HermTheWorm’s B.L.O.G.

In my gym there are 5 or 6 guys who really bust their asses and are there every single ding dong day as I am.

There may be 3 or 4 on the periphery whom I see often who I also respect, but not as much as the aforementioned guys.

Because, I also secretly kind of LIKE the 5 or 6 guys, who are a very disparate group of fellows, indeed.

"Like" being very distinct from "admire", as "The Monster" is the only one I truly admire and am in total awe of; and "secretly" like instead of like outright, because I concentrate one hundred and seventy five percent in the gym and if I start talking to any of them, knowing the chatty, gregarious guy that I am, my workouts will go down the toilet from that day hence.

So mums da’ woid.

Among the first group there is this very large 23 year old-ish kid. About six foot two, ruddy cheeks and a little chin spinach that he is barely able to grow. Peach fuzz if you will. He has reddish brown medium curly hair and is not exactly sliced, maybe 15% bodyfat.

This kid is there every day at the same time as me, busting his over-sized Gerber baby-looking, ruddy-cheeked ass. He lifts really heavy and does high volume. Set after set after set. He combines doing deadlifts for reps with 315 pounds with walking lunges across the gym floor with 35 pounds. An odd combination to say the least.

But as I said, he looks like a good-natured kid and works hard and minds his own business and I see him there every day. I kind of feel sorry for him because he is a little chubby (Cherubic), but I think he wants to be a powerlifter and not an Adonis like yours truly, so to each his own.

Last week (It’s been a while since I blogged) I had taken off my shirt pre-work in the locker room, as I have been given to do these days as that is my one and only enjoyment in my spartan life: Walking around bronzed and hard as a rock like a tanned statue among the mortals (All hail Hermanicus!); when I went to the sink area to put water in my shaker filled with ice (Oh, I forgot, My other indulgence–I bring ice from home so that I can sip ice-cold water all workout long. Pure bliss. Better than sex.) I spotted the over-sized Gerber baby at the sink area behind me. I paid him no mind and went about filling my shaker, but he obviously saw me shirtless for the first time.

It must have been biceps day for him, too, because when I was at the preacher curl station ready to do my first set of triple drop preacher curls, followed by one minute of hard bicep flexing isometrics and doing my pre-set prayer (How appropriate, at a preacher curl bar) I hear a voice saying.

"Excuse me, sir."

I open my eyes and unclasp my hands and look over.

It’s the big baby.

"Do you think you could give me a spot for curls, if you don’t mind? Oh, I see your doing a set, maybe after your set?"

"No, no." I say in a semi-friendly kind of way. "Once I start doing my thing, I’m locked and loaded. Let me do it now."

He was on a kind of preacher curl Nautilus that you load plates on (Nautilus. Feh. But he had a hella’ lot of wieght on it). I said to him that I didn’t know how to spot him on that thing, but to just go ahead and I’ll figure it out. (I’m a Mensan and sh!t.)

He went to failure and I spotted him for two more reps. One more he asked. One more he got. One more. Okay, he got another. One more, he grunted. His ruddy face was now beet red. Stick a fork in him. He was done.

He was trying to impress me because I never saw him work that hard.
So that was that.

I wondered why after a year, he asked me to spot him for the first time after seeing me shirtless in the locker room? He was very respectful, almost sheepish with me.

My only guess is that I was kind of his hero and the locker room quasi-encounter sealed the deal.

Cool. (He did not seem gay, incidentally.)

Then today happened.

Unbelievable.

Yes sir, that is the word of the day, say the secret word and divide a hundred dollars (As if any of you are going to get that).

Let’s take it from the top. I’m shot.

I have nothing in the tank. I did an hour of intense cardio this morning and am in severe calorie deficit and haven’t had over 15 grams of carbs in a week. I’ve been working out like a mad Jew and running on a less than a full tank (I play with a less than full deck). I didn’t know how I was going to get through my routine this night.

I tried every mental trick in my little Hermie booklet; but at the end of the day, I said what I always say to myself when this happens:

"If you can just get it done…If you can just get it done. God f-cking Dammit Herm, you’ve GOT to get it done."

…And off I went.

I did my grueling incline work and super heavy shoulder shrugs (I no longer have traps like a 12 year old boy, however, somehow I have managed to retain the maturity level of a 12 year old boy. Boyah!), about 13 sets in all, that most would call a workout, but that is my warm-up, and headed off to start my REAL workout on the bench.

Flies with 85  pounds to failure, followed by picking up two 55’s quickly and doing that to failure, followed immediately by benching 165 for as many reps as I can, racking it, waiting ten seconds, pumping out two more, racking, ten seconds, pumping out two more, etc; until I am a heaving, sweaty mess. Then, without resting I flex my pecs for a minute or until I can’t hold it anymore.

After my first set (I do four with as little rest as possible in between before moving on to other torture), these two huge Brooklyn Guido Italian guys who I see from time to time and marvel at how much they lift, saunter over to me.

What the…

Build it and they will come. And they are starting to come.

"You…" Said the taller of the two. He paused for emphasis "Work out really hard."

The shorter but wider guy said,

"What, d’you press and stop and start again?"

"Yes, that’s what I do, I pre-exhaust first and then do rest/pause technique." I said between huffing and puffing.

The taller guy who had a heavy Brooklyn accent said.

"Really hard."  And walked away shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

Holy mother of God.

Unbelievable?

I knew that my workouts were unbelievable, but to hear this from a huge, hard-core, tough guys, who I have respected for some time was just like…Wow.

Un-F-cking-Believable.

Me. Little old me.

Not so little anymore, but still as old as f-cking dirt.

Let me tell you: Remember in "How The Grinch stole Christmas" when The Grinch was not strong enough to save the sled at the top of the mountain and then the spirit of Christmas hits him and he gets as strong as ten Grinches?

I all of a sudden got as strong as ten Herms. I think I may have even exceeded the 175 percent intensity that I usually do, just in case they were watching (they were).

I would have made it through the workout anyway, but instead of chugging through it like a Volkswagen, I motored through it like a f-cking loco (Emphasis on the "loco".) motive (Motive as in "Motivated son of a bitch") .

I have built my body and honed it to the point where people are beginning to come up to me. People that I respect.

Getting respect from people I respect (Hmmm, nice tagline for something).

As Aretha Franklin would say R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Just a little bit…Just a little bit…

Unbelievable.

Maybe I should start thinking about losing the "Un".

As I head into the home stretch preparing for my photos for the hot body search, I’ve been doing something I don’t ordinarily do.

I’m paying attention to the girls in the gym.

After all, in a way they are my competition. In a way. Sort of. Not that I have any competition.

I’m not talking about the girl’s with vaginas (Am I allowed to say that word? If not, I can use a more acceptable term, such as pussys) I’m talking about the girls I see on the gym floor and in the locker room. Those girls.

The ones that lift light weights like girls and work out with the intensity of girls. They dress like girls and are not drenched in sweat like girls. They don’t talk to themselves and curse and pump their fists and clap and slam weights bouncing off the rubber mats when they are finished with sets like girls.

In my book, AND that’s the only book that counts on MY Bodyspace page(s), they are GIRLS.

Just for the record, there is nothing wrong with girls, or even women. I prefer them to men in many ways. Ways far too filthy to mention on my pristine, oh-so-virgin blogs.

Yes, I have been checking out these girlies while I work out. I have a far better body than most of them and this causes me no small amount of consternation. If I am to win this contest I need to have a far better body than ALL of them.

Some of them, or so I imagined, were a little too close to me, physique-wise. I needed to put some more distance between myself and "them".

I think I have achieved this.

I have taken to (uncharacteristically–Not that I am modest, quite the opposite. I believe they are not worthy of gazing upon my rippedness) taking of my shirt in the locker room and going to the sink area to get water for my post workout shakes. I believe I have body dismorphia. A lot of the guys who I thought had bodies almost as good as mine on the gym floor, where I am wearing a ton of clothes, when seen next to me reflected in the mirror, are NOT even in my universe. It’s like a real life side by side comparison that I do in my progress section.

Blown the f-ck away. Man versus boy, as age-wise it is somewhat the case.

I am putting some distance between myself and the rest of the pack.

The girls.

On Sunday night, while sipping my shake and admiring my awesomely awesome awesomeness in the mirror, an ordinary looking Chinese fellow (Ha! You thought I was going to say Chinaman, didn’t you?) came up to me.

"You drink shake a lot?"

When I’m not working out I’m a very affable young man. Only I’m not young. Not even close.

"Every meal these days except for dinner. But you gotta’ add a lot of stuff to make it a complete meal. Greenfood powders, fiber powder, et cetera."
"How long you been working out?"
"My whole life on and off half-assed. Then I let myself go and started hot and heavy about a year ago; so I’d say a year."
"Wow, you have…Wow…The muscle…Nice."
"Yeah, well, thanks."

He shuffles away. Obviously awestruck (And can you blame him?).

Groovy, I thought to myself. Of all the guys in the gym, he chooses ME to single out as a WTF. It’s nice to be singled out in your gym as a WTF. I’ve always aspired to WTFdom. This bodes well for the upcoming body search. Oh yeah. The muscle. Nice.

The next day is my dreaded leg day. I am doing heavy squats and I notice this big strapping 240 poundish black guy with a tight white tee shirt and uber tight white tights. He was lifting really heavy a few stations away from me, and I thought to myself "Man, this guy is big and bad, but that get-up he’s wearing is like super duper Gee-Ay-Why. I’m tempted to go up to him and tell him that, but he looks like a serious lifter and serious lifters are all my brothers, so whatever."

A few sets later he comes up to me.

"I see you’ve isolated two 45 pound plates at the very end of the bar, does that do anything different than keeping them all together? I’ve never seen that before."

Oh. My. God. (!!!) :-0

I should have known from the outfit. Here in New york, a lot of the gay guys, if you look at them, seem rough and tumble. But when they open their mouths…

This guy was off the charts gay. I was tempted to run to the fire extinguisher to put out the flames.

"Oh no, it doesn’t change the way it affects your legs. I keep those plates at the end so when I do the drop set, it’s easier to get off the bar and drop to the floor. Saves time."

"Oh, oh I see." He lisps, and skips away.

About an hour later, I am STILL doing legs. I’m on the hack squat machine, those things must have been invented in medieval times. Pure torture. And wouldn’t you know it? Mister chocolate Richard Simons on steroids walks over to me. I take off my headphones.

"Are you training for a contest?" He asks.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Symmetry." He says "You have amazing symmetry. I can even see it through all those clothes."

(OMG! I wonder what else he can see through "All those clothes"?)

:-o

"When I go to a contest, I can pick them right out on stage." He points daintily with his index finger to imaginary guys on stage "First, second, third, fourth. And they always finish that way. You have amazing symmetry."
"Thanks." I say "You made my day. I’m not like other guys who try to pile on where they are strong, I always work especially hard on my weaknesses."

[Note to French_Pedi: I no longer have traps "like a 12 year old boy". Wisenheimer.]

"Oh, you’re going to do so well. I can always tell." and he skips away. Again.

So two days and two guys have singled me out from the rest of the herd. As I look over my shoulder, the distance between me and the girls is starting to widen. Soon they will be a spec on the horizon, and then, poof. Gone in a cloud of dust.

My motto: There can only be one.

Hermanicus, the great and masterful one.

All hail Hermanicus.

No, I have no problem with girls, but sometimes it’s good when they keep their distance.

Winkety wink wink.

Postscript: There is a guy in my gym I call “The Monster” who has a MUCH better physique than me (Yes, that is possible) in every capacity. Bigger, more cut, more aesthetic, he’s taller than me…And get this…He has smaller hips/waist than me and a smaller more pokey-outy butt than I do. I refuse to acknowledge him as a human being, but seeing him–and he is there every single f-cking day just like me–inspires the living f-ck out of me.

PostPostscript: These days I play this on my ipod on my way out of the locker room and through the gym. I stop along the mirrored wall and look at myself still sweating profusely, point at my chest then make the number one sign, then proceed to the street and hop in a cab with this still playing.

Baby, I’m the best. You better believe it.

When this happens, don’t be a rude ass.

Placate me.

I’m such an egotistical son of a bitch, I’ll never know if you’re being sarcastic or not.

So f-cking do me a huge favor and pretend my blogs are funny.

Just the way you chicks out there pretend to have orgasms.

If you’re too socially inept to know how to fake laughter, here is a brief tutorial for your edification.

I don’t care if you’re laughing with me or at me, just laugh, okay?

Okay?

Laugh. Laugh at the Jew. Jews are funny, right?

It’s not like I ask for gynocologically explicit naked pictures from the women on this site.

(Okay, I do, but that’s not the God damn point.)

By now, most of you have had the…Ummm…Pleasure of seeing my lipsync videos.

I got a call from my mother the other day, it went something like this:

"Hello?"
"Hello, @sshole."
"Mom? I thought I told you I didn’t want you in my life in any capacity, you whore."
"I know, but I found this video of you when you were a kid doing that stupid f-cking lip-syncing that you love so much. You moron. You’re just like your father."
"Why are you blaming me for my father, yet again? I can’t help it that he’s my father. You made the choice to marry him. At 17. Take some responsibility, for once in your life. Two high school drop outs. Jesus, you worthless pieces of sh!t deserve each other. I pray every night that maybe I was secretly adopted, so you are not really my parents."
"And I wish I had you aborted, f-ckface. Do you want the f-cking video or not?"
"Sure, e-mail it to me at MyMotherEatsFeces.Com"
"Okay, I will. Oh, and Steven, I hope you die."
"I hate you too, @sshole."

So now, from deep within the achieves is my very first attempt at lip syncing to music in front of the computer.

I don’t wear glasses anymore, I wear contacts.

Enjoy.

Oh yeah.

And while we’re on the subject of lip sync videos, this one really rankles my ass.

How the f-ck does a doughy, effeminate, loser like this get a girl with such great tits?

Don’t answer that.

I walk down the street every day and see this phenomenon for myself.

Guys who are good-looking, built and obviously heterosexual are concidred "a threat".

A threat to do what? To NOT hang out in men’s rooms and ask "Hey sailor, lonely?"

What. The. F-ck.

Oh, how I hate the world we live in so much.

God, is going to spite me and make me live to be 150 years old as some sort of cruel joke.

Note to guy in video: Cut off those 90210 sideburns, take off those ear rings and give them back to your mom (along with her panties that you are probably wearing) stop eating cuchi fritos and get your doughy ass to a gym. You do NOT deserve a girl with a rack like that.

If I were single in this day and age, I’d be sitting home polishing the flagpole every night.

This rant is now officially over. Chest and back today.

Harumph!

P.S. The guy is wearing an ear ring in BOTH ears. I’m so out of step with what’s cool today. Blissfully out of step.

On Friday I did my cardio in the morning, stumbled home and got a little work done while simultaneously farting around here.

Before I knew it, it was time for my grueling bi-weekly Chest and back day.

Prior to doing my thing (God, how I love those groovy 60’s expressions), I went over to the gym’s sink area to take off my shirt and spray Skulpt on my chest.

Then I rub AIFM estrogen inhibitor on my chest as well.

I spare no expense nor leave any stone unturned in my pursuit of physical perfection.

I was admiring myself in the mirror and feeling a little self-satisfied, and then something happened to me that never happen to me before in my life. I was feeling kind of (Just kind of) guilty that I was being such a peacock when there are other guys who are trying to look good but–to be brutally honest–will never look anywhere near the way I do.

I actually felt sorry for them.

The cold hard facts are that I put a lot, an awful lot more time, effort and intensity into what I do then they do. I do everything balls out, even when I drank, I did that with more intensity than anyone on the planet. I also know pretty much everything there is to know about sports nutrition and never, I mean NEVER go off point with my diet from Sunday through Friday afternoon. I don’t drink. Ever. Nor do I ever eat sugar or processed foods. I choke down handfuls of supplements. If those guys want to look like look me, then, by gum, let the pay the proverbial piper. Right?

Yet…Somehow, I felt badly for the poor, average gym guys and prematurely put my shirt on.

I never feel guilty over sh-t.

I’ve earned every f-cking thing I ever got in this life, from putting myself through college to landing my first Job in advertising by beating out 1,500 applicants in the Dancer Fitzgerald Sample talent search.  My "Mother" kicked me out of the house when her boyfriend, who was four years older than me, said it was either me or him, and of course it was me. Before that I had a stepfather who used to beat the living sh-t out of me on a regular basis and call me "Little Jewboy" which was slightly better or slightly worse then the "Hey, @sshole" that my wonderful mother would call me. Hey mom, if you’re reading this (I don’t speak to her) Guess what? I turned out to be an @sshole after all.

{Sidebar: People say the same thing to me so often–because people are stupid sheep programmed to think and walk and talk alike, unlike yours truly–"Hey, you know, you only have one mother." (Thankfully), that I have a stock answer to that idiocy. I say "Yes, one mother, ten fingers, ten toes, one dick and two balls. What’s your f*cking point?" Or when some imbecile says "You can’t choose your mother."  (Gee, I never thought about it that way) I reply "Yes, but I can choose the f-ck yours." I don’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, they are the ones who wind up doing the suffering. Better to let a sleeping (Jew) dog lie. Woof woof!}

Yes, nobody ever gave me God-damn f-cking sh-t in my life, if you exclude broken noses and concussions; and I wouldn’t have it any other way, either. I do not look at the world through rose-colored glasses, and yet enjoy each and every day to the max. Living well, is truly the best revenge. It’s a cliche because it’s true. F-ck the world, that’s my motto.

I never feel guilty. The world can come up to my opulent, palatial penthouse single file and kiss my well-muscled ever so black, Jewish ass.

Yet…There I was. Feeling guilty.

Me of all people.

Who’da thunk it?

Consequently, I put my tee shirt on and then put on my sweatshirt over that, as I like to generate maximum body heat while working out and began my slow, gunfighter-like gait down the stairs, when all of a sudden I hear, at least I think I hear, "Excuse me."

Annoyed, I pull off my blaringly loud headphones and look in the direction of the "Excuse me".

It is an excruciatingly handsome, 6′2"-ish 24 year oldish black guy.

"Do you compete?" He asked. He was really polite and well-spoken, unlike most of the vermin in my gym.

"Uh, well, No. But I am going to compete in the Wilhelmina hot body search. Do you compete I asked?" I knew the answer was no, because he’s a successful model, and if you saw him you’d probably recognize him. So he tells me the obvious:

"No, I model. But hey. The way you train. I mean, man, you train so hard."

"Yeah? You noticed?" I said,  I just thought people thought I was a lunatic, which, of course, I am.

"Look" I said to him with a smile "You can’t compete against me in that contest, it’s for amateurs and you are a professional."

He smiled and held his hands up "Hell no, I wouldn’t want to compete against you. No way. Have a great work-out."

What. The. F-ck.

I’m used to working myself into a controlled rage before my work outs and here’s this guy coming over to me and flattering me in a way that I could not believe.

There is nothing anyone can say that could have been more complimentary.

Seriously. Especially coming from someone like him.

I didn’t know how to initially approach the Olympic bar to begin my work out. I was somewhat disoriented. I was flattered and someone was being nice to me. Isn’t that a kick in the pants. This coming right on the heels of me having my first guilty experience of my life.

I went through my workout running on positive energy.

A first.

It wasn’t the best work out of my life nor the worst, but it certainly was the strangest.

Sometimes you get days like these.

Weird.

I am training so hard, so often, and with such a calorie deficit that, yup, my old nemesis, the thought that "Maybe you’re too old for this, Herm" is trying to work it’s way back into my head. I have found the simple "My dick is too old."  reply not cutting it as well as it used to to chase that nasty thought out of my head.

I need to get a little more creative with using "my dick" to eradicate the  ludicrous thought that maybe I might, in fact, be getting a little too old.

So, whenever that thought tries to work it’s way back into my consciousness, I’m using a series of jokes and riddles to send it away.

It seems to be working.

Here are a few:

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because it was a female chicken and it wanted to see my dick.

Why do firemen wear red suspenders?
Because my dick won’t hold up their pants.

What’s black and white and red all over?
My dick with a checkerboard pattern after Lorena Bobbit got a hold of it.

Why do Jews have big noses?
To compensate for the fact that their dicks aren’t as big as mine.

Why do black guys have big dicks?
They don’t. I do.

Why do Chinamen pull rickshaws?
Because I won’t let them pull my dick.

What did Tarzan say when he heard the elephants coming?
Their dick’s are almost as big as Herm’s.

A rabbi, an Indian chief and a midget walk into a bar, the bartender takes one look at them and says "Herm has a bigger dick than all three of you."

A traveling salesman stops by a farmers house. He knocks on the door and asks the farmer if he can spend the night. The farmer says "No, Herm’s dick is already sleeping in my spare bed."

What time is it when an elephant sits on the fence?
Time for my dick.

Take my dick. Please.

What do you get when you cross an octopus with a python?
My dick. Only instead of testicles, it has tentacles.

So, folks, that is how I’ve been chasing that nasty thought that I may be too old to train the way I do these days out of my head.

Hey, whatever works, right?

Oinkity, oink, oink.

P.S. The vagina monologues were so successful, I’m thinking about doing one called "Monologues about my dick."  (Catchy title.)

Broadway will never be the same.

Exactly one year ago I made my transformation from 47 year old guy who hadn’t worked out in 3 years and whose best days were behind him to the guy I am today.

And I will remain the guy I am today until they put me in my stainless steel casket in an above the ground stone mausoleum with stained glass windows.

Perhaps the guy I am today was dormant in me and needed to be brought out or maybe I had undergone an apotheosis.

I was there; and now I am here, and that is the only thing that matters to me.

I hated there. I love here. End of story.

Time to rewind to middle of story.

This morning–and I’ll let you know why in a bit–I was thinking about some of the work outs that got me from there to here and what was going through my head.

To make such a dramatic change in my physicality in seven weeks took an effort that I had never put forth before, and this coming from a guy who, before my three year rut, was was known as the Pete Rose of advertising. I wasn’t always the most talented, but I was going to get to the office before you, work through lunch and leave after you.

Weekends? What’s a weekend?

I knew what effort was going into my transformation.

I thought  I did.

There were days, most days, that the pain and fatigue, both physical and mental, had me thinking to myself, "You know Herm, maybe you’re too old for this."

NO!

I would literally get off the bench I was sitting on whenever that went through my head and shout "No!" and slam my fist into my palm.

I’d pace up and down thinking to myself "If you’re are too old, buddy, this is end game. You can go home now and be an old fart. You’ll never walk down the street feeling good about yourself again. You’ll never wake up feeling energized and ready to kick the world’s ass again.

All the highs will be gone from your life. Enjoy the rest of your life of mediocrities and lows. Maybe your old ass can’t handle the highs anymore."

As it turned out I wasn’t too old. It was my mind playing tricks on me.

That’s what the mind does, at least mine did.

It would have been easy to walk out of the gym and thrown in the towel. I’m sure if I sat down with anybody and told them of my failed attempt, they would have patted me on my unmuscled back and said "That’s okay, Gramps, you’re 47 years old. What do you expect?"

No! Expect my dick!

I was going to come back! All the way back! like my hero John Holmes, bigger and better than ever!

(I recorded my voice saying dramatically: "HermTheWorm Is back, bigger and better than ever!" and mixed it into a lot of my workout music on my ipod).

I kind of liked the thought of that.

Even though I was on the  precipice of quitting, I was using imagery of porn and my big dick to keep me going.

Ya’ gotta’ use what ya’ got, right?

Maybe I wasn’t too old, after all. I still possessed the juvenile mind of a 12 year old.

Yes. I was getting through workouts. Mind over matter, or in this case, dick over matter.

With a lot of guys the little head controls the big head.  I was going to work this to my advantage.

On subsequent days, whenever I’d feel too pained and fatigued to go on, and that nasty little "Maybe I’m too old for this" business would creep into my head, I’d immediately send it to it’s room without supper by saying:

"No, my DICK is too old."

Turns out, I wasn’t too old. My mind was just looking  for an excuse, any excuse to avoid the physical pain.

The mind will play tricks with you like that. I had to make my mind my bitch.

I’m too old? My ficking dick is too old.

Take that mind.

Dissed and dismissed. Owned and DE throned. Negative thoughts: Punked.

Fast forward to last night.

I was feeling sorry for myself because my hip injury that has lingered for four months has not only caused a minor atrophy in my leg muscles, and now they are slightly less developed than my upper body, but one leg is visibly more developed than the other.

This with the Wilhelmina hot body search around the corner.

It’s human nature to feel sorry for yourself when things like this happen.

I am not human.

I am a deity. Irving Sexbaum. The Jewish God of Love.

My legs ficking got that way. They are going to UNget that way.

Feeling sorry for myself time over.

See ya’, wouldn’t want to be ya’.

Failure is not an option, Herm. Are those empty words on your Bodyspace page or are you going to live it?

I am going to hit those legs with everything including the proverbial kitchen sink.

I will work them until I can’t walk. Then I am going to haul my sweaty ass off the gym floor and hit those cocksuckers again.

Legs, I am going to tear your ficking heart out and stomp on it, scrap it off the floor and eat it.

Legs, be sure to grow another heart for the next workout, because sure as sh-t I’m going to do that very same thing to you again the next work out.
And again and again and again.

I have a sound bite of a mad scientist from a cheesy 50’s movie saying this on my ipod to his newly created monster:

"You must learn to obey!"

That’s how I feel about my body. You must learn to obey!

Legs. You must learn to obey! Bee-yotch.

I am going to keep coming at you again and again like the terminator.

The Terminator is a piker compares to the Hermanator.

Incidentally, about my dick being too old?

It was just a set of words I used to get me through my workouts.

Fear not, my dick is bigger and better than ever.

(Veinier too!)

My naked DVD box sets aren’t selling as briskly as I’d like and I don’t want to do anything to hinder their sales.

I’ve added an extra "Hermo The Perverted Clown" DVD to the set for no additional charge, so get out your checkbooks and order today.

Two insane workouts.

Done.

I am going to win this. I have this in my crosshairs. Wish me luck:

Here are all the details you need to enter the Wilhelmina Hot Body Model Search presented by Shape and Men’s Fitness. You can enter in person at open call events, by mail or online.

The Wilhelmina Hot Body Model Search presented by Shape and Men’s Fitness starts August 17, 2009 and ends November 30, 2009. Each entry requires a completed Official Entry Form, a current photo and a $20 non-refundable processing fee. The Wilhelmina Hot Body Model Search presented by Shape and Men’s Fitness is open to men and women who are legal residents of the 50 United States and the District of Columbia (void where prohibited) and who are 18 years of age or older as of November 30th, 2009; no height or size restrictions. Subject to Official Rules.

Some of you folks have me on your inspirational list.

It’s time for me to STFU and earn it.

Incidentally,  BB.Com friends and all guys pushing 50.

This one’s for you.

"Being defeated is often a temporary condition.
Giving up is what makes it permanent."

_Marlene vos Savant