Monday, 31 May 2010
Sunday, 30 May 2010
These are some of the cut images taken from the first flick-through of SCHMOE's muscle mag stockpile today, mostly from the years 2002 -2006 in FLEX and MD. The adverts prove to be the best source for material. MD is a thick bible chocker with adverts and technical info whereas you can read FLEX cover to cover in a couple of sittings. Ideally it would have been handy to photocopy the pages and leave the magazines intact but despite the cost that process would have been even more painstaking. Being a cutter ain't too bad though with a bit of music on. I wouldn't even call it boring. The only other cutter I know of whose work is very similar compares the activity to knitting. She just so happens to have sold ceramics internationally so a mighty holla from me for common interests alike across continents right there. Search Kayleigh Walmsey on Redbubble.com if interested.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Saturday, 22 May 2010
SCHMOE: Fiction Gone Buff
Because a hard body is good to find
Please allow me a moment to impress upon you how huge and big I am. I simply do not know where to start. I will start with my arms. My arms are so big that I cannot wash my hair. They are absolutely massive and pumped and big and thick. When I put on a gun show in one of my tight white vests I can see everyone thinking wow look how awesomely big and thick he is. I love the way my arms attach to my cannonball delts like weapons of mass destruction. I don’t need to mention the delts though. Aw man the delts. Just imagine NFL shoulder pads and you’re halfway there. Then picture steep mountains running up them as my meaty traps ride high into my Mike Tyson neck. Ba-boom!
My chest is just like Arnold’s, if not better; two fat slabs of prime beef stretched across my ribs, a chest that looks even bigger when I wear a shirt. As for my back, well ha, it’s split right down the middle like a wooden table from Ikea folded in half, once again ram-packed full of succulent beef, Christmas tree in it and everything, like the champion Lee Haney. The lats on it defy belief, and are so wide that I often get asked if I can fly. The detail and separation is also first class. Go a bit lower and you have reached my gun-bolt glutes, or gridiron glutes as I sometimes like to call them, all shredded up and ripped like a buncha bananas under my crisp skin. Hanging off of them are my gigantic sweeping hams, which a lot of people say are not even a muscle, but a tendon, but these people would change their mind if they seen mine.
And the fronts of my legs – whoa. Quadzilla big time, and I mean big time. They nickname me ‘The Surgeon’ because of all my deep cuts. They say I look like a walking anatomy chart, only one with king-size portions of premium meat slapped all over it. To round things off at the bottom, I have the old diamond calves going on. Slop a full tin of self-tan on all this, crop of spiky blond hair, white smile, and you are now beginning to get the picture. That’s all folks. I just wanted to share that with you. I just wanted you to know how massive and huge and big I am.
Oh no, I forgot to mention my six pack!
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010
Friday, 21 May 2010
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
An email from one female friend to another:
Hello Caroline! Hope all is well with you. Saw some of your piks from your last comp and I thought you looked awesome. You were well cheated by the looks of it and I would investigate the scorecards if I were you, just so you know exactly where you stand. You need to know the ins and outs and use whatever you can to your advantage. Mistakes can and do happen and who knows what those judges can see from that far back. Have you seen how many rows away from the front their seats are? It’s scandalous. How can they be expected to do a proper job from back there? I’m putting in for athlete rep, sometime. Ah well. That’s another story. Keep plodding on girl, you’ll get there in the end. Fab improvements since I last seen you anyway and I totally, like, digged your colour. You were far the best coloured at the show even though everyone knows that the lights at that event completely suck. Loved your hair and nails too. And your costume...oh my! Absolutely bobby-dazzling.
Anyhow, let me tell you how I have been getting along. You know about my injury and everything else and how I have slowly been getting back into it, well now I have almost fully recovered and nearly back to using the same kind of poundages I did before the tear. Can’t get enough of torching arms and back at the moment after so long of having had to do legs to compensate. I am trying lots of new CNP products because of Malcolm’s sponsorship and I think I have found the holy grail of cheat meals...Jordan’s fruit and nut muesli. It is loaded with sugar but is simply the best muesli on the market. You get whole nuts and seeds and banana chips and flame raisins and pineapple pieces and all kinds in there. Got to be skimmed milk though! And only at the weekend. Everyone knows how Saturday is cheat day, all year round!
Allow me to reveal the juicy news now then. I have a hype man! They are the next big thing and all the top girls have one now. If you do not happen to know then a hype man is someone who attends your training sessions to verbally motivate you. I have only had him for one session so far...OMG, how does that sound? LOL! Malcolm does not even know yet. He’s about six feet tall and quite slim really. Spanish roots, I think, dark and handsome. Full of tattoos as well. I know you love tattoos on a man! Studded ears though, both sides, which I am not sure about. He has a tremendous bulge though which he kept adjusting all the time! In the lime-coloured spandex leggings he had on, it was very distracting. Only last week Malcolm was complaining about the new underwear I bought for him being ‘ball-huggers’. I could NOT stop thinking ‘ball-huggers’ the whole way through my workout. My hype man had his vest tucked into his lime-coloured leggings and every girl in the gym made an excuse to come and say hi to me for one reason or another between sets.
During my sets I did not realise just how mouthy these hype men can be. My friend said he had verbal diarrhoea! LMAO! The things he was coming out with! He must have called me ‘baby girl’ at least a hundred times. Keep the reps coming baby girl, ain’t nobody like you baby girl, take no prisoners baby girl, one more for number one baby girl. He kept repeating take no prisoners and going off into his own little stories, like take no prisoners, destroy the enemy, safety at the castle, we’re gonna burn all cornfields, we’re gonna burn all wheatfields, leave nothing to chance, you the king of the land baby girl, you the ruler of your own destiny...he made up a new extra line for ever single rep I did. Unbelievable. Some of the other fellas were itching to knock him out! Between his endless ranting and his lime-coloured spandex bulge, I couldn’t concentrate, I tell thee!
© Ya what ha? Productions 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
SCHMOE: Fiction Gone Buff
Because a hard woman is good to find
Because a hard woman is good to find
I was heartened by her at first; she was a breath of fresh air. I’ve been a doctor for umpteen years, more than you’d care to be interested in, so to have someone like that enter my surgery with the issues she had, well, what can I say, it doesn’t ever happen very often. It doesn’t ever happen at all. She caught me off guard, but nothing could have trained me for her anyway. It was shortly after nine, and after a brief introduction she was straight out with what was bothering her: V DEFICIENCY (1). What deficiency? I asked, leaning forward. V deficiency, she repeated, indicating her back with her hands, and sighing when I still didn’t grasp what she meant.
She removed her pink Goldigga hoodie then. Thankfully she wore a bra underneath to compliment her baggy sweatpants, but with her being not much older than my daughter, I was less than comfortable about the situation. I much preferred having to ask patients to remove their clothing for a necessary physical examination, rather than be confronted by a blatant strip. I had to admit to myself however that this young girl had a fantastically-shaped upper body, and obviously spent at least an hour of every day working out with weights in the gymnasium.
No taper, she stressed, drawing an imaginary line from her waist to her shoulder. After some discussion I told her there was nothing she could ever do to alter the size of her clavicles. She shifted focus then onto not one but another two problems, also concerning her back. The first of these two was PALMTREE SYNDROME (2), which continued to blight her no matter how many close-grip rows she did, and so-called because her lats were so high that they give the shape of a palm tree; a thin trunk with all the mass at the top, making her look waspish. This kinda contradicted the afore-mentioned ‘condition’ but I hesitated in pointing this out and interrupting her delivery of verbal demonstrations. Despite my eyes having nowhere else to look but at what I can only describe as tight rippling muscles, this individual was quite fascinating and provided a most unusual encounter in my usually boring office.
Again, struggling to keep a straight face, I told her that high attachments are inherited and there was nothing she could do to change the morphology. Like a kid with a tantrum she hit me with the SHALLOW BACKFIED DISORDER (3), no matter how many deadlifts she did, which means a general lack of thickness and detail in the entire back, from neck to glutes. I politely tried to ease her genuine concerns, as this was, extraordinarily, no joke on her part, saying that I had seen plenty worse backs in my time that were all completely devoid of either a) deficiency, b) syndrome or c) disorder. She left looking like she felt down in the dumps, and although I still wasn’t 100% that it wasn’t a wind-up, I was sure that I hadn’t seen the last of this curious creature.
The very next morning she was in my surgery again, within seconds naked apart from posing trunks and flip flops from the waist down, her oversized sweatpants tossed over the printer on my desk. The charm very quickly wore off during this second session as she motored through the list of imperfections with her legs. ONE-WAY AFFLICTION (4), apparently, is legs that look great from the front but ‘virtually disappear’ when viewed from behind, due to underdeveloped hamstrings. TURNIP THIGHS (5) is an imbalance between the upper and lower regions of the thighs, and so-named because of the vegetable’s top-heavy shape. FLAT-TYRE DISEASE (6), my personal favourite, was her third lower body affliction, and means a lack of thigh size in any way, shape or form. Still, not content with a hat-trick, she moved further downwards to her calves and explained how unbearable it was for her to suffer with PEG LEGS (7) on a daily basis.
I was pressed for time, and had to bite my tongue. She seemed to be expertly clued-up on what exercises would work best for her particular genetics and I wondered if only a magic prescription of pills would satisfy her. A shoulder to cry on I could sympathise with but I was more like a face to complain to. On our third and final meeting, the next morning, she was in a real stinker of a mood, as much at the world as at her own body I guessed, but she still went to lengths to impress upon me the pitfalls of a CONGENITAL WIDE WAIST (8), DROOPY PECS (9), and SPAGHETTI ARMS (10). If she didn’t address these ‘maladies’ soon, she said, or, moreover, if I didn’t help her address these maladies soon, then she feared she wouldn’t stand a chance at defending her Miss NABBA junior crown for the third year in a row. By now the awkward seduction of the strip show had long gone and my patience was truly worn by her childish petulance. But I had news for her. I had some really sound advice. Perhaps because my own daughter is a paraplegic, or because my next patient that morning had terminal cancer...I don’t know. I was just cheesed off.
Prognosis: GET RID OF YOUR MIRRORS AND STOP GOING THE GYM!!!
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010
Monday, 10 May 2010
Nelly boarded the train to the NEC Birmingham, where a bodybuilding expo was being held. The weather threatened to be crappy, but he was in a buoyant mood. Both his expo ticket and his train ticket had been booked months in advance. And now it was almost time! He arrived within the hour and was very unimpressed by the complex, it looked like a collection of industrial units, but the people inside, as he knew they would, blew his mind.
No amount of YouTube or DVDs could compare with seeing it all in the present flesh. The men were absolutely round and lumpy like you wouldn’t believe, so huge they had their own gravitational fields, but the women – wow! Oh wow! There was hardly a full outfit between the lot of them. Bikini babes, figure babes, fitness babes...they were all out in force. Not so true of the muscle babes though, and given the size of the place, he found his favourite muscle babe’s booth surprisingly quickly.
Her name was Ulla Krispe and she was known as the ‘Ripped Princess’, a big woman with a ton of muscle. Her booth was very quiet in relation to the queues and commotion going on around other booths. She wasn’t inundated with people begging her picture and autograph like almost every other male pro. But there were several people gathering around, chatting to her and among themselves. Single guys, like him, for the most part.
Nelly bustled himself through to the front, where his vision was filled with piles of neatly-stacked laminated photographs and creatively-arranged towers of DVDs. There were also T-shirts and caps and various other products bearing her name for sale. Nelly wanted one of everything but he didn’t want to be burdened with bags of goods so early after having just arrived, plus at the moment he was wrapped up in taking in Ulla Krispe’s extraordinarily developed physique. At a glance she seemed to be clad in a skin-tight cat suit of some kind, but closer inspection proved it to be nothing other than a layer of paint applied to her bare skin. All she wore, apart from footwear and earrings, was patches over her boobie tips and a cheese cutter thong barely visible to the naked eye. Nelly thought it must be a promotional stunt. He wasn’t complaining.
Before he could say a word to her, the most annoying thing happened – a fire alarm went off. It was one of those hi-tech alarms that you could almost dance to. After several minutes of people looking confused, most of the visitors reluctantly headed for the exits, guided by security people with microphones. Even Ulla Krispe started packing up her gear, and that’s who Nelly ended up directly behind, outdoors, at fire point B2. It started to rain and the detailed body paint started to smudge on her amazing skin. Nelly could see every individual muscle in her back as if she didn’t have any skin. Every one of them almost flowed into the other like running water.
He felt a little odd perving her up from behind on the sly, because in all truth he still didn’t know how he felt about these muscle women. A small minority of them overdid the performance enhancers, developed male attributes, and gave the rest of them a bad name. He still had time for them, because they were still all women at the end of the day, but he much preferred the skilled select who knew how to strike that perfect balance.
It seemed to him now that the bikini, figure and fitness girls were getting more well-known than the Olympia girls, and that just wasn’t right. He knew that the rules had been changed recently, ordering that the Olympia girls come in smaller on stage if they wanted to place higher. Nelly blamed Governor Schwarzenegger’s Arnold Classic for that, where all these kinds of muscle spinoffs went on. Nelly wondered if it was just a matter of time before Arnold had regular-looking blokes in Speedo trunks on stage.
Nelly’s gut feelings were with the Miss Olympias, and it was more, or beyond, sexual attraction. The slobbering nerds who couldn’t get enough out of seeing a practically naked woman were all bikini and figure lovers. With muscle, it was different: With muscle, it was worship. Or dominance, if you were that way inclined. It was a foggy sport. Bodybuilder women had the odds stacked against them. Perhaps the sport had been doomed from day one. After two minutes of talking with Ulla Krispe in a light drizzle of rain outside of the NEC, Birmingham, he was certain that there was something very flawed and contaminated about it, by today’s terms at least.
How did he know this? Well......
She invited him back to her hotel room, offering a range of services, which included a possible hand job! All for 250 Euros. He was repulsed to his stomach by this and his face struggled to hide it. He hadn’t realised the situation was so desperate. He hadn’t realised his not-so-favourite female bodybuilder anymore was so very literal and accurate in her choice of nickname – as in princess ripped through the middle with a muddy abyss of lewd improperness. Or maybe he was just too squeaky clean.
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
SCHMOE: Fiction gone buff
Because a hard woman is good to find
She emerged from the patio half-naked, lugging a Weider weights bench. Sporty hot pants, a tank top, and white Nikes – that’s all she had on. She planted the bench on the lawn right beside me. I absorbed the truly unsettling sight of her: the smooth sweep of her outer thighs, the slim notches of her joints, the grid of her washboard stomach. Her lengthy swaying curtain of pressed-straight hair was like a glorious robe flowing from her delicate skull. Her groovy silver-painted fingernails were......uh, silver and groovy. Her Hollywood-white eyes and teeth sparkled in contrast to her rich bronze tan. She almost didn’t look real: more like a sculpture from a dream.
“What do you lift?” she asked me. My tongue tied itself in knots. I didn’t lift shit. Pints, at the weekend, is what I lifted. I was here by invitation of a friend, see: whereas you and I might gather round a BBQ in the summer with a coupla crates of Coors or Miller (bottles of course), my good buddy Craig and his gym cronies crowd around it with coolers of canned whey protein, surrounded by barbells, dumbbells and a pile of twenty plates. They call it a ‘pump party’. Kind of like an outdoor workout in a restaurant car park. Craig reckoned it made him bigger, eating and drinking while working out, plus he was killing multiple birds with a single stone by working on his colour as well, in the booming sunshine. I’m surprised he doesn’t try to do it all in his sleep, to promote optimum growth.
Because he’s like a broken record, and all he ever bangs on about is the gym, I’ve picked up some of his buzzwords and consider myself capable of socialising as a guest at this muscle fest without feeling too out of my depth. I know, for example, that this extremely odd specimen of a woman (although plenty of haters would call her a man) looked hard, dry and crisp. Before I knew Craig, if someone had described someone as looking ‘hard, dry and crisp’, I’d wonder what the blue yonder they were going on about. It’s like how a cannibal starved to delirium would describe someone, although I suppose it’s no more baffling than Craig describing himself as ‘gas’, which is word on the street for ‘shit-hot’, I believe. Better than ‘waste man’, which is what he calls me sometimes!
“Oh, I lift, er, a hundred,” I replied. When she asked whether I meant a hundred kilos or a hundred pounds, I said, “Kilos, oh yeah, big-time.” Then I scratched it back before the hole got any deeper and admitted that I didn’t lift at all. No point in blagging. Honesty is the best policy (unless you’re answering questions for car insurance, that is). I already respected – and revered – this rare breed of a female far too much to play it any other way than straight. If I was to have any chance whatsoever of appealing to her or impressing her someway (bagging this booty seemed one breed of bird too far), it would have to be with my grey matter, because my body, far from being hard, dry and crisp, was podgy, blotchy and oozing sweaty. Craig always moaned about how tough it was for him to fill out his taller frame with slabs of quality beef, but I was secretly envious of the fact that at least he had a frame. My excuse is that I’m big-boned for my height, to which Craig replies (and he’s supposed to be my friend): “Sure, big arse bone, yeah, and the belly bone, whoa, look at the size of that one.” I don’t call him beanpole or nest legs anymore because he takes it too personally. God forbid I call him lanky streak of piss, as that used to really hurt him. Lanky string of piss was even worse, and could see him sulking at me for days. None of it applies anymore, however, as during the last six months he’s massed-up dramatically (by nothing more than training harder and adding red meat to his diet, he claims).
“I take it you’re Craig’s boy, but what are you doing here?” she said, although before I could strike her off as a narky uppity bee-atch, she winked and added, “Come to watch?”
I’m in, I thought to myself, I’m either in or she’s toying with me, pulling me along on some private joke (the very worst kind of joke, in my opinion). Either way, it was well worth me hanging around, if for nothing else but an eyeful of sun-bed cleavage. It occurred to me then that I had not once taken my eyes off off her since her arrival. She didn’t look uncomfortable under my stalker’s gaze though (quite the opposite, actually). Probably giggling at me, in her head, beside herself with entertainment. She stretched a bit, touching her toes, and then set the bench up. I made myself useful by tossing some Eat to Grow bison burgers on the charcoal BBQ. Eat to Grow is Mr Olympia’s very own cuisine home delivery service. The sizzling heat and the deep aromas had been working up quite an appetite in me, but now I couldn’t concentrate on anything else except for---
Craig came out then, pushing a trolley loaded with equipment (it’s his garden, by the way). Together, once everything was set up, they warmed up with an empty bar, 50 reps each. If it had been two blokes and not a fit muscle babe I would have fell asleep on my feet before the first one could get halfway through. I didn’t dare join in as they piled on some weight for their first working set.
“Drive it,” she growled at him. “No mercy on the bar now. No mercy on these plates. No mercy on this weight. Bang it out, pop, bang it out, pop. Squeeze it, squeeze it, push, push, push. That’s it. Good. Good.”
Craig bellowed the horrible racket of a man dying from severe bowel cramps, his face red and puffy like a lobotomy patient mid-operation. What an unpleasant-looking dude he could be, I reasoned, although I did have to admit that he was practically getting bigger on the spot. He had a bunch of striated cords in his chest which looked like something alien inside him trying to get out. She, on the other hand, had a bunch of striated cords in her ass. Can you buh-leeve that shit? I couldn’t. Her butt cheeks were all pumped and she wasn’t even doing legs! She had big round veiny implanted breasts as well, where her pecs went into them. That’s an area of her I think will take a little getting used to, as the implants look too much like add-ons. The little chips at the sides of her ribs were strange, too. When she hiked up her hot pants to show me the cords in her groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, I knew she was trying to gross me out, but the fact is I was fascinated by it a great deal. I’ve heard that bodybuilder women can crack shelled nuts down there, and by this evidence I was inclined to believe that maybe they could. Truth or myth? It was a tight call.
Just then the rest of the clan turned up. 2 guys who I knew, and another three hunky sheilas in hot pants and tank tops who I didn’t. They had cameras and baby oil. I tucked into one of Jay Cutler’s tenderized bison burgers (oh Christ), and helped myself to a can of protein ice (not too bad) with nervous anticipation. This was the turning point for me: I was getting myself into Craig’s inner circle; I was getting myself among chiselled chicks; I was getting myself a gym membership.
© Ya What Ha? Productions 2010