Amazons

A Message From The Grave

 By The Biggest and the Best

I had a heart attack because of steroids. It was always going to be this way. I lived by the sword, and I died by the sword. But no regrets. I was only 46, but I lived life on my terms, big and impossibly massive. The good die young, but the best die big. But don’t worry about me, I’m teaching Jesus how to best train biceps. No, worry about yourselves. For what, now, are you going to do without me? Who’s gunna wish you good fucking morning on his training videos every day? Who are you going to follow on Instagram? I’ve left a big stinking void behind and no one else is phat enough to fill it. I was a one and only. My hundreds of thousands of YouTube followers will tell you that for nothing. They used to enjoy me making my enormous five-scoop protein powder shakes. It’s motherfucking shake time! I used to decree. There’ll be no more shake times with me, I’m afraid. You lot are going to have to fend for yourselves. Snort your pre-workout in memory of me, I say. Think of me when you’re doing your stretches and vacuums. You saw how agile I was for such a huge dude. You can still be like me, you know. My videos will always be there. And my supplement company will live on too. You know my slogan, Love it, Kill it. Take that to heart. In this game, you’ve got to love it, but you also have to kill it too. Love it, and kill it. I should have been a philosopher, but I was too busy getting absolutely humongous. I always got asked what I did for my arms. My answer is, apart from injecting oil and all kinds of other crap, I trained them three times a week. That’s why you only ever saw me in a vest, because my arms wouldn’t fit into any other kinds of clothing. (Size fifteen feet too.) I always got asked about my tatts as well. My answer is that they enhanced my physique. People asked about my money, and I told them I was a whizz in the stock market. They asked about my belts and watches. My houses. My Bentleys. They asked me a lot of questions. You saw how popular my booths were at the bodybuilding conventions. I was more popular than Mr Olympia. What other bodybuilder can ever say that? No one, only me. I was the biggest, and I was the best. That’s why everyone flocked to me. And did you see how much time I had for them all? Always happy to have a word and pose for a picture. Always changing my appearance as well. Hair dye, teeth, beard…I reinvented myself more times than Madonna. The people loved me though, because I was a good man. A softie at heart. Caring and good-natured. Self-made. You’ve got to love yourself before you can love anybody else. So, go out there and go whatever it takes, mother fuckers, and do it in memory of me.

Dedicated to Mr California, Rich Piana.

Rich's 1st article below
 http://piebald77.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/rich-piana-mr-california.html

Dreamworld 3

I was stood in a circle of gangsters. The top gangster shot them all dead, one after the other. They dropped to the ground all stiff and motionless, one after the other. Then he offered me his car. It was a mini go kart, shaped like a batmobile. I took off it in at speed, then lifted off into the sky. I was flying. I soared over the rooftops in the moony night, then landed like a professional outside my flat. I rang my dealer, but his phone was engaged. I tried again and again until I eventually got through. He said he had none but was getting some soon. I waited and waited. Finally he got some and invited me round to his place. I took my bicycle, but the tyres were flat, and it was like cycling through treacle all the way there. At last I arrived, but he wasn’t in. I waited and waited again. When he arrived he said come in. He cut the drugs with a blunt knife. It took forever. My patience was wearing thin. When he handed me the fat white bag I got on my bike and tried to make my way home. The harder I pedalled, the slower my journey was. It was then I saw the Skullbuster fly across the sky. The Skullbuster was a huge metallic flying spacecraft in the shape of a skull. The noise it made was deafening. It cruised past me and disappeared between two wobbling skyscrapers. The skyscrapers were wobbling because the earth was shaking. I stood in awe, looking after the lingering shadow of the Skullbuster. Then I carried on home. My personal stripper was waiting for me in my flat. She had breasts the size of Christmas turkeys. I tried to remove my clothes but they wouldn’t come off. It was as if they were superglued onto my skin. I struggled for what felt like hours. Finally I was naked and I gave her a quick hug. We stuck to each other like sticky tape. I had to violently remove myself from her syrupy embrace. I addressed my drugs, emptying the white powder onto a mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like a teenage boy. My hair and teeth were better. My skin was smoother. I looked beautiful. My stripper started singing in anticipation of the festivities ahead. Her voice was melodic and graceful. I lived for drug-fuelled lovemaking with my stripper. It didn’t happen very often but when it did I was very happy. I took a rolled-up note and bent down to snort the goods. It was then I realised that all of the white powder had melted into water. My heart sank. It had evaporated into nothing. I snorted it anyway, knowing it would have no effect, knowing that all my efforts had been for nothing. My stripper stopped singing, and then she started evaporating too, like a ghost whose allocated time is up. And then I awoke, in my bed, free of the predictable disappointments of the dreamworld. I rang my dealer.

Hold Fast

Schmoe Queen

Depression

 Beating The Mattress

What is there to say about depression that hasn’t already been said? It’s almost fashionable now to have gone through depression, if you’re a celebrity. Look at Ruby Wax – a champion of depression. They all think they are cool to talk about it because it associates them with today’s troubled youth. It connects them with the kids. The book Prozac Nation made being depressed almost trendy. I myself used to buzz off it as a teenager. I thought I was special because I was depressed. But being depressed ain’t really cool: Being depressed is total shit. In my understanding, being depressed goes hand in hand with staying in bed. Spending too much time under the sheets is a massive clue. Not wanting to face the living room, never mind the outside world, is another. You’ve lost interest in the TV, especially during the daytime – if you’re up, that is – and Facebook is full of happy prosperous people uploading their insulting happiness, so why would you want to bother with that? Showering or even brushing your teeth is out of the question because you have no special dates on the horizon – or any social events whatsoever, for that matter – so what’s the point if you’re not going out anywhere? Nothing to do but roll over and find a cooler part of the duvet to snuggle up into. And the longer you leave it to get up, the harder it becomes. And say you do get up, eventually…what then? Just what the hell are you supposed to do then? Prepare a meal? No. You don’t need much sustenance when you’re only lazing around all day. Better to graze on some simple sugars and indulge in junk. After all, you deserve it because you’re depressed. And a crappy diet is just more fuel for this all-consuming depression. I suppose you could get dressed – lol! What for? To sit around in the living room all day? What’s the point in being all dressed-up with nowhere to go, and nobody to go with for that matter. No, better to stay in your sleeping clothes. After all, you’ll probably be going back to bed soon. There’s simply nothing else to do. Apart from go out, of course, but ha, where to? Where the hell are you going to go, feeling like this? One peek through the window makes you realise that the outside world is like a different realm – that’s where all the busy happy people are, and it’s not for you. So, what to do about depression? The answer is easy…you’ve got to snap out of it. It’s as straightforward as that. Nobody else can do it for you. You’ve got to make a snap decision that you are refusing to feel like this anymore. You’re not standing for it any longer. The world is a state of mind, and depression is a mere changeable mental state. So do a spot of cleaning, put a CD on, get dressed, go out somewhere, anywhere, and get manic. Do something, and when that’s done, worry about what can be done next. One thing at a time. One day at a time. It doesn’t matter how small or meaningless it is what you’re doing, at least it beats the mattress. Get obsessed about doing things. That’s the key. Doing stuff.