets… (mumbling) Loves the bun toasted, loves the bun toasted, course three minutes to Wapner. My poor daughter is jumping on the couch yelling, “Mooommm! Daddy got’sta brain ow’we again.” It’s like June Cash was singing in the left ear… When I woke from my dreaming my idol was clay, all portion of love had all flown away. This time it was a grease trap hooligan serving up 2000 calories of death garnished with a bevy of dilly sweet relishes.

Freaking Guy Fieri, I love you man, but I am going crazy. Thank goodness it’s a short trip baby!

A Dear John to Bacon

Dear Bacon,

I have come to love you over the years, I have come to know you by many names; fat back, cracklen, pork rinds, and swine chips. As of today you will be nothing more than the best friend to tomato – a new member of the land of misfit toppings. You can tell your glue sniffing cousin bacon bit to stop calling too… my potatoes will know him no more!

They say all good things must end someday. It hurts me to say adieu, but its not you, it’s me. We have just grown apart over the years, what with your whole foray into lip balm and lollypops, and being a named conspirator in the Adkins Diet debacle… Go ahead, eat all the red meat and fat you want, just “Say No to Carbs” and you will lose weight. (Just in time for your first triple bi-base, angioplasty two’pher)

Bacon, I wish you didn’t have to go. I’ll think of you often when I pass over your lifeless corps on the salad bar in route to the heart of palm. It would’ve been nice if we could’ve parted on better terms, but don’t let the door hit you where the dog ‘bout bit you.

Modertation

Common themes of this fat camp are rearing their ugly heads like some reject Hindu deity. Chucky Cheese is of the devil, fried food is the only thing served in Hell’s commissary, and there is more to moderation than Scott Weiland once professed. Clearly, catching a midnight munch attack before my endocrine is car jacked can hedge my overall success, which seems to be doable with the help of a padlock on the pantry.

Day-to-day moderation is another thing… I have over heard the TV talking to the Cuisinart and ice maker that consumption is the only way to get these two-legged breeders out of this economic mess. Freaking electronic appliances are conspiring to make us all fat! I am Jarvis’ paranoid delusions.

Fortunate for me, the need to feed my children, dress them in the latest “OMGosh they are so cute” kiddy wear, and turn over all my folding money to my wife has given me the pleasure of knowing Grapes of Wrath, 1934 soup kitchen style moderation. When you ain’t have’n scratch in yo’wallet, its ez to eat in moderation!

Gots me some pretzels and dried apples mass’r.

Naked Burrito Bowl

On my quest to reach 195 pounds in 16 weeks, I have come to the realization that certain foods have to be attacked from a different angle. For example, the Chicken Queso Burrito from Q’doba is just bad news for anyone dieting. A head on assault with this 3 pound monster of chicken and spicy cheese sauce will only result in broken promises and moral divides. The only successful route is to hide in its blind spot, off its flanks and take out all known defenses – eliminate the tortilla!

The naked burrito bowl option has saved my life, that and grinding my teeth to nubs as I say “Ugh! Hold the queso please.” Prior to life changing decisions and a lovely maternity dress for the loser in 13 weeks; naked burritos were for Nancy boys. Once considered the cheerleaders pep rallying for the gridiron masters of the gastrointestinal artist battling for supremacy. Well I say now, get off my palm-palms and GO-FIGHT-WIN you sultans of the 3 pound Chicken Queso Burrito… Hold the wrap and I’ll take extra corn salsa ma’am!

Comfort Food

This weight loss journey is best compared to Cannonball Run; a lot of hype out of the gate in Los Angles and then a dang long time before New York. Well I’m in what can only be classified by Miss P. Hilton, “the fly over states” of my journey. Knowing that success will only come if I allow for some comfort food here or there… Unlike my over the top 90 day ultra-restrictive diet on P90X, I’m living by moderation on this jaunt. That’s where the likes of Panda Express come in.

I have to admit, eating orange chicken is so sweet that mid day blues just melt away. That is until I’m trenching the bottom of the Styrofoam carry-out container and my stomach begins to rumble. It’s my belief that Anglo-Chinese is the beer-goggles of the food world. As I sit here trying to type, the intestinal track is walking off the job, protesting my rationalization that a bender of comfort food is worth the hang over.

Don’t Meet over Meat on Mondays!

Ever since I came across the disturbingly fascinating HBO documentary, I AM AN ANIMAL: THE STORY OF INGRID NEWKIRK AND PETA, I have been a closet PETA fan. Unlike my friend Sandy, who is a pure vegan, for what I assume fits into the PETA mission of no animal consumption for human gain… my hypocrisy will only allow me to support their work against puppy mills, furrieries, and things associate with clothing. Unfortunately, 33 years of meat-n-potatoes, elbows off the table, you better eat that because there are starving children in Africa make up has kept me from being able to divorce the whole sale corporate farm industry. But as she does every time, whether on television or the radio, Ingrid challenged me to do something I believe is possible. I have agreed to go meatless one day a week.

As it stands, my “Don’t Meet over Meat on Mondays!” is merely a nod to those diehard members who can remove animal consumption for industrial purposes and dinning delights and live a life on cellulose. Mondays will be a bumper sticker on my subconscious ’69 VW telling those who do it for real, I’m just a tourist.

Palletized Excess -- Part 2

Continuation through the belly of the beast…

Many truths are universal to mankind; honesty will set us free, light overcomes darkness, money is always diminishing, and love is generational connective tissue. I can add another one - drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth is just plain stupid. Who at Cosco dreamt up the brilliant end cap of Colgate breath strips next to the frozen concentrate sampler? With ground down incisors causing the rage to build, thank goodness the soothing sounds of Alphaville came over the house speakers calming the beast within… Forever Young, I want to be forever young. Do you really want to live forever? I say no Marian Gold. I just don’t want to die in this consumption juggernaut. Then go my son… the bulk dried fruit isle is over yonder.

With fresh legs and diamonds in my eyes, the dried fruit isle was a mere carnival of dehydration. At one point I heard the synthesizers in the next isle demoing the theme to Chariots of Fire, nearly derailing my clown sized cart, the spirit of the Flying Scotsman came over me as I willed my flowing chlorine matted hair to the industrial fans head winding my exodus. So many adventures could happen this day… Luckily the box boys had cleared out the excess cardboard, allowing me to J-hook various cellowrapped selections without ever breaking stride. I would’ve taken a 30-pound block of Limburger cheese if it had been restocked incorrectly (Mini-Van and Novalee would’ve been collectively backed up ‘til their 18th birthdays with that much queso.)

By this time compassion for fellow man had died on the vine, it was every oversized cart driving suburbanite for themselves. Rounding the corner, with sanity held by a thin strand and mob mentality taking hold in the freezer section, it was time to get my bounty of bulk out of this high ceilinged, big box prison without bars before I picked up a 60’ plasma screen, new snow tires, and a year’s worth of water purification tablets. Slapping my exclusive membership card and Hello Kity themed debit card on the stand (no joke, I’ll show you all later). I yelled to the bag boy, “Don’t go cheap on me. Bust out the good stuff… I know you got the double walled boxes in the back!"

Racing to my truck, dodging text deprived house wives backing out by Braille in not ESP; I cleared the real life version of Frogger with only a minor fear of the population we call “can you believe the nerve!”

Next time, Wal-Mart at 2am for diapers and turkey bacon.

Palletized Excess (Part 1)

No where in Western civilization has excess been more purified, ratified, and vilified than at Cosco (Sam’s Club for those in the South). Val sent me on a honey-do excursion last night to pick up baby formula… I thought, “Perfect! I can get some eggs, water, and dried fruit for the diet.” $100 later my life was changed for ever.

Unlike previous trips with my family, meandering through four story isles of bulk paper towels and five gallon jars of pickles, this trip would’ve made the Man Show highlight reel. Just image a speed-walk racer on meth, airport walking with a cart only Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom could’ve appreciated, and the background scene supplied by the Beyond Thunderdoom when the crazy mohawk munchichi dude gets 187’d by the train… you’ll have a good visual of my trip to Cosco last night.

I was slicing through the flow of cart traffic like a LAPD motorcycle cop getting his first cameo on TruTV – taking the corners on two wheel motion! Dane Cook ain’t got nothing on my Tarzan boy skills; climbing the four-hundred ton Incan tower of 36-pack Kirkland bottled waters like a rabid spider monkey, skowering the stake for the most virgin of packaging. The poor lady in the wheel chair who I gave a sharpened elbow quiver might still be lodged between the Gatorade and CranApple pallets. This night I was en fuego!

The water was bush league, I might as well been born on third thinking I got a triple because it was nothing compared to what laid ahead… the blue hairs on motorized carts in the fiber section.

…to be continued

I am Jarvis’s loathing Modus Operandi.

Since Labor Day of last year, my buddy J.B.K. has put me to task for wanting to slim down. Last fall I completed the P90X program and lost 20 bounds and bulked up a bit. He said to me, as he did when I started this little journey with Easy-E; “Dude, you’re married. You bought the farm, got the milk, and the property value is bound to drop a little.” Now I’m cool with him questioning my motive, he is single, loves to date cougars, and has been known to offend a majority of the female population. But when married guys start questioning my modus operandi, things start to get dicey. Not to mention my wife is having nightmares of me pulling a poor man’s version of Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal… Doze are one dolla billz weez mak'n it rain wit.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve rolled up to Wal-Mart in flip-flops, baggy b-ball shorts, and a shirt that should’ve made its debut in the shammy pile years ago. I’ve even been known to dabble in a little “You remember when we were fast…” nostalgia while pounding $1 McDoubles, backed by a cocktail of Raisinettes and Ho-Ho’s. But enough is enough! I gots to think about stretching this thing we call life out a few more years past the red zone. This is not about a mid-life, “pierce my ears with diamond studs, get photographed on the French Riviera with a so-so looking rebound, divorce the crazy mother of my eight children, and get bounced from TLC,” crisis. This is just me wanting to shed some L-Bs to live a more comfortable life.

I am Jarvis’s catharsis process.

Freaking eh!

5am came crashing out of my alarm clock like a 2x4 across the R.E.M (and that aint the boys from Athens). It was one of those jump in panic, not because of the alarm clock, but because your brain had not caught on to the fact the eyeballs are sending images but the hamster has not started the wheel yet. I have to imagine my face looked like Non in Superman II when he was trying to use his laser vision for the first time… but I was trying to figure out, “What the freak am I doing up at this hour?”

After realizing my plight, I shook the sleep out of my head and rolled over to found my son camped between us doing a predawn interpretive dance of “Guess Who Has The Most Real Estate On This Bed.” I was so far off the comfort top the drool had missed my pillow completely puddling under the nightstand. My poor wife fared much worse, she had a size 1-T upside her head giving her a little UFC good morning kiss. Fearing a possible beat down on Facebook by Brook’s wife for missing another “first day back in the pool,” the khakis and gazelles went on and I headed out.

Now I’ve swam for over 20 years, and have become accustomed to the walk of shame when reacquainting oneself with a group of chlorine junkies, but this morning was especially fitting since I was hitting the water after an eight month day-off. Only ex-swimmers will appreciate this; long course 100 IMs… I’ll leave it at that.

Now that my lungs are ripe, the back fat is in pain, and my head is full of thoughts of bedtime… I head to the closest chicken palace for grilled yard fowl and cold Lake Mead water.

Subway Saves Lives

Over the past ten years I have surfed the wave of weight gain and weight loss (most of the ride being on the crest), one eatery has been kept me company. Subway has been my primary ammunition to battle the bulge. When I lost 40 lbs in five months for our wedding, it was the foot long Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich that got me there.

As stated in an earlier post, hunger is my death spiral… so to combat the crippling urges to drop nougat centers like Mos Def drops conspiracy theories, I would partake in a sixer from the house Jared built around 10 in the morning and then repeat at 2 in the afternoon. The problem with 320 calories of goodness is the bloody rut caused by this day-in and day-out diet.

Not to say that I don’t eat other things during periods of weight lose – tuna, salmon, turkey, and pork are found on the family 40. Those animal groups are dinner products – Subway is purely a day tripper. Also, it’s the peace of mind knowing there are more Subways than Starbucks, Walgreens, and Wal-Marts combined in the lower 48.

There is nothing less motivating than staring down the Igloo’s contents of homemade salad and fruit bowl when the balance to the day is eight hours off. Inner 3rd grade Jarvis wakes up in cold sweat flash backs worried mom forgot his aluminum foil wrapped Dr Pepper and Twinkie on today’s field trip. Subway has talked me off of more Quarter Pounder #2 combo cliffs than memory serves.

Generations

My father and stepmother were in town for a convention this past week, which was great for them to see the kids and have some bounding time. However, I was sweating bullets when pops asked to go to breakfast yesterday… Now we Marlow’s loves some good old greasy belly fuel. So when he suggested Denny’s, my collective will power ran screaming down my rubber arm. Luckily they had a healthy choice selection with egg whites and turkey bacon, it was shaping up to be Kate Moss / Pete Doherty reunion.

As we were getting ready to leave the home of the Grand Slam my dad starts popping this medley of pills. Come to find out, a few weeks back the family M.D. informed our patriarch he was Type II diabetic. Great! My grandfather passed away because of undiagnosed diabetes, and now his son has it… This is one family heirloom I’m not accepting. Freaking Little Debbie snack cakes are killing the clane!

The Shakes

Having gone on the weight gain-loss roller coaster a few times in this Wally World excursion that has become of my life; one thing has become a cardinal rule… don’t get hungry!

When the shakes come on, not the meth slash alco detox kind, but the full body fat cell mutiny on the bounty, “I’ll kill a hostage every minute until I get food” type. Being on the run every minute of the day has lead me to some pretty crappy grease traps along to resort corridor.

There are many truths in Chubby Town population Me, Morgan Spurlock slapped me with one a few years back in his doc Super Size Me… Unhealthy food is cheap. In Fast Food Nation, they go on to tell us about the subsidizing of corn which is feed to calls instead of them grazing, resulting in higher fat content in the meat… I’m not one to get serious, but I gots to break this cycle of acting like a 16 year old with the metabolism of a humming bird.

Let the Game Begin

The alarm clock dropped a 5:30 am bomb... Luckily the drive to the gym was a straight mile from the house. It would've been hard to explain to the cops why I was driving with one eye caked in sleep and a bad knock off hair style circa Flock of Seagulls.

After a facilty raising 55 minute spin class, my lungs were drowning in flim and the fat thigh rub caused my club exit to be anything but a saunter. Where the freak is my egg whites and dry toast!

The Scope

Easy-E and I have decided to make this a no-holds-barred challenge… This will be the equivalent of the SNL skit “All Drug Olympics.” Our only exception is, if the winner dies within one month of the weigh-in, their body will be interred in a full maternity dress and the family’s name forever shamed for the disgrace of one.

The rules are simple; lose as much weight in 16 weeks, talk as much trash possible, and stay off the Malaysian Health Authority’s Top 10 most wanted list. Everything else is fair in love and war.

Unfortunate for me, moral and religious standards have removed an all cigarette and coffee diet as some have suggested. Unfortunate for Easy-E, he is a cop… Loves him some donuts and bear claws!

Please stay tuned to the posting of our official weigh-in and before photos (Easy-E is not pregnant, just retaining water).

JM

The Gauntlet

The gauntlet has been thrown down, and I accept it!

Scot “EZ-E” Eliot challenged yours truly to a 16 week crash diet, work out packed, trash talking weight loss juggernaut. Over the next four months EZ-E and I have placed several side bets on who will lose the most weight (percentage of course, E has a full two bits on me). We will explain the reasoning behind the wager and what E will have to do when I beat him… The lawyers are forcing me to use the correct wording, “What the loser will have to do when the other beats him.” Freaking blood suckers!

Stay tuned to the madness of two college buddies battling a decade worth of fast food, mid day naps, and general lethargy.

Jarvis "JT" Marlow