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Listen up, today is the day after Christmas and smack dab in the middle of the HolidaZe. I am sure you have seen some beautiful disasters of dietary debauchery.... I'm writing this from the smoking ruins of what used to be my kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of Christmas carnage: empty cookie tins, abandoned eggnog cartons, and enough wrapping paper to blanket a small country. The holiday feeding frenzy has claimed another victory, and we're all lying in the wreckage wondering what hit us....
If you are new here- welcome! And here is my annual tale of Christmas Eve lutefisk style. When growing up for every year of my adult waking life that meant one thing… ….lutefisk. Up until around 10 years ago. More on why that is important coming up, but first some background for the lutefisk naïve. It is pronounced as LOOT –A – FISK. If you are in Minnesota like I am, make sure you do the OO sound really long. LOOOOOOOOOT –A – FISK. If you do not know what it is, consider yourself blessed....
You there- savage of the Iron Temple, gather 'round! I am transmitting live from the feverish depths of a Festivus where the weights clang like demented church bells and the chalk dust hangs thick as conspiracy theories at a flat earth convention. Let me tell you about my latest descent into the madness of strength - the Thomas Inch dumbbell, that cruel mistress of cast iron weighing in at 175 pounds of pure malevolent intent. Picture, if you will, a handle as thick as a beer can, mocking you...