Kid Icarus

Someday when I give you the tenets of Brocialism (the precursor to FULL COMMUNISM, BABY, otherwise known as Fully Automated Luxury Pansexual Polyamorous Post-scarcity Space Communism or FALP³SC), I’m going to include the art of getting slothswole, bros (this will be on the test). This means no cardio other than the 90 bpm average of crushing anxiety, chasing toddlers, and breaking my ass for The Man.

La Resistance is all resistance all the time (except on days when I’m too tired). Oh, you’ve heard the jokes about Leg Day? I guess you caged cubicle rats can waste your time working the largest muscles in your body while fine tuning your balance. You wouldn’t want to get the DVT. I squat at least 800 times a day, often lifting crushing double digit poundage while I’m in the throes of retail wage slavery, so I’m good.

(I’m not going to get into diet, y’all, because I’m not a motherfucking nutritionist.)

Last week on curls day, because curls are the most important part of being a Brocialist other than work pushups (it’s what it sounds like. No one around? Do pushups at work. It’s a secret, until now), I was cruising along, fucking throwing those 50 pound dumbbells up there, and I felt a terrible stab in my lower back. I sat down and made a strange face while my spine did its best to slide out my asshole. Gina was concerned.

I did some quick Googling, and it turned out I’ve been lifting weights all wrong. See, there’s this thing called Crossfit where you toss huge objects around with your body weight and flail like a freshly murdered salmon, and I was basically doing that on accident by virtue of having shitty form. I was cheating, bros. The shame.

After more Google, I found a weightlifting forum with a checklist of things that would indicate I require medical attention. Now, in case you didn’t know, weightlifting forums are the best place to find the answers to important questions such as, “Hey bros, is 45 pounds a good curl?” or, “Hey bros, would you like to check out the woman I made out of duct tape, a Pringles can, and an old skeleton I found at the abandoned hospital?”

The author made up for their lack of citations with a take-no-prisoners approach. “Why spend time getting poked at the Doctor when you could be getting yoked? Can you feel your legs? Neither can I. Pissed yourself yet? Get a mop, SpongeBro. Are you able to achieve and maintain an erection? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SEE A PHYSICIAN IMMEDIATELY.”

Once I determined that I’d get by with Naproxen and rest, I raided the medicine drawer and steeled myself for next week’s disappointing lift session.

I’d been really excited to get those 50 pound dumbbells, bros. Once again, I flew too close to the sun, and my reward was injury and an deflated max lift. I’m back to 47 pounds this week (achieved by lifting 45 while wearing two pound arm weights), and much smaller sets. No more hip-tossing iron for me. I’m lifting with my goddamned arm muscles, as Marx intended.


  1. What is the natural precursor to the FALP³SC style of government?
  2. In what form of exercise does one abstain from cardio in favor of resistance training, shameful secret push-ups, and heart-destroying angst?
  3. What is the muscle group should you skip every day and what would you call this day if you chose to partake in such futile efforts?
  4. What is the best day of the week to get fucking jacked and take selfies?
  5. What weight-free resistance exercise requires employment and a good place to hide?

BONUS: Which technique will add five to ten pounds to your lift and probably end in horrific spinal injury?

Sorry bros, multiple choice is for capitalist dogs. You’ll find the answer key on page 42 of the January 1987 issue of Highlights for Children. Check it out at your local library, while you still can.

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