It makes me want to vomit.

Because in this day and age it’s supposed to be a bad thing to be "Judgmental", which is major bull f-cking sh!t. The real thing that is supposed to be so terrible is to let your "judgment" be known; for having enough balls to express what you think; to have a (Gasp!) opinion; lest someone think that you’re–Bigger gasp!–opinionated. If someone thought you were opinionated, most of you would break down and have a good cry…or worse. Don’t say no, because it’s true. My bullsh!t detector is 100 percent spot-on infallable.

It’s a funny thing about judgment. Sheeple make hundreds of judgments every day. We judge what we want to eat for breakfast, we make a judgment about how we get our news or if we even want to be informed at all. We make judgments to go to work or not work and what kind of work we do.

Whoever interviews you for a job sure as sh!t makes a judgment. Your spouse made a judgment to be with you. Or eventually not. People with kids make judgments about who their kids play with and where they go to school. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Don’t f-cking tell me you don’t make judgments, especially judgments about people, because you f-cking do. Everyone does. It’s impossible to come away from an encounter with another human being without making a judgment.

Do you like this blog? Hate it? Feel ambivalent about it? Either way, you’re making a judgment; so let’s stop pretending that people are or aren’t judgmental, because everybody is.

The crux of the matter is that when people say they aren’t judgmental, they are really saying is that they don’t voice their negative opinions about someone or something. Negative. Opinions.

If someone said "Wow, that Herm sure is a swell fellow." or "Doesn’t that Herm have a magnificent physique?", no one would call that judgmental; but lest someone say anything negitive "Don’t you think Herm is too obsessed with his looks?" or "Don’t you think Herm’s videos are stupid?" (He is and they are) and whammo. They’re being judgmental.

So this is what we’ve established. Being judgmental doesn’t actually mean someone exercises judgment, because we need to make judgments every day in order to survive.

And being Judgmental doesn’t include making positive judgments. You don’t call someone who goes around all day saying nice things about people "Judgmental".

Lastly, Judgmental isn’t about making negative judgments about people and keeping them to yourself. If that were the case, no one would know if you were judgmental or not.

No, "judgmental" is having a negative opinion about someone or something and making that opinion known.

So here’s the smaller point:

I have a negative opinion about 99.9 percent of the human population and I let it be known. And if someone doesn’t like it, they can lump it.  Until that becomes illegal, and we are headed in that direction with so-called "hate speech" a definition that can (And I assure you WILL) be expanded and expanded and expanded until you can’t say bloody sh!t without being hauled off to jail. 1984 hear we come. (I’d source this, but if your that uninformed, I’m not going to wipe your ass for you.)

The stigma behind being Judgmental is the stigma of not being "nice" in this horrible era of so-called political correctness; giving the appearance of not being nice (Because only sociopaths are nice one hundred percent of the time) is anathema. I’ve yet to meet a truly one hundred percent "Nice" person (The wife being an anomaly and not nice on rare occasions). I’ve met plenty that put up the facade of nicesness (Which is easy as f-cking pie to do on the internet). Plenty. But once I get to know them, they are rotten just like everyone else. I have no problem with this line of thinking as I’m often given to utter the phrase: "I ask so very little from people…and that’s exactly what I get."

Now, YOU may live in the land of rainbows and lollipops (Prozac, Xanax, zoloft is a multi-BILLION dollar industry, yet no one admits taking them. Pffft. People are such lying scum. Feh.), and that’s fine with me; AND you may have a problem with me thinking the way I do (If you DO, get a f-cking life, who gives a sh!t what I think).

So, be judgmental about me. Judge me. Go ahead.

That is the larger point.

Why do people care if they’re judged or not? Are they that insecure? Rhetorical question. Most sheeple are horribly insecure and rigid conformists. They really care what people think of them. Not a news bulletin. That’s why insecure people are so off-put about my bravado. It makes them realize how ****ty they feel about themselves and rather then improve themselves, they take the easy way out and lash out at me. As if me being cocky had any bearing on their miserable, worthless lives (It actually does, it makes them see their own insecurities. Why else would they care about my braggadocio? Because they are such "wonderful" people and taking me down a peg will make the world a better place? Pffft. We know the truth. People are jealous scum. Everyone knows this, some people are just in denial.)

I would love.

Love, love, love.

For someone to make a judgment about me. Love. But it has to be on MY terms. Don’t judge me in a cowardly way, from the shadows. Sit down with me mano e mano and give me your judgment of me.

Consequently, I will then give my judgment of you.

Think you’re better than me? That’s you’re prerogative, @sshole, cause guess what? I think I’m better than you.

Let’s sit down and go back and forth over a list of things. MY list of things; and we’ll see who measures up and who doesn’t. Judge me until the f-cking cows come home. I’m not an insecure mess. I like myself just the way I am.

Judge away. You think you’re bulletproof? we’ll see.

Yes, remember. When you’re done judging me. It’s my turn to judge you. Let’s see who cracks. I don’t pull my punches.

So in conclusion. I think everyone is judgmental, they are just too spineless to let their opinions be known and I don’t have a problem with being judged, as I don’t give a rat’s ass what someone living a life of relative obscurity (the great unwashed) thinks of me. I actually think it would be fun to be judged, because that afford me the opportunity to completely level some poor slob into oblivion. Happy times!

No judgments? Give me a f-cking break ovah’ heah.

Postscript: I always did,  do and will continue to care about what clients and bosses think of me. If you’re putting money in my pocket, I sure as sh!t care what you think of me, if not, hit the f-cking bricks, pal. Cynical? You bet your ass.

Postpostscript: After proofreading this, I noticed that I sound exactly like Alec Baldwin in Glengary Glenross, which is interesting because that is the voice I have inside my head and the way that I talk to myself internally.  "Herm, you want to keep drinking? You f-cking pussy, go ahead, salute. drink up, you loser." or "Herm, you gonna’ sit by the fireplace and pet your dog like a pussy or are you going to get your sorry ass to the gym? Hit the f-cking bricks, buddy. " When I saw this scene in Glengary Glenross it was like: "Oh my God! There’s my inner voice! Right there on the big screen! I’m friggin’ famous!"

Mwhahahaha!

After my little potential arm wrestling experience yesterday, I came to the gym armed. Approach Herm with extreme caution as he is considered armed and extremely childish. Roger. Over and out (of the closet).

Evil obsessive compulsive disorder genius that I am, I put "Go away little girl" on all my workout playlists. This way, whenever I caught sight of anyone who was acting even remotely gay, I’d go for my ipod in a way that would make a wild west gunfighter envious and bang! Hit "Go away little girl". Whammo. Salvation.

I added my own juvenile, sophomoric touch to this. When they sang "Go away little girl" followed by the chorus of  "Oh, go away, little girl"  I’d sing my own chorus under my breath of "Oh, don’t be gay, little girl."

It was beautiful.

Go away little girl. Oh, don’t be gay little girl.

Yup. works for me.

I have turned lemons into lemonade again. Instead of finding them to be a source of agitation and revulsion, they were now objects of my amusement and derision.

I’d mouth the words, "Go away little girl, Oh, don’t be gay, little girl." and smile at at the nearest butt pirate.

Not a cordial, friendly smile. Oh, noooooooo.

This was a Fench_Pedi smile.

An evil, self-satisfied "I am so much better than you and smarter than you and everything better than you and thank God I’m ME and not YOU smile." I wish I could conjour that up on cue. I’d have had 3 less concussions and two less broken noses in my life.

But wait!

It gets better.

The horrible, losery chicks in my gym who find no workout complete unless they can do lateral raises with 2 pound weights five inches from my face got a little something, too. Instead of ignoring them, as I usually do and as all decent-looking fit guys have done to them their whole lives; hence the reason that they are so f-cking desperate for attention: any kind of attention. Please! Pay attention to me! Hit me, curse me! Do something! Anything!

Yeah, them.

Well, there is a part of the song which goes: "When you are near me like this, you’re much too hard to resist." So now whenever one of these harpies violated my personal space, what did I do?

You guessed it.

Old western gunfighter mode. Bang! out comes the old ipod.

It’s time for "Go away little girl" again. But THIS time, when they sing "When you are near me like this" (And they are too f-cking near to me) "You’re much too hard to resist." I mouth my own lyrics. "When you are near me like this, I want to give you my dick."

And of course the smile, that is misconstrued as a flirty smile, but those of you who know me know better.

I’m sure all the gay guys and women went home from the gym tonight thinking "That sweaty, intense, horrible guy, isn’t such a bad egg after all. And all this time I thought he was a f-cking tool."

But we know better, faithful blog readers, don’t we?

(Wink, wink.)

"No. You. Do. Not." Said my wife in mock horror. I think it was mock horror, who knows, maybe it was real.

"Donny Osbourne is cool." Said my youngest nephew. They’re all Irish, not a Jew in the bunch…And it shows.

"No." I corrected him, "You’re thinking of Ozzy Osbourne and he is decidedly uncool."

"You’re right, Uncle Steve, He’s not cool." They kiss my ass because they know I get them amazing Christmas presents, they’re not that dumb.

"I have ‘Muskrat Love’ on my ipod because it’s cute and it makes me feel good and I have ‘Go away little girl’ on my ipod, because it reminds me of when I was a smart-ass kid. When another boy would say something that I found annoying, I would turn my head away and sing ‘Go away little girl" while motioning for him to go away with the back of my hand as I sang."

So, Herm, what the f-ck does this have to do with the f-cking price of tea in China, you’re probably thinking.

Hold your horses. Or better yet, hold my dick. It’s bigger than a horses, or so I’ve been told.

I’m at the gym tonight and have nothing in the tank. I have been burnt-out since I took those photos last Saturday. I even took two days off from the gym in the last 15 days which is verboten for me. Doing an hour of cardio every morning followed by two and a half hours of lifting every night for almost two months will do that to you. It has nothing to do with my age, incidentally. So don’t even think that or I will kill you and your family and your people and the people they represent.

Sue them, too. I know a great lawyer from this site who will help me. He’s ruthless. A little drug-addled, but ruthless.

So there I am on the bench about to do my four monster sets for chest after already having done 6 sets of incline benches and 5 sets of shrugs, three of them of the heavy dropset variety. I’m looking at these four which I literally have to say prayers between sets to get through and then 8 more sets of chest movements after that.

Then back.

There was no way back was going to happen this night. I said to myself I’ll do back tomorrow and push everything forward and lose my off day on Sunday and I’ll be back on track.

I’m thinking this when what do I spy?

No, it can’t be. My weary eyes are playing tricks on me.

A skinny little homo 20 or so feet in front of me flitting around, I swear to f-cking God…Barefoot.

I’ve never seen anyone barefoot in the gym.

I know, I know, live and let live, right? Wrong. I am a cranky, angry, son-of-a-bitch and when I’m in the gym I function in a controlled rage and certain people who I see or, god forbid, hear, set me off.

Remember, I hate people.

Hate. My motto is: Good things come to those who hate. That’s me.

Of course I love the people who read my blogs and regularly comment on them. Air kisses. Loooove.

…And for good measure <3 <3 <3…Should I do the thing with the number eight and equal signs and a capital "D" at the end to represent my dick? Nah, that would be gay.

Speaking of gay, let’s get back to my story.

So…

I’m doing my hell, going on nothing but pure tenaciousness and grit mumbling to myself about f@ggots in bare feet .

I finish one super duper set.

Then another.

And then…

Yup, the barefoot boy walks up to me.

"You wanna’ arm wrestle?" He asks.

I guess he thought he was being cute because I am the sweatiest, veiniest, hard-workingest guy in the gym.

I was exhuasted. I was tired. I had no energy to spend on Barefoot Barbie.

"You’d probably beat me." I said.

He made one of those gay "Pffffts" and rolled his eyes.

"I’m a bodybuilder not a powerlifter."

He rolled his eyes again and skipped away without saying another word. I guess the answer he wanted was "To hell with arm wrestling, let’s go to the locker room and dick wrestle."

I sat on that bench doing a slow burn. I notice I grind my teeth and make my mouth very small and squint my eyes real beady-like when I get in that state.

Then it hit me.

What I should have done when he spoke to me is turn my head away, motion with the back of my hand for him to scram, while singing "Go away little girl."

Woulda’, shoulda’, coulda’ as Judge Judy would say.

Well, I know for next time.

By the way, I’m curious, do any of you guys like Chinese food?

However…

Since I intend to just gloss over the recipes and know that however much anyone can glean from my blogs, they will still be 8 bazillion steps behind me because these days I’m inventing and perfecting every day and they will never catch up with a true blue original Jew AND because a few of you have asked for it and I am one obligingly nice son of a beeyotch, here goes…

TURKEY TIPS.

A turkey pretty much is what it is, but more often than not, when I have gone to relatives houses for Thanksgiving, the white meat/breasts are always bone dry, chewy and disgusting.  Here’s how to have melt-in-your-mouth juicy breasts every time (Go away, bad mental images!). I usually have a roast turkey breast every Sunday night for dinner these days with potatoless mashed potatoes (More on that in another blog or get my book when it comes out, you cheap bastards).

First, before we get into the technique of pre-cooking and cooking, I want to highly recommend you season your bird with Bell’s Seasoning. It is an amazing product that I also use every time I make a roast chicken. Google it. I assure you that there is nothing else like this when you’re making good old American-style poultry. The list of ingredients is really impressive. Get it. I guarantee you will think this is a fantastic addition to your cooking arsenal.

Info: http://www.yankeegrocery.com/bells_seasoning.html

I occasionally brine my roasted chickens, but seriously, brining a turkey is a major ordeal and you already have a lot on your plate on Thanksgiving (pun intended), So skip this arduous step if you have a shred of sanity. The shred will be gone if you choose to go through this ordeal with such a big bird. I’ve done it. Never again.

If I told you guys once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Here goes one thousand and one…Invest in a stainless steel Cajun Injector.

http://www.brucefoods.com/mystOre/productcart/pc/viewPrd.asp?idcategory=27&idproduct=143

Obviously, you can use it on chicken as well as turkey and it is indispensable for roasts using leaner cuts of beef and pork (Which, as bodybuilders/fitness people, you should be using EVERY time.) such as eye round or bottom round for beef and loin and tenderloin of pork, which is 97 percent fat free and registers oh-so-high on the Yumometer.

I use Udo’s oil or Olivado Omega plus (Terrific product) that is a blend of extra virgin olive oil and avocado and flax seed oils (http://www.olivado.com/products_omega_avocado_oil.htm).

What I do is I take the amount of oil I intend to use (Around 3/4 of a cup) and put chopped garlic, rosemary and thyme in it. I give it a zap in the microwave and let it infuse overnight. Right before you’re ready to use it, strian out the garlic et al because it will clog the injector and you’re ready to go.

I’m telling you, the turkey breast meat will melt in your mouth, and if you overcook your breasts, the oil is very forgiving and you will still have a great, juicy bird. So to recap, it will infuse flavor, make the breast juicier, and add beneficial omega 3’s to the turkey and up the health ante, There is no reason not to get the injector. It is dishwasher safe and built like a tank and I’ve had mine for four years and it’s still going strong.

Secondly.

Cook the turkey breast side down until you are roughly one half hour from taking it out of the oven. When you cook it this way, the juices run into the breast and not out of the breast. This is the only way to roast a turkey or a chicken. Be sure to spray the grill of your roaster liberally with Pam or when you flip the bird the skin will stick to the bottom of the roaster (Obviously use a roaster with a grill on the bottom to keep it raised above the grease).

Use your hands covered with two oven mitts. If you try to use forks or prongs or those prongs especially made for using to flip a turkey (waste of money if you ask me) you will find this awkward and frustrating and butcher the bird in the process. Be smart and use your hands covered with two oven mitts. So you’ll have to wash the mitts afterward. What’s the big deal?

The last half hour or so will brown the top and you will have a beautiful (and juicy) finished product.

That’s the turkey.

STUFFING

Bread is the heart and soul of stuffing.

The stuffing usually available is made from white bread or corn bread and is processed to death and full of artificial crap.

Find a nice 7 or 10 grain bread and put about 9 slices in the oven and bake around 250 degrees until it gets hard and dry. When it does, crumble it by hand into a large bowl. Whammo. There’s your stuffing right there.

Start with a classic french mirpoix (http://classical-french-cuisine.suite101.com/article.cfm/mirepoix) sounds fancy, but it isn’t. Two parts onion and one part each of carrots and celery. I use this holy trinity in almost everything I cook, from meatballs and meatloafs to soups to couscous to…I use it for everything. I throw a lot of garlic into the mix too. How much is up to you.

Chop it to a mince in your Cuisinart/food processor. Do not attempt to do this by hand you’ll be there all day and start cursing me and the Jewish people as well. We get blamed for enough stuff as it is.
Sweat the miropoix in olive oil or omega three oil. When the miropoix starts to cook a little, I add these things that I have pre-prepped:

-Sauteed diced chanterelle and ****akke mushrooms and shallots, cooked and put on the side.

-One package of Gimme Lean soy sausage, cooked and separated like chopped meat for chile and put aside.

-3/4 cup of pistachio nuts. Put into food processor and crushed a BIT using the PULSER. Don’t make it into pistachio powder.

-One cup of wild rice that you have pre-cooked and put into the food processor, pulse until a minced texture (smaller than a dice) is achieved.

You can add or subtract to this as you see fit. Mix it all together and saute for a few minutes then add the bread stuffing and some turkey stock that you have purchased at the supermarket, chicken stock will do, too. Salt and pepper to taste. Less is more with the salt.

Then season with Bell’s seasoning. Cook and add more stock until the desired level of doneness is achieved.

There you go.

Healthy, low-fat stuffing. No bread with white flour and no butter and chock full of healthy stuff(ing).

Get creative and add stuff or subtract stuff and have fun with this.

CRANBERRY SAUCE

The worst sh!t on the planet. That horrible stuff in the can or even the gourmet varieties are chuck full of processed sugar.

You might as well put a Snicker’s bar on your plate.

This year, I decided to make my own cranberry sauce.

OMFG! Cranberry sauce! This is going to be a big hullaballu!

Laughably easy, good for you and a zillion times tastier than anything you can get at the store.

I’m an artist so I think in visual terms. Cranberries are red.

What else is red? Well, what are two things that are red and that I love. Cherries and red grapefruit. I was off to the races.

Let’s get busy…

Cranberries, when you cook them they burst and "melt". They are high in pectin so they form their own "jelly". All you need is fresh cranberries and sugar and a pot and you have cranberry sauce. But we ain’t gonna’ use no damn sugar, are we?’

Rock it…

Mince up a shallot and sweat that in a sauce pan. Add walnuts crushed by hand. add two garlic presses of garlic and two garlic presses worth of ginger. Continue to cook over medium heat. Add one half of a cup of RAW (white) unprocessed organic honey. Mix it in.

Cook over medium high heat for a minute or two.

Then you add your cranberries and ALSO about the same amount of pitted FRESH cherries. Keep cooking over medium heat.

The cranberries and cherries will dissolve into a thick jelly. Squeeze in one whole (both halves) red grapefruit through a strainer.

Add 1/2 a tablespoon of cinnamon and grate a little fresh nutmeg in there. Powdered nutmeg if you are gauche non-foodie and salt and pepper to taste. Don’t forget this step.

When everything  has gelled, finish with 3 tablespoons of kuzu or kudzu powder (http://askville.amazon.com/kuzu/AnswerViewer.do?requestId=3879946) mixed with equal parts of water. Add the kuzu when the mix is boiling or it won’t thicken. Between the pectin in the cranberries and the kuzu powder you will get a very jelly-like sauce. Especially after it is refrigerated overnight.

This tastes so f-cking good, I was tempted to wake up in the middle of the night and scarf the whole thing down –I know a lot of my female friends who read my blogs are going to do just that, I know it, I just know it — like a cranberry/cherry pudding. Healthy, healthy, healthy, diet and off-the-charts delicious. The cherry takes the edge of the bitterness of the cranberries and the grapefruit juice balances the sweetness of the honey, but is not as intrusive as lemon juice would be. Effin’ perfect.

I YAM WHAT I YAM

Lose the friggin’ marshmallows. Besides being bad for you, they are tacky-ass, declasse sh!t.

No. Just no.

Make sure to use Yams and not sweet potatoes. There is a big difference in taste and texture. Yams have a softer texture and are sweeter.  Go with a Garnet Yam. I know the differences between all of them and the Garnet has a nice orange hue and a bit firmer texture, the others are redder and get too mushy.

Peel the Yams and boil them until tender.

Let them cool enough to handle and slice them into discs of about an inch in thickness.

Set aside.

Get out a saute pan and cover bottom with a neutral oil such as grapeseed or canola or better still, cold-pressed walnut oil (It rocks–Google healthiest nut and see how walnuts fare. Number one, baby.)

Add one cup of golden raisins and sweat about one minute over medium heat.

Add one quarter cup of balsamic viniger. Let it sizzle and get absorbed. Cook another minute and set aside.

Add a little more oil to the saute pan. Put in a cup of (slightly) crushed pecans and a cup of maple syrup. Crush in (2) one inch cubes of ginger with a garlic press. Cook for another minute over medium heat. add the raisins. Cook for another minute over medium heat. Squeeze in the juice of one lemon to cut the sweetness. Add one tablespoon of ALLSPICE. stir in. add the yams and and stir untill yams are thoroughly covered. Salt and pepper to taste.

Transfer everything into a loaf pan. As you are layering the sweet potatoes in, add a handful of shredded unsweetened coconut between layers like a lasagna. Cover with foil and bake.

This is a nutritional powerhouse and it tastes great. There is no candy (Marshmallows in it or brown heinous sugar.) in it and it is as healthy as the day is long. Tastes out of the f-cking world. You may want to sprinkle some more unsweetened coconut on the Yams once they’re plated for appearance sake and to give it a little extra yum factor. I do.

MASHED PERTATIES

Peel and boil the amount of Yukon gold potatoes you think you need.

Pour them into a colander when they are fork soft and set aside.

Grate one half a cup of fresh Parmesan cheese in a food processor. If you don’t have the cheese grater attachment, just use one 1/2 cup of pre-grated Parmesan cheese.

Mash potatoes in a stock pot or large pot of any kind. Add enough low-fat milk untill the texture is a little thicker than ideal. You will add more milk later, but once there is too much in there there is very little you can do aside from cooking it off which is a major pain in the neck. so a little less than ideal.

Add the Parmesan cheese.  Why is Parmesan cheese healthier and more diet than heavy cream? You need less of it AND all Parmesan cheese is raw milk cheese, thus is is loaded with nutrients and raw milk cheeses have more CLA  (conjugated linoleic acid), so make a note to always use raw (Unpasteurized is the same thing, different name) milk cheeses. If you ever use Velveeta or American “cheesefood” slices for ANYTHING, stop reading this blog right now and kill yourself. Seriously.

Before cooking the potatoes, roast 3 bulbs of garlic (the whole thing) in the oven for about an hour at 250 degrees or until it is soft. Squeeze all that wonderful brown, mild roasted garlic from the cloves and into a small bowl and set aside. After you’ve added the milk to the potatoes, mash in the roasted garlic. Then mash in the half cup of parm. Now is the time to add salt and WHITE pepper. Then grate fresh nutmeg over the mashed potatoes. It is not mashed potatoes without nutmeg.

Okay, here’s where we make it crazy.

Mash in two tablespoons of white truffle oil. Wowsers. Out-of-control.  Expensive, yes, but not crazy and a little goes a long way. A must-have for the pantry. Then another must-have for the pantry: Two tablespoons of ghee (clarified butter). This stuff cures everything from hangnail to brain tumors in Ayurvedic medicine. Get this brand on the internet (http://www.pureindianfoods.com/). Grass fed. CLA. Remember? The fat that helps you lose fat? And also good for you and has a fantastic nutty flavor that I prefer to "bad old butter".

So 2 tablespoon of ghee from the brand that I specified.

Now you add the remaining non-fat milk until you achieve your desired consistency.

Best tasting, lightest mashed pertaties (That’s how Billy Bob Thornton pronounced potatoes in Sling Blade, remember? Didn’t think so.) you ever eated. borderline healthy, too.

Healthy Asparagus polonaise coming up tomorrow morning. If you do that string bean casserole thing with the Frenches onions and Campbells cream of mushroom soup, refer to the part above about killing yourself.

Entrants are allowed only one recent picture per entry.

Name: Steven Herman
Occupation: Art Director/Designer
Sex: Male
Date of Birth: July 29 1961
Height: 5′10″
Weight: 180
Size: 42R
Shoe Size: 9

Essay question: Tell us… What does a FIT BODY mean to you?
(150 words or less):

Someone may possess a body that looks fit, yet gets winded after climbing a flight of stairs.  How often have you seen that? Subsequently, someone may possess a body that looks “out of shape” yet performs at an elite level in professional sports; you see that on television every day. Which is the fit body? For me, neither.

In my mind’s eye, form and function are not mutually exclusive when assessing the criteria for what constitutes a fit body.

Hypothetically, If form is the color blue, and function is yellow, then a fit body is the color green. An overlap.

Having a fit body, to me, means being able to sling somebody over your shoulder and haul them up a few flights of stairs in an emergency if need be just as effortlessly as turning a few heads at the beach.

That is what a fit body means to me.

[Number of words: 150]

Now, I need to keep myself looking razor sharp, in the event I’m notified that I’m one of the 60 semi-finalists.

Whatever the result, I gave it 175 percent. I have no regrets.

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".

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.

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.)

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.

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.