4:20

Since the early 1990s 4:20 has been slang for the recreational consumption of cannabis santiva -- originating from a group of 1971 California high school scholar-aficionados using the time as a code for partaking in the practice of burning trees. 4:20 is now something of a prayer call to the devil's lettuce. 

4:20 p.m. is for the stoners, while 4:20 a.m. is for the stupid. When I wake at 4:20 and partake in a completely different ritual it produces similar physiological effects as the toke bakers: elevated heart rate, dry mouth, bloodshot eyes, time distortion, an uncanny desire to talk to strangers, and definitely an extreme appetite. I'll take three corndogs, two bags of Funyuns, five napkins, hand full of these Pixie Sticks, and a 72oz Mello Yello with a side of extra mellow. Can you dig it, man!? Oh yeah, put the rest on pump six.

There is something about waking up at twenty past four, driving to a pool, jumping into "oh that's nippy" water, putting in 3500 yards, then driving home before most sane folks are thru their first snooze button cycle. (You ever wonder why snoozes are nine minutes long?) My drive home has feelings similar to a key 4:20 trait; euphoria. Except if I get pulled over by a cop it's not a felony DWI stop, it's because I'm probably driving ten under the speed limit in the fast lane with my left turn signal on. No sir, I haven't been smoking, and that's not chloroform you're smelling. That is chlorine and good decisions.

I need a nap.  

Water + Weights = _________

Oh, the sweet sound of keys clacking on the keyboard. Has it really been five years? No Fat Jokes Please still stands! Doesn't stand for much these days. Heck, I don't stand for much more these days either; the occasional shuffle to the frig or to check if the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes van has arrived. Little good in the frig and still no Ed McMahon.  

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.