The Real War in America's Public Bathrooms; The Air Dryers

I am growing tired of our freedoms being taken away. Everywhere we go, we get less choice. It’s GD Unamerican, I tell you. Well, I for one, am making a stand and demand we get our choices back. My first step in this war is the men’s room. (I assume the ladies feel the same way, but my visit time in the ladies’ room has been severely limited as of late. So you broads need to stick up for yourselves here.)

Can we please just get rid of the hand dryers? In more and more places, the good old paper towel is being replaced by these inefficient blowdryers.

The Art Department at K Theory is just phoning it in these days

Yea, yea, the argument has been “hand dryers create less waste.” All over, we see stickers proclaiming that hand dryers are saving the rainforest, keeping the earth green and hated Batman Vs Superman. It’s time to really examine all these fantastic claims.

Now I like being kind to Mother Earth. I recycle all my empties. I try to be moderate with my utility use. I actively skip shower day and wash my hair less frequently. I’ll wear the same things around the house for weeks. I only flush number twos. I don’t have offspring that will only create generations more drain on the planet’s limited resources.

Just a lil' eye opener before work...

Is the “rain forest” even a great rallying point anymore? Remember when the urgency was that the ”rain forests will disappear in five years” like twenty years ago? Well, we barely hear about the rain forests anymore, and to the best of my simple understanding, they’re still around and breeding venomous spiders. So, all this “saving” has gotten us what? I’m seriously starting to doubt this whole recycling idea. With all the recycling this country does, shouldn’t things like paper and aluminum be getting cheaper? All I know is the price of my high octane, rot-gut cans of beer keeps going up. Why am I doing this again?

In fact, I am sure valid research will soon prove hand dryers are actually much worse for the environment; much like oil in the ocean and Pitbull on the radio. So let this be the genesis of the argument.

Point one; they just don’t work. This fact is evidenced by the thousands of public restrooms I’ve urinated in and the hundreds of times I’ve washed my hands. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a machine with a powerful enough ‘blow’ (for lack of a better term) to sufficiently dry my hands. It’s been my experience that most machines are the equivalent of having a child blow; which is something Jared Fogle can identify with.

"Anyone want to get in my pants? Anyone? Plenty of room."

I will further bolster point one by pointing out the resulting behavior that only serves to confirm the fact even more. Fellas, we see/do this all the time. (And I’m pretty sure you girls do it too, you’re always sneaky.) We wash our hands, then rub them under the dryer. After a few seconds, it’s painfully clear that if we want our hands to actually be dry, we’d be better off waving them up and down like we’re landing a plane. Eventually, we give up, and wipe our hands on our pants. Yup, ladies, we do that all the time. Hell, you probably do, too, you’re just more sneaky about it.

Point two; they are not more “sanitary” than paper towels. This makes no sense to me. How is it more sanitary when the dryers just blow the germs all over the place? Yea, what did you think, the germs just magically disappear like greenhouse gasses? When you use the dryer, you’re essentially using a machine to sneeze all your disgusting germs all over the place. How is that more sanitary? I am pretty sure there is no more bacteria encrusted spot than the area immediately beneath the dryer in any public restroom.

Chloe was never much good at blow jobs...
(Alternate caption: I am sure this is Rule 34 for some of you sickos.)

All those germs build colonies in the dark recesses of the restroom. Beneath the sink. In between the grout. On the top ledge of the mirror. It’s a miracle we’re not all sicker, really. Common sense tells you you would want to capture the bacteria in one place and be done with it. Not splatter it throughout the Burger King restroom, you hag.

You don't wanna know what I'm doing with my other hand.

Don’t believe Dr. Theory? Fine, here is proof that jet hand dryers are actually worse than using paper towels.

With paper towels, you can physically wipe the icky stuff off onto the paper, and throw the whole germ circus out. The germs die a pleasant death in the trash. End of story. The Plague is thwarted. We all get to watch the next season of Daredevil.

Point three; those dryers use energy. Nowadays, some decent places have a magical paper towel dispenser where all you have to do is Jedi your hand in front and you receive the paper towels you are looking for. Because electric hand dryers are so inefficient, it takes far more energy to get your fingers just ‘mildly damp.’ Hell, those things would go on all day if you just kept your hands under the nozzle. Sure, some of the more uppity restrooms will provide you with a sign and a few statistics about how much energy the dryers save, but that is just about as effective as the “all employees must wash hands” sign. Go do the math you see, it simply doesn’t add up.

Even if you actually have to touch a bar or lever to manually progress the paper towels out, it wastes no energy and you can still wipe off any remaining germs or bacteria. So, if you use the blower, you hate the Earth no matter how many goddmaned Priuses you drive.

My gas is gluten free and my playlist is full of bands that never even got together.

Anyway, aren’t Kindles and Google books drastically reducing the need for sheets of paper? Why can’t we trade of that loss with paper towels so everyone doesn’t get sick?

Now that I have finished this common sense piece for the betterment of America, I'm gonna go drain the dragon and wash my hands with soap for 20 full seconds and use a GD towel like a GD American.

As always, thanks for reading.

Especially you, Stuart.

DVD Bonus Content-Extra Commentary

Truth be told, this post had been sitting in my computer since last August. It was originally meant for a writing gig I had at the time, but I never finished it. Now with all this controversy over transgender bathroom use, I thought it would be a good time to dust it off, update some of the pop culture references (there was actually an Ashley Madison reference, since this was written right around the time of their data breach.) and finally share it with the world. And now I think the world is a better place for it.

F*ck You Science, I'll Hug My G*ddamn Dog All I Want

So let’s take some quick stock of the world around us.

Cancer? Check. AIDS? Check. Pollution? Cough and check.

You would think in the year 2016, all these “scientists” would finally be earning their keep and figuring some shit out. Well, you’d be wrong. But, oh, the guys (there are no girl scientists, right?) are busy all right.

Wanna study anatomy?

They’re busy figuring out dogs don’t like to be hugged. Really, you sciency, nerdy people, this is what you’re paid to do? What happened to being super geniuses, or at least super villians in the comic books? Suddenly, I want to become a scientist. Where do I sign up to earn a hefty check for doing nothing? Or is this an elected position? (ZING!)

So the author of this theory based it on the following:

"Fortunately for me, the Internet abounds with photographs of people and their pets. If you put the search terms "hug dog" or "love dog" into something like Google Image Search, or Flickr, you will get a virtually infinite scroll of pictures of people and their children hugging their pet dogs. I decided to look at a random sample of 250 such pictures. I used a variety of criteria to try to keep the data as clean and precise as possible. I only used photos where the dog's face was clearly visible. I also eliminated situations where one might expect the dog's stress level to rise because of factors other than being hugged (such as when someone lifts a large dog off the ground while hugging them)."

OK, so this dog looks petrified. To be honest, so would I.

OK, so maybe I only watched Weird Science one time, but I think I know enough to see the glaring flaw based on his research. If you have a presence on Flickr, or your pictures easily show up in a GIS, I think it is very safe to make the argument you are a self absorbed, annoying as hell twit. Why? Because, most likely, you have tons of clichéd pictures (cough, selfies, cough) that you constantly shoot out to your social media. I don’t have the time to follow my hypothesis (look it up, and, NO, I didn’t need SpellCheck for that) but I am willing to bet these same Flickr pictures came from accounts that were also chock full of pictures of food, drinks, leaves, cemeteries, train tracks, peace signs, duck lips and other over used imagery.

And, look, we all know dogs are smart. These dogs know that their owners are kinda douchy. They can smell that, after all. So, of course when an owner throws his/her arms around Poochie, the dog is all like, “OK, hoomin. Enough. You’re nice and all and give me a good home. But…you can be kind of a jit stain, and that’s why I hump the couch when you’re not around.” You look at some of the pictures in question, and you’re not seeing anxiety or stress. You’re seeing shame.

For further proof, I just performed an experiment. Anyone see the Human Centipede movies? Well, that will be my next experiment. I just went and hugged my dog. Guess what? His ears didn’t go down; in fact they perked up. He didn’t look away from me or tense up, he sank into me. He didn’t make any moves to escape my embrace. Once again, science, you FAIL! You think I’m gonna believe you about global warming now? HA!

Inside job. Duh.

So I let my boy out in the front yard because he just wolfed dinner and usually has to take a smash. He does his usual ritual, and just as he gets to poopin’ he stares at me. OK, science people, I imagine you are working around the clock to figure this Zika virus thing out, you surely can’t tell me why he looks at me when he’s deucing.

Well, motherf……. OK, again this info is all suspect. But, can we get you dorks working on more pressing things like curing hangovers or why whatever line I choose moves the slowest?

The Running Man

Tonight, I did something I hate to do.

I went for a run. Let me be clear. I hate running. I loathe running.

So, why am I running? Well, for the last 4 years, I’ve been doing the Warrior Dash,

"Boy, I hope this is chocolate milk. Nope, not chocolate milk."

one of a multitude of 5ks that are run through all kinds of mostly harmless obstacles. Of all the similar “mud runs”, it by far has the best name and least daunting/challenging obstacles, so it’s right up my alley. It’s probably the most competitive thing I do, so I do wanna set myself up to do well. And that means running. Running more than 5k, and running once or twice a week as it approaches. Unfortunately, the WD is usually at the very end of summer, so I have to keep running all freaking summer. No way I’m letting that 60 year old woman with the walker beat me. Again.

Every spring, I go through the ritual of buying new running shoes. I spend an exorbitant amount of money (you know, like over 20 bucks) on some new revolutionary shoe with all kinds of gizmos and “technologies.” Things like better rebounding, softer cushioning, space age polymers, breathable fabrics, lighter weight. I find I have this internal, angry dialogue with the sneakers. “Look, I spent an exorbitant amount of money on you. So I damn well am going to get my money’s worth. I am absolutely going to beat the shit out of you this summer. You GD well better earn your keep. I don’t want any blisters! You hear me? No blisters! With all your high falutin “technology” you fuckers better make me run faster and have less pain! Got it?” And then I go yell at the toilet because it runs more than I do.

You would think it would be simple. Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Repeat, preferably faster. Try not to fall. Repeat again. Fun! Last year, I actually discovered there are different types of running. Do you strike heel first or toe? Maybe flat footed? I tried a method where you alternated your breathing when your feet struck the ground. So, you alternated your breathing every three strikes; breathe in on left foot strike, exhale in three so your inhale is on a right foot strike. Supposedly, this makes you faster and prevents injury. In reality, you run like a flaming dorkwad because you’re constantly counting in your head and trying to time that all important frantic gasp of air with the proper foot strike. This isn’t very fun nor does it make running any more enjoyable. It doesn’t prevent injury, in fact it promotes it because you’re busy counting strikes as opposed to minding the other runners around you.

Then I tried this thing called pose running. In theory, I guess it made sense. You lean forward a bit, to the point where you’re basically running so you’re not falling over. Cross fitters swear by this type of running. You also “pull” your legs. It’s funny it’s called “pose” because I felt most of my ‘pose’ was best labeled as ‘awkward flamingo.’ (Which, by the way, totally sounds like a yoga pose. “Ok, everybody, downward dog into awkward flamingo. Namaste!”) I found at best, it difficult to hit (as it’s supposed to be) and if anything increases your energy expenditure so you gas out much faster. So, I’ll just settle for the type of running that results in leg soreness and general pain for the next few days.

Running is painful. It’s absolutely horrible for your knees. I read somewhere that the act of running is like dropping the Refrigerator on your knees. Did you read that right? Not a refrigerator, but the Refrigerator, Chicago D lineman from the 80s and 90s William ”Refrigerator” Perry. And he weighed 335 pounds! You can get blisters on your ankles (though I found using the lace lock actually helps a lot).

"We both contain a lot of food."

Shin splints, foot issues, chaffing of man bits. I seriously don’t get the obsession with it. I would like to think the act of running is some sort of “escape”, but we all run in circles, so that’s not it.

Does anyone else have the complex that it feels like everyone is watching them? As I am making my laps, I feel people are not just looking at me, but staring at me. Like not just the occasional “Hey, there’s that hot guy running by again.” It’s more like a “Jesus Christ, look at that hairy mess huffing and puffing. He’s probably running from the law because he just stole a bunch of Iron Maiden t-shirts.” I am constantly wiping my face, because I know it’s probably covered in boogers, snot and sweat.

Every track always has that one thin guy with such a good stride he looks like he’s from fucking Black Swan. This guy just glides and his feet barely touch the ground. He’s usually wearing a tank top, making 7 minute laps and not breathing heavy. I am pretty sure these types are on PEDS (performance enhancing drugs) and will die shortly. While that’s probably not true, I find it helps make me feel better.

At tracks, there is a Code. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know who came up with it, hell, I don’t even know how I learned it, but there is a Code. Maybe it’s better called etiquette. Maybe it’s a collection of common sense and observation. Hell, if some dunderhead like me can pick up the Code, then surely any other novice or numb skull runner can quickly pick it up. Problem is when people don’t observe the Code. For example, walkers move to the side of the track. Leave the middle open for the runners. If you are walking with a friend and two wide, still, walk to the side. You two aren’t going to get lost.

"I....I feel like I could run a marathon."

There is nothing worse than coming up on a twosome (or worse, a threesome. A track is one place I do not want to see a threesome.) and they refuse to move over and give up the middle of the track. So now it’s on me to see if there is a runner coming at me and if we will meet near said annoying twosome, or is there some young kid coming up behind me and how best to avoid a collision. There’s nothing more annoying than having to run off the track to avoid the two dipshits who are busy talking about squirrels and Zumba classes. But, I always get my revenge. I make sure to crop dust them as I pass. I don’t even care if they can hear it; in fact I hope they do. (Yes, I am aware it may be against the Code to audibly fart, but I’m not claiming to know the entirety of the Code.)

So here’s what you have to understand about me. I am 6 foot tall, and 200 pounds on a good (or bad, depending) day. I’ve already gone through one knee. Once this train get’s a-rollin’ it takes a while to put on the brakes. And if I absolutely have to take someone out, I assure you it will be a spectacular collision with arms and legs flailing, sunglasses, hats and earphones displaced and hopefully near a bunch of empty boxes and a fruit stand just like in the movies.

What’s worse is mornings, when a bunch of moms (nary few a MILF) all meet up at the same time, and form some sort of stroller convoy with any number of demon seed. They hog up the entire width of the track. How rude. These Stroller Patrollers, as I call them, ignore the running world around them as the kibbutz about how smart precious Connor or Madison is at such an early age. Hey, here’s an idea; keep your future Presidents and Senators out of harm’s way; i.e. my way.

My favorite marathon picture.

All my runs seem to start the same way. Within the first quarter mile, my lungs are already wheezing and my mind is already whining. “This sucks. I hate this. What’s the point? Three miles of this shit? OK, this is the LAST YEAR I am doing all this. What was that sound? Did something just pop in my knee? Shit, I bet it was my larynx. I probably just tore my larynx. And, man, I should NOT have had that suspect burrito from 7-11 on the way here. I need to fart…… I just farted. I hope it wasn’t a cheek slapper and that lady I just passed heard it. Uh oh, wait a minute, was that a shart?” My mind runs faster than me.

Now, I don’t subscribe to this “runner’s high” phenomenon.” I think it’s all hullabaloo, along with things like “consciousness” and “enlightenment.” All utter bullshit, designed to torture people. What I do get, however, at the end of any of my runs, is an immense sense of self-satisfaction. This is a very odd feeling for me. I am proud of my accomplishment. I get all full of myself. Suddenly, my brain is all like, “Way to go! Now let’s go buy $200 of Under Armour so we can sit around the house!! Athletically sit around the house!!” Like buying a $40 shirt will actually make me run any faster or look any less awkward. However, if it makes my moobs jiggle less, then $40 is a steal.

At the end of my run, I grab a Gatorade from the car and walk one last lap, but in the opposite direction I was running. It’s inevitable that as I walk past people, I expect them to think, “Jesus! That dude is sweating his ass off, and all he’s doing is walking. Man, TBNR.”

The worst part is this is just the beginning. I still have over 4 months to get myself in shape. I might even run a few ‘regular’ 5Ks, just to see where I’m at. All this getting in shape now, all for one freaking Warrior Dash. However, I will confess, the feeling I get when I cross that finish line is pretty damn rewarding.

Maybe rewarding enough to do it all over again next year.

Maybe.

The Assholes That Don't Want Me To Be Healthy

Every Saturday and Sunday morning, it’s the same thing. Wake up in bed (if I’m lucky) and try to fill in the blank space from, “Well, Ok, I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, but since we’re here, I’ll have ONE beer” to waking up. I collect myself and decide in order to tip the karma scale of health back to ‘non-toxic’, I’ll drag my ass to the gym. Time to pay the piper. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.

The only reason I am using this picture is because I have learned that Facebook will only use the first image I post in the link.

Fresh with a high from working out, I will drive to the local produce store to buy fruits and veggies for the week. And, without fail, every time I go there on a Saturday or Sunday, I always find myself asking the question, “Why is this place always so GD crowded on the weekends? It’s a fucking zoo here."

"Jesus Christ, all I want is 5 pounds of yams!"

I spend the next 25 minutes standing in two lines; one for fruit and one for veggies. Helplessly, hopelessly standing in line, I swear, they can grow new tomatoes in the time it takes me to secure my produce.

OK, so it is partially my fault for going on the weekends, when every other nudnik goes. However, seeing the ineptitude of all the assholes in front of me never fails to amaze me -in a bad way. It’s just assholes. Assholes all around me. (BTW, I am seriously considering changing from Kevolution Theory to Assholes All Around Me, since it seems I bitch about that a lot.) So let me tell you about these assholes at the produce store.

First off, it’s just the volume of people in front of me. Don’t these people have some place better to go on a weekend morning than the fruit store? Maybe some coffee and a Danish? Maybe a hike? And they’re not assholes just because they are in front of me. They are assholes because of their behavior.

Here’s how a sane, rational, though slightly ripe, individual would spend his time in line. “Hmm, OK, let’s see, “ I think to myself “We need bananas. Apples, too, especially with some peanut butter. Kiwi is cheap, so I’ll grab a bag of those. All right, some blueberries, that’ll do.” As I get closer to the counter, I grab a bag of apples and a bag of kiwi. I silently curse, because I always for get to bring cloth bag to put everything in. You know what? Don’t’ judge. I don’t have kids, so I’m saving generations of wear and tear on mother Earth. So I can take the occasional gotdamn plastic bag and not feel guilty about it.

Also, I am multi-tasking. I am adding up everything. Then I go into my wallet so I am prepared to pay. When I make it to the counter, I tell them everything I need in one shot. How easy, polite and sensible, right? Apparently, I am the only one that has mastered these simple practices that speed the line along for everyone.

"Eating salad makes me laugh!"

Time and time again, I see asshole after asshole finally get to the counter and act like all this fruit in front of them is a surprise. “Um……OK……I’ll take some……bananas…..” The poor amigo behind the counter turns around, walks 2 feet, grabs the bag of nanners and puts them on the counter. Clueless asshole continues, “OK…um….let me have the…..apples. The gala apples. NO. No, the delicious apples.” Poor amigo walks 3 feet, grabs the apple bag (which I am pretty sure is slang for testicles) and puts it on the counter. This cycle of wasting everyone’s time continues 4 or 5 more times. “Is that all?” the dead in the eyes counter person asks. “Yes” asshole replies, then acts shocked that money has to change hands at this point in the exchange. They then fumble with their wallet/purse.

Really? Really? It’s assholes like you that make eating healthy so damn difficult for the rest of us. Look, for my current job, I spend hours in super markets and mass merchants. Food is always all around me. Cheap, fattening, but so damn good tasting food. The temptation is always there to just grab a big ol’ bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups and devour the whole thing. But, just like everyone else, I struggle with my food choices, and try to eat healthy as much as I can. That’s why I’m at the GD produce store. I’m loading up for the week, so I can eat a bit smarter and healthier. And because, just maybe, I ate an entire bag of Reese’s on the way there.

I'm not much for fruit, but I'll help you clean the plate.

The vegetable line is worse. I often wonder if they called it the vegetable line because that’s what you’re waiting in line to get, of that is the state of the line dwellers. Here, we see the same behavior. People picking their veggies one at a time and not having any money ready. We also see another behavior which drives me nuts. When you walk into the produce store, it’s pretty clear the fruit line is for fruit only. The veggie line is for-wait for it-veggies only. If you’re one of those freaks who is buying flowers, you get your own flower line, hippie. It never fails, there is always some jerkoff who wants to pay for fruit and/or flowers in the veggie line. “Oh, it’s only one thing of strawberries” or “And I just have these rhododendrons” like the rhododendron just jumped into the cart, and, what the hey, I’ll take ‘em anyway.

"Fruit dipped in whipped cream still counts, stud."

Some days, it takes what left of my strength to not slowly walk over to the eggs, open them, take out a few eggs, put the eggs back and karate chop the asshole right in the throat. I hate these entitled assholes who think the rules don’t apply to them. But it always happens.

So here I am on a Friday afternoon. I’m beat from working all day, but the produce store is not too far away. I’ll be smart and hit it in the afternoon. Who the hell could be there in the middle of the day?

Assholes. Assholes all around me. How does this happen? Don’t these people have jobs? Look, I applaud anyone who is trying to eat better. It’s just do you have to be such a pain in the ass about it? The conspiracy theorist in me thinks Monsanto just pays these dipshits to clog up lines in produce stores. I’ve seen people order 6 beers at the bar more efficiently than these jackoffs. Leave it to the alcoholics to have their shit together.

To sum up: I’m glad you’re eating healthy. Just use your head. Already know what you want. Bring your own bags. Have your money ready to go. Fruit in the fruit line, veggies in the veggie line, show a little respect. And, for all of us, don’t be an asshole.

Nine Reasons Why You Need To Be Reading Kevolution Theory (You Won't Believe #6!)

Look, I’m not good at self promotion. I like to fancy myself as a true Auteur. And one of the toughest things for artists to do is have the self-confidence to promote themselves. In the internet age, it’s easy to write any dreck and post it for the world to see. The two problems here are 1) just how do you get people on the internet to read your stuff and, most importantly 2) HOW DO I EVER MAKE ANY FUCKING MONEY DOING THIS?

The truth is, in the entire existence of Kevolution Theory, I’ve promoted it very little, and still racked up a ridiculous number of hits (almost 23,000) for never really doing anything for it. In my last writing gig, I was encouraged to write what we in the internet writing business as the “listicle.” Listicles, for you untalented writers, are essentially the Net’s take on Letterman’s Top Ten List. Establish a premise/set up, then deliver as many punch lines as you can. We all have those asshole friends on FB who constantly share such garbage as “15 Ways You Know You’re a Millennial!” or “10 Ways Your Dog Owns You” or “20 Ways To Seduce Hot Sober Women!”

Sound familiar? Most of the above headlines are usually followed by such verbiage as “You won’t believe #4!” or “You’ll love #7!” Ringing a bell now? And don’t you wanna just smack those dunces that constantly post this shit? I’ve been meaning to write a reply piece called “The 1 Fuck I Don’t Give About This Shit.” Next time, Kev.

Honestly, I hated writing most of the listicle posts. It’s great if you have a solid set up, and funny punch lines, but it is seriously tough to write 20 solid jokes for one set up. And that is essentially what the articles above do; establish a premise and beat it to the ground like it’s Cam Newton. (Too soon?) 

"Naw, It's OK, Kev."

Yet it seems my FB feed is spammed with this horse shit every day. So, somebody must be reading these. And what better way to expand my writing chops and drive traffic to this here kick ass blog by doing a listicle? Yay!

1) I rarely use big words. Really who has time? I’m just lucky you’re not checking out school girl porn or puppy videos. I mean, that’s pretty much all I do on the internet these days. Look, time is precious, and I’m not gonna try to come across any dumberer than I already am.

2) I’m funny. OK, so maybe that’s a judgement call. But I am willing to bet you’re all here for a quick (if not guilty) laugh. I’m not gonna get all heavy and pontificate about the deep meaning of life. I’m pretty sure you’re meant to laugh during life anyway, Frances.

Just read the above, lazy ass.

3) I have excellent use of pictures. Most of the pictures I use either have a semi hidden internet meme meaning or a funny caption. That’s when Maxim magazine jumped the shark BTW. As soon as they stopped using witty captions for the pictures, they lost it. In fact, picking out the pictures usually takes longer than writing the post itself. Usually because I end up GIS-ing things like “hot (insert any word here) girls” and suddenly it’s Thursday morning. Very addictive.

4) I am not very political. In the old days-you know, pre social media-you let the world know your candidate of choice by putting a tacky sign on your lawn. Now people let the world know their political choice by constantly fucking harping on it on your social media. E-fucking-nough all ready. We get it. We get it. You love Trump. You mock Bernie. You’re voting for Cruz. You’re voting for Hillary. We get it. Now I will let you in on a little secret. NO ONE FUCKING CARES WHO YOU ARE VOTING FOR! Why can’t the election be like The Force Awakens? Everyone was very aware to not talk about the spoilers. So let’s treat the election the same way, hmmmkay?

5) I don’t post all the time. There are some people who post like 20 different things a day on FB; pictures, quotes, games, who their best friends are, pictures of their lunch, a witless quip about the weather, song lyrics, kid/pet pictures, restaurant reviews, on and on and on. Do these people have jobs? Who dafuq has time to sit on their FB all day and post inanities? There was a time I traveled with no less than 4 web enabled devices and a hot spot, and I barely had time to ogle half naked college girls on Instagram, and these dipshits all up in FBs grill. I’ll only post something when I feel I have something to say. I will only post something after I’ve edited it, made sure it was “funny enough." Believe it or not, it can be a lengthy process. (To wit, I originally had 78 reasons why you should read this blog.) For example, this post has already taken me like 50 minutes to type just the first draft with my two good typing fingers. And that’s not even counting the inevitable time I will waste staring at half naked college girls on Instagram. Art takes time people! Quality over quantity.

Must..come up....with.....ten reasons....

6) Nah, you really wouldn’t believe it anyway.

7) I, for one, am NOT controlled by the coconut oil contingent. I mean, really, when did these guys get so much power? I suspect the coconut oil people are just an offshoot of the Illuminati. It seems not a day goes by that I don’t see a story on the news or in my feed where coconut oil cures every disease under the sun. Just this week alone, I’ve read stories where coconut oil cures the following; chapped lips, dandruff, halitosis, Hulkamania, dry skin, paranoia, bruises, boogie woogie flu, Zika virus, fear of spiders, the plague (both Black and Bubonic), fever, PMS, eye boogers, shyness, anti-Semitism, split ends, resting bitch face, insomnia, melancholy, swamp ass, muscle soreness and the heebie jeebies. Hell, I’ve heard coconut oil

"Are...are you SURE that's actually coconut oil?"

applied directly to the penis can make it bigger. Although, this hasn’t been my experience. Yet…

8) I am not afraid to use the word “fuck.” Really, it is a sorely underused word in everyday use. Yes, there are still some prudes who get their granny panties all in a bunch over a word. Get over it. Um, sorry, I meant get the fuck over it. Fuck is a fantastically flexible word. You can be cold as fuck or hot as fuck. You can have a fuck, but certainly not give a fuck. Fuck is a noun, verb, adjective, compliment, insult, expletive- it’s like the coconut oil of words. And it just feels really good to say. “Fuck.” Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

9) OK, there are far more than just 9 reasons to read K Theory. But the rest would just be bragging.

So, what’s your favorite reason to read this blog? Whatever it is, I thank you for reading it. Be back soon, hopefully not with another listicle.

The Intermittent Fasting Challenge; Results Show

I realize now I should have paid closer attention in math class. As I prepped to do this Thursday night, I realized I stacked the numbers against me. Damn it so much. Remember how I said you don’t eat anything the night before, skip breakfast, then get to an 8 hours feeding period? Well, shit on me, I almost ended up doing two IFs without really trying. Here’s how I fucked up.

So I eat the night before, at 10 PM. In order to get the 8 hour feeding period I want so I can gorge at noon on Saturday, on Friday I can eat from 12PM to 8PM. (I think I paid enough attention to say that is the eight hours I need to properly fast for the following sixteen hours.) So, not eating from 10 PM Thursday night to 12PM Friday is fourteen hours fasting. Shit, that’s almost the whole damn IF fast right there!

Now, I am not under any assumption whatsoever that just by essentially starving myself for 16 hours that I will suddenly have wash board abs and a Rock-like chest. It’s just one in method in a seemingly endless toolbox to get in the best shape of your life! There are apparently many people who do this a few times a month to a few times a week. These people are probably the same people you see running in the snow and ice. These are people you probably don’t want to hang out too much with if you have body fat over 4% and didn’t run two marathons that morning.

"Look at me! I'm as asshole!"

Helloooo Friday morning! Gooooodbyye Friday breakfast. In order to properly prepare myself for an IF, I have to limit myself to an eight hour feeding window beforehand. To properly do this, I have to skip breakfast, which does not bode well for anyone I come in contact with the first few hours of my job. Skipping breakfast before the gym isn’t a big deal because I generally get lost in heavy music and not so heavy weights. But when I work, I have to deal with these annoyances called people and these people generally come with their own sets of problems and issues. (I realize that I want to become a writer so I can work by myself.) Oh, and my job is fairly physical, so I’ll be burning a lot of calories the first few hours.

One of the theories I have come across in my cursory research says there is basically no difference between spreading 2000 calories throughout the day in many meals, or in a shorter period. The take away here is I can essentially cram in what I would normally eat all day in an eight hour window. At least I am pretty sure I read that; there were also a lot of big words with no pictures. I won’t be doing my normal 7-8 grazings, so the meals I do eat can be bigger.

As I head to my noon feeding, I feel I get brief hunger pains, but all in all, not too bad. I feel my focus and energy are normal. In a respect, I find this is easier because I have an active job. I travel to 5-8 accounts per day, and expend a decent amount of energy. I suppose IF is tougher if you’re chained to a desk and people are walking by with coffee, doughnuts and that damn Delores with her bagels.

Noon finally comes, and it’s time to crack into my cooler o’ food. I feel the key here is to eat filling foods. So a NutriBullet (with protein) followed by a protein bar (protein included) plus some granola. The rest of my work day is filled with bouts of working (boo) followed by bouts of eating (yay.) I find I don’t have any adverse effects eating after starving for 12 hours. My stomach is fine and I’m not gassy. Well, any gassier than I usually am.

Come home and chow down on more chicken, green tea and fruit. Before I go to the gym, a scoop of protein and some grapes. Back from the gym and a Bullet with more protein. I am pretty sure I am more powder than man at this point.

God, I hope I don't get this shit on my nose.

I turn down a night at the bar, and putz around the house, all the time eyeing the evil clock. 8PM will be here quicker than I care.

I have previously experimented with what I wanted my precious last meal to be. I hit on something so bulky and filling, it should get me through the night. I pour some organic Cheerio like cereal in a bowl, 40 grams of chocolate protein and whole milk. It is good, but, GD, after I finish it I feel full. But this is my last meal, so the experience it not unlike a death row convict eating his last meal. You know, minus all the capital offenses stuff.

The rest of the evening, I am actually a productive little citizen, which is pretty odd for me on a Friday night. I do some wash, brush out the dog, vacuum (Life hack; always brush out the dog first, then vacuum.) I start writing, all the while drinking water.

And a funny thing happens after the first two hours……..I’m hungry again. Son. Of. A. Bitch. This did not happen in ‘rehearsal.’ This is a kick in the nuts. But I am rapidly approaching bedtime. I continue to drink water because it apparently blunts hunger. Early, real time feedback tells me that theory is utter bullshit.

The Next Eight Hours: I won’t lie, I don’t get great sleep. I actually don’t feel very hungry past those initial few hours. This is good news. However, I’m up peeing every damn hour because I drank so much damn water. I’m really starting to think IF is just a scam made up by those water people.

As on most Saturday mornings, the sun fills the room and I wonder just what the hell I did to myself Friday night. Honestly, I don’t feel very hungry. I feel a little bit hungry as I’m lying in bed, but it’s the sort of thing that once you start moving, the sensation pretty much goes away.  I feel focused, sharp and not-too-tired; all foreign sensations to me on a Saturday morning. I fill up the water bottle-again-and head to the gym, brother.

I weigh myself. And it is kinda odd, I do actually feel skinnier. But it’s probably just my stomach feeding on my internal organs. Two pounds lighter, which is no big deal. Two pounds is not enough to say “ZOMG! I am losing weight!! IF 4ever11”

I’ve trained on an empty stomach many times, so I am not too worried about that. I can see the finish line (and fried chicken, and pizza, and mac and cheese and…), all I need to do here is bust it. Two hours here, home, shower and GORGE. My energy level feels good, my workout is going great, I don’t drop any heavy objects on my body, and that skinny Asian girl is only squatting 10 pounds more than me. So far, so good.

As I get closer to the magical 16 hour mark, something starts to happen. I get hungry. Like, suddenly, violently hungry. How can this be happening? I am sooo close. It’s probably happening because I am soo close. I refocus. I will NOT let this deter me. I will use this as further fuel. I take a deep breath, and continue to lift Paulie, Adrian and my trainer in a cart. No wait a minute, that’s from Rocky IV.

"Yo Adrian....it feels like you've put on some weight..."

 Which also just happens to be a great album to work out to. Fuck you, Drago.

The hunger is not going away. I look again at the clock-big mistake. 90 minutes. Time has taken on some sort of crawling process where it now seems to be going slower when it should be going faster. I know I need to tough it out a bit more here. If I can push myself this last half hour at the gym, I can hit my goal. Plus, the bouts of light-headedness between strenuous sets are fairly enjoyable. Another deep breath in. And now I run like hell so those crazy Russians can’t follow me. Nope, no, still Rocky IV.  No one told me about these delusions at the end of IF. I quickly dial up “Baby, Hit Me One More Time” (AKA her good years.)

The drive home, which now totally feels like this:

I do feel hungry, but I don’t feel “gorge-hungry”, more like normal “NutriBullet” hungry. I find this very odd, but eating my face off has been my reward all along, and I sure ain’t gonna give that up now.

Not to brag, but I’m now at sixteen and a half hours. Maybe that extra half hour doesn’t impress you, but try starving yourself for sixteen hours, and it’s a whole different story.

Cruise into the all you can eat buffet. The staff must know I mean business, because we’re seated right away. I proceed to put all kinds of meat (or at least what passes for meat at an AYCE these days) on plate number one. I also heap on a whole lot of satisfaction.

Plate number one doesn’t hang around very long. Plate two differs with a lot more in the fried category; chicken, calamari, shrimp whatever else they can drop in a batter and make even more unhealthy. Plate three is like a greatest hits of the first two, with a special appearance by pizza. After the third plate, I am actually feeling full, and disappointed that it only takes three plates to fill me up after a 16 (and a half) hour fast. But I am sure with all the fried stuff and sauce and stuff on the meat, I’ve probably taken in a great deal of calories. I am full enough, that I don’t even feel the need to hit the dessert table.

So I’m loading up at the dessert table; chocolate chip cookies, banana pudding (I’ve always imagined that pudding is the only food in the world that looks exactly like fat. But even that doesn’t stop me) some sort of graham cracker pie. Man, this is living. I pretty much spend the rest of Saturday eating what I normally would. Plus some celebratory rum. I go to the gym in the morning and I am just two pounds heavier. That’s right, all told, my weight stayed the same. Kinda ironic, dodn’t cha think? ‘Cause yea, I really do think.

So now that I’ve done it, would I do it again? Maybe. I don’t know that this will be a regular thing for me. Now that I know I can do it, maybe. But 16 hours is a long time to go, and temptation is all around us. Like, I couldn’t commit to doing an IF, then hang out with my buddies and NOT eat and drink.

Guys: “So, uh, Kev, we notice you’re not eating or drinking tonight. Everything all right, big fella?”

Me: “Well, guys, I’m happy you brought that up! I’m doing this thing called an intermittent fast…”

Guys: “FAG!”

So, now that I’ve done one IF, I have proclaimed myself an expert, and am ready to answer all your pressing IF questions.

“Is IF right for me?” Sure. Like I wouldn’t even bother checking with your doctor. I didn’t and I’m fine.

And if you are going to do it, here’s some advice. Stay away from clocks. Especially as you get close to that 16 hour mark. Time will somehow slow to a crawl and your hunger will just get worse. Go do something. Walk the dog. Walk my dog. Go do something. Just don’t write a blog about it, because it won’t be funnier than mine.

Sleep as much as you can. I mean, why make it any harder on yourself? I’ve supposedly had some great times while I’ve been unconscious.

Avoid temptation. Duh. I had to give up a night at the bar, because I just don’t trust myself. Plan ahead. You might be surprised if you can skip eating the hours before you go to bed and the hours you’re awake, 16 hours could sneak up on you.

Eat well during that feeding period. Eat as healthy as you can during that time. Save the shit for the gorge afterward.  Really, the toughest times for me were the first two hours and the last two hours. As long as you can keep your mind and body busy, it’s somewhat easy.

Now I'm hungry,,,

The Intermittent Fasting Challenge

When last I left you, it was with a list of my New Year’s resolutions. One of them was to commit to something I call “Adventure Saturday.” For those of you shitheads –which is most of you-who didn’t read my resolutions, you can make yourself cool to the world by clicking here. The concept of Adventure Saturday is to simply do something I’ve never done before. It might be a trip to a museum, an experience of some sort, dinner and drinks at a place I’ve never been, etc.

So I came up with something I’ve never done and actually counts as Adventure Friday into Adventure Saturday. Whilst reading that stack of magazines from 2015 (another resolution I am keeping up with, slackers) I came across a concept that interested me, plus I could get 2 posts out of it (thereby satisfying yet another resolution to write more. You guys should be ashamed with all your slacking already.)

So here is the idea; intermittent fasting.

Like who isn't sold?

“Whoa, Kev, just what is that all about?”  I already imagine you asking. (I also imagine some of you are naked while reading this, but that stays with me.)

Intermittent fasting (IF) is when one goes up to 16 hours without eating. Sounds like a party, right? Now, right away, I again imagine you asking, “But WHY would you do that?”  Well, it’s simple, really. One, just for the experience and to have something to write about. Two, just to see if I can do it. And most importantly, people love reading about other people in pain. Especially you sick freaks. More especially, when it’s my pain.

So in my very brief research on the topic, the end result is supposed to boost growth hormone and actually promote fat loss. Not so stupid now, eh, fatty?

Of course, an undertaking of this nature does not come without it’s peril, much like Evel Knievel jumping the fountain in Vegas. I have briefly thought this out, so I feel pretty on point to do this.

Here is my plan. Early Friday evening, go to the gym for a typical workout, just no cardio. Come home, do a NutriBullet with protein, a little while later one last big meal, then hunker in for the night. In a perfect world, I envision my fast starting around 7PM. I’ll clear out my Netflix cue, because I know if I watch regular TV, it will just be wall to wall commercials like these:

 Go to bed the same time old people do on a Friday night, 10PM. Sleep. Wake up. (Hopefully.) Go to the gym again…

“Whoa, slow down here, Schwarzenegger! What’s up with that?”

There’s a few reasons for this. I don’t have a scale here. Just a mirror that tells me I’m awesome daily, and occasionally tells me I am “not mildly unattractive today.” The gym does, so I am anxious to see if there is any drastic weight fluctuation. Also, I have discovered working out on an empty stomach actually blunts my hunger for a period of time. My initial research says working out in the fasted state is actually beneficial as far as gaining muscle and burning fat. By the time I come home, shower and put on my fat jeans in preparation for the all you can eat buffet, I should be past the magical 16 hour mark. Gorge, then to continue to eat what I would typically eat. Weigh myself again Sunday morning.

Sounds easy, right? No, shithead, of course it doesn’t sound easy. I have grown hungry in merely the time it’s taken me to start writing this. There are a lot of challenges for sure.

I am a believer in eating small meals throughout the day. Every 3-4 hours I am eating. I am generally a pretty clean eater. Protein powder and bars, fruit, NutriBullets, chicken, healthy granola. I am pretty sure there are squirrels eating a similar diet.. I have found that if I don’t eat every few hours, I get very “hangry.” (Hungry + angry.) Like Incredible Hulk level hangry. So the mere thought of not eating for
 sixteen whole hours is quite daunting for me and those near to me. Hopefully, by sleeping for a lot of that time will negate me hulking out and downing an entire box of Lucky Charms.

"Where am my protien bars?"

Some provisos. My brief research tells me drinking liquid –the rule of thumb here appears to be anything under 50 calories- is fine, so I will have a handle of Jack handy. Just kidding, a shot of Jack is 65 calories, and yes, I did look that up. But I will be doing a lot of water, possibly green tea. For Saturday AMs workout, I reserve the right to an Advocare Fruit Punch Spark (15 calories) while I am working out. Also, since I have trouble sleeping anyway, I won’t turn down the offer of an Ambien (why do you think I'm putting this post up early?), should one come my way. I am pretty sure there are no calories in the pill, just blissful, restful sleep.

Doing a bit more research, I now find out to do this properly, before I start the fast, apparently I have to observe a romantically named ‘feeding period’ of only 8 hours before I start the fast. OK, so that’s basically skipping breakfast (which is pretty much my only time with Count Chocula.) So I can eat regularly during 8 hours on Friday afternoon. Not a fan of skipping breakfast on a work morning, and I pity the people that have to deal with me before my 'feeding period.'

In doing more research, I can’t seem to actually find the proper meal to end the IF with. The original one sentence blurb in Muscle & Fitness said to gorge, so I’m just gonna go ahead with that concept. I assume in the spirit of the thing, it should be a sensible meal. But fuck that, I’m the one putting my health and sanity on the line for your entertainment, so I call the shots here. I suppose my trip to the all you can eat buffet will also possibly skew my weight on Sunday AM, but again this is my first attempt and I am not a freaking scientist.

Also not a scientist, but blinded by science nonetheless.

I should also note I am currently eating as I write this. This is not gonna be easy. So wish me luck and health. Mostly health. Yea, mostly health.