In the past half-decade since I last drivilled, the Western world has gone skinny. They've found that proverbial magic pill...ahem, hem... magic shot to shed the pounds with little work and fabulous results. Back in the day, the only shots that produced those results required a spoon and open flame. My skin is crawling with baby T-rexs, and I haven't slept since Mars, officer. Them there shots dropped teeth faster than an Irish street fighter looking to let off some Friday night steam.
This fat guy fears needles and loaths herds.
Thru the twenty-teens, many a weight-loss challenge was documented in this blog, of which the master of cynicism, The ODJ swore to stuff this digital rag into a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon, light it, and celebrate the flames if I dared to venture on another ill-fated program. Second only to loathing needles, I avoid firefighters at all costs. Pompus do-gooders, with their abundance of free time for workouts and Superman complexes. Nope, this is no longer a suppository of weight loss idioms; those days shall know no more. If you want weight-loss content, flip through any 50-something's social media page and let the pounds shed off.
I'm back in the pool displacing more water than a well-stocked aircraft carrier. If my personal dashboard doesn't light up like a Christmas tree, I'll be in the gym soon, dusting off the ODJ workouts for strength and flexibility. There was no threat of testing the blog's fire insurance by launching full gonzo into a tried-and-true swimming/weight-training program. However, I must avoid mentioning weight, weight loss, diet, dietary habits, food choices, photos of food choices, scales, photos of scales, pant size, pant choices, photos of pant choices, or Duke University -- any one of these words or compound phrases will result in more flaming cocktails being served up than a New York hipster bar.
