LOOKING BACK by Big Chest

Disclaimer: The views and language of Big Chest do not represent those of admin here at PIEBALD77

Big Chest couldn’t give a turd about anyone or anything other than his massive big chest. His only goal as a child was to pile slabs of striated beef across his pecs and he did exactly that. He would ask heavy men including bouncers and wrestlers how they got theirs and jot down their advices in his training journal. He recalls how when he became huge himself, with time, the younger generation would ask him questions too. Usually, he telleth youngsters to eat an armload of red meat every day and train like a wounded animal, but he never responds to stupid questions like HOW’S THE DIET GOING? WHAT CAN I DO FOR MY GLUTES? and WILL INJECTING WINSTROL INTO MY ERECTILE SHAFT GIVE ME A BETTER STONK ON?

Unlike virtually every other bodybuilder, Big Chest is open about steroid use. “I never injected,” he says, “because even looking at a needle makes me dizzy, but when you talk to me about pills, I would drop them by the handful. I ordered them online from a lab in Mexico. There was a picture of a mutant cow with muscles on the box. Within minutes I’d be tearing doors off the hinges just to see if I could, and snapping them in half over my knee. I tipped my neighbour’s Fiat Punto over once, and ripped my fiancé’s duvet in half. Then I lay awake on the settee sweating all night, unable to sleep, hearing that insomnia song about one dry potato, the Faithless one in which he’s tearing off tights with his teeth, and my heart was pounding so much I would have the first two 9s of 999 already dialed on my mobile, with my finger waiting on the button for the third. There was a point when I was dialing the hospital every other night. I was calling ambulances like pizzas. And they always told me the same thing, to stop my crazy gym lifestyle and all that went with it.”

But true worthy champions never give up what they love and Big Chest is indeed the truest and the worthiest of true worthy champions; none more so than when he’s sat off down town in his tank top eating pork luncheon rolls. People gather round the behemoth and ask him to pose, like a trained ape.

“I remember my first photo-shoot for a magazine,” he says. “They gave me bermuda shorts and some sunglasses to put on. They wanted me to make a 20 pound dumbbell look heavy and smile as I did so. There was a guy with a squirty water bottle on hand to spray me with fake sweat. I was like man, get these mother**king c**ksuckers outta my sight, I don’t wear sunglasses when I train, are these crazy b*stards doolally or what? So they agreed to come back again and do it my way, with blood and guts and heavy-ass weights, only they turn around and tell me at the end of a grueling legs session that they'd run out of film, and hadn’t recorded my personal best set of intense high-rep heavy-breathing deep-knee-bend parallel barbell squats, which I hardly ever do because I'm so busy doing chest all the time. He hadn’t wanted to disturb me, was his excuse. I was lying down on the floor being sick when he asked could I go through it again if he went and grabbed some more film. Go through it again! Legs? Was he fecking mad or what man!”

Big Chest can be contacted for advice on how to build a big chest at bigchest@gmx.com

P.S (only 15 sheets for a signed photo)

CHEMICAL MUSCLE by The Biggest and the Best

A guy once asked me if he could still get insanely huge and big while taking all kinds of serious narcotics. This joker would stay out on all night benders without a single bite from dusk till dawn and wonder why his stems and pipe-cleaners could fit in cat-flaps. I said mate, you can do whatever the hell you please as long as you are eating a meal every 3 hours. In between those 3 hours, you can snort petrol if you so desire. You can chew on raw tabs of MDMA like tic tacs and inhale sludgy herion off a hot black spoon. You can bomb bags of whizz and lick handfuls of acid and neck pints of Sambuca and smoke so much weed that even Snoop Dog will be saying hold up. Those 3 hours are yours to do whatever you want. Insane in the membrane, insane in the brain. Blow out kidda. Knock yourself right out. Rock out with your c**k out.

Eating every 3 hours is guaranteed MASSIVENESS no matter what you are doing in between. But if you miss a meal then you must be prepared to eat 2 meals on the 6^th hour with a penance of 2 mammoth microwaved spuds. That’s how it works. And don’t forget to wash your meals down with six 50g scoop shakes as thick as paint so that all that treacly powder clenches around your heart and makes it pump twice as big with awesome mass.

Forget weights. You don’t need ‘em. Just posing your beefy pecs and traps will pile the size on and enrich your gigantic physique with true pure blood. My calves have never burned as much as when I trained them at home with no weights. I was limping for three days and it wasn’t even funny. It felt like they had been nibbled on by Rottweilers and all I did is do standing calf raises on the carpet with zero added resistance.

So, can you get high and massive at the same time? My answer would have to be yes, because every time I look in the mirror I see an oxo cube staring back at me. I see a brick sh*thouse who once couldn’t pass a drug test to save his skin. Steroids, barbs, PCP, peyote, methylone, you name it and I use to be on it like a tramp on chips.

If I didn’t eat like a dickhead in my younger drug days, I’d be thin as a whip now, but I’m not. I am still unbelievably wide and strong and thick and dense and large. I took Tupperware into clubs and munched on steak and broccoli while busting my moves on the dance floor. I was so into my chow that a bird from Stoke whipped my tackle out and I didn't even realise.

Stay large and in charge brothers and sisters. Over n out.

You have been reading The Biggest and The Best.

P.S (Don't forget them f**king chicken legs)

Big Muscle Bitches

Article by Nicky Dumbell (click below for more Nicky Dumbell)

http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/08/rep-for-rep.html

I was thinking of ten questions about the appeal concerning ‘buff birds’. The first and most predictable question would have been how can you possibly want anything to do with a women who looks like a man. This is the default defensive strategy question. I can understand where that question might originate from (perhaps ignorance and insecurity?), but such a sweeping generalisation makes for a pat argument.

There are no borders or boundaries separating masculinity and femininity, apart from the obvious common denominators. The rest are a series of increments and degrees that vary right across the board. It’s the proper BIG MUSCLE BITCHES who don’t so much as push the envelope but rather stuff the envelope who give everyone else a bad name.

The insults can get a lot nastier than man jokes, but what actually constitutes masculine features on a lass, any amount of muscle mass at all? Short hair? I’ll be the first to admit that one or two, without makeup, in a suit, with a cropped wig, could pass for a bloke. No problema whatsoever. I’m not standing here saying none of them look like men and I want to sleep with them all till dawn. I’m not saying any such thing. It’s my intention to say as little as possible about the matter, actually, and I hope that what I’ve said so far doesn’t seem like I’m getting defensive myself.
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Basically, it’s highly interesting to see how far some people are prepared to push the limits of human potential – ESPECIALLY WOMEN. A man in knickers, or a woman in knickers? You decide.

The fact is, pictures and images speak for themselves. You either like them or you don’t. Of course, as with anyone, you look at a member of the opposite sex and you judge them physically, maybe subconsciously, most of the time. You measure their attractiveness. You might think phwoar!, or eugh!

There are no subliminal messages with a big muscle bitch. They inevitably evoke a very conscious reaction. They’re like flashy concept sports cars. They’re extreme. That’s why they stand on stage, like rare breeds of exotic animals from forgotten islands. It’s ever so unusual to meet one on the street, in this part of the world.

Different story for men. Gyms, streets, nightclubs – you name it – they’re all teeming with muscle-bound ‘apes’. Why is it that so few females in comparison are obsessed by the shape of their physique? All that time spent on fashion and makeup but no interest in doing skullcrushers or kickbacks or butt blasters? Whenever I’ve been into a modern gym, which is not very often, there have been more women than men doing cardio exercises, using treadmills and cross trainers and the like. In that respect, i.e. inclination for fitness, it may be an even keel; not so true of the weights room, which is a predominantly male dominated arena.

I’m boiling this down to steroids, I’ve decided. That’s the penultimate factor in this. There’s no amount of natural physical toil a man or woman can do, unless they have freaky genetics to start off with, that can result in them looking abnormally huge. The natural way makes you look ‘developed’, whereas only the drug-enhanced way can make you look like a mass monster.

I guess it washes down to the perfect blend. Someone who has aided their favourable genetics with honest natural slog and then enhanced their honest natural slog with modest drug assistance. It’s no secret that genetics is the most important though. There will always be that individual with a God-given, stunning figure who has never set foot in a gym.

.

The flipside is that all this vanity is skin deep. Furthermore, self-obsessive and meaningless.

Comeback Legs...and Singing

Dedication to Steel is to Embrace a World of Pain

For whatever reason, I stayed outta da gym for months. For an iron brother, it’s worse than cheating on your wife. That first time back after a layoff is the hardest. You just don’t want to go. You want to call it a day for good. The longer you leave it, the harder it gets. But I dragged myself there eventually with an hour to go b4 closing time and plonked my bony arse down on the seated calf raise machine.

On my way I nipped into Tesco and read FLEX. I didn’t know Tesco stocked FLEX. I was lucky because the mag wasn’t plastic wrapped. It only took me 5 minutes to read. I can’t believe I used to buy that rehash religiously.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, I had an absolute monster leg session. I wasn’t screaming or grunting, or rushing headlong into sets with the hunger and determinedness I had when I was 23 and hell-bent on getting huge, but it was...well, comprehensive. I remember one sesh in particular back in the day when my quads were the best pumped they had ever been before or since – the teardrops were drum tight and hard and taut beneath my trackies. They were humongous.

No, this was different. I took my time, and I didn’t especially push myself, but I COVERED ALL THE BASES. It’s one thing going all out on dumbbell curls for biceps, but there’s hardly any such thing as even taking it easy on squats. Let’s face it, squatting with an empty back is rather uncomfortable. And squat I did, first time in eons, straight after calves, which I always do first. Free weight, smith machine, and hack, front and back. I decided against sissy squats, because I’m not a sissy.

It was the COMPLETE leg workout (the only little thing I left out was a small personal movement for shins I invented myself which you wouldn’t understand). The main reason why is because I was UNINTERRUPTED. No chitchat. No exchanging pleasantries. It’s fine when you are in your pomp, and you are just topping up that almost constantly buff feeling 5 or 6 visits to the gym a week merits, but nattering with your buddy during a Comeback Legs workout doesn’t figure. No way. And people know it. They sense your vibe. Comeback legs is no field trip.

Today, I’m hurting. That’s standard. I get up from a seated position like an old man. Proper gritting my teeth every time. It’s beautiful though, in a morbid way. Tomorrow will be even worse. But that feeling of walking down the gym steps last night, after it was all over...

...FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, THERE’S MASTERCARD.

(shud of warmed up however. the squats shocked my nervous system. my legs were physically shaking)

~

Eat up or Shut up...it's a Gruel World---------------------------MUSIC----------------------------

DB TINKERBELL bought a keyboard about 6 years ago, but only learned how to mix his lyrics with some songs last night. It’s not straightforward – nothing is with a personal PC computer, apart from turning the hunk straight off at the wall* – but it represents a milestone of sorts nonetheless. Ironic that it should be just the beginning of a journey then, because his kind of lyrics involve a female opera singer and a children’s tabernacle choir on backing vocals. No mixed sex backing vocals, no deal. One man singing alone, no matter how good or bad, is not enough. He can’t believe his phone has that geofence tech (whereosphere) but no sound recorder. If it did, he could ask girls in the street for quick voice samples...the blond in TSB has the voice of an angel.

~

*Was waiting half an hour for this 30 second clip to upload, because it' was a Windows Movie, not a Windows Media (TM) movie, like that's important. It would have had me there waiting all night. Half an hour, for a 30 second clip.

How I Roll with Supplements

© The Biggest and the Best

For protein, I rely on powder. At least 3 shakes a day. 5 scoops per shake in just under a pint of water. If I fancy a thick one I’ll use full-fat milk with added honey, clotted cream, yogurt, jelly, and a banana. Sometimes I throw in some flour too, for good measure. I also keep a bag of protein powder IN MY POCKET to eat like sherbet dip throughout the day.

For solids, I’ll have chicken and beef on a plate with egg whites and tuna fish butties on top. I once blended my solids into a shake and chucked-up all over the sofa in my local gym’s reception area. For multivitamins, I buy loads of tubs and pop them like jelly tots all day long. Be careful to read the label though because I bought thrush tablets by accident last time and ate them all.

With creatine, I mix 50grams into half a tumbler of lukewarm water just once a week and neck it before my calf workout. I must admit that I wake up GASPING FOR BREATH on these nights and have recurring nightmares about being kicked in the kidneys by a donkey. With glutamine, I help myself to a double-shot every time I open the kitchen cupboard. Together, creatine and glutamine make me insanely big and large. For protein bars, I keep two in my breast pockets at all times, but sometimes they are so chewy and sticky that they make my top and lower teeth glue together. They are certainly keeping dentists in business anyway.

For fat burners, I ingest whatever I can get hold of. If I feel jittery and nervous, that means they are good. If I can’t sleep, they’re really good. For essential fatty acids, I guzzle glasses of strained salmon juice and suck on the oily skin to absorb all the disgusting goodness.

With peanut butter, I eat it straight from the jar with a spoon. I’m addicted, so what. With steroids, I get all I need from the super-pumped supermarket turkey. Tight T-shirts are a supplement too, don’t forget. I bust out the seams because they make me look enormously thick and dense and wide.

The Biggest and the Best always knew that he wanted to be massive. He believes that if a man can’t have money, he must have size. Money and size are what makes men men, in his book. If you have none, either get the gym or get a job. He also believes that true size is acquired by nutrition, more than training. Eat Big to Get Big is his number one philosophy. He used to eat so much that the food would come back up his throat because there was no more room in his stomach.

EMBRACE THE FEAR by Done Legs

SCHMOE®

Die Big

I put it off for weeks and weeks, months and months, happy to just blitz my chest, arms and back until the cows came home. I would have rather hit abdominals than hit my lower limbs, or traps and forearms or something like that. I got myself into a comfort zone of pumping up my arms with seated machine dips and cable curls. Working out became a doddle.

Sitting down may take your back out of the equation but too much of it can make you lazy. I was driving home after my workouts feeling absolutely large and big up top without even getting out of breath. No such thing as swearing, sweating or shouting, with me – it was an easy ride.

Before I knew it, the very idea of hammering my pins seemed crazy. I actually used to think that putting them through a marathon 45-minute-plus session would drain all the blood from your upper body and make you look smaller in a shirt. Now I know that couldn't be further from the truth.

I always felt like something was missing. I would never wear shorts, so nobody ever seen my lower appendages, but my soul was finding it hard to rest at night, knowing that, underneath my clothes, I was missing a vital piece of the jigsaw. There was no challenge in my training, no effort.

So eventually I found myself at the squat rack in my rigger boots, performing old-school, high-rep, heavy-breathing, deep-knee-bend, parallel barbell squats, after reinventing myself in the journey that is a ton of calf raises, leg extensions and leg curls. I was once instructed by a man in baggy pink pants with a florescent bum bag to do calves last, because they are at the bottom of your leg, but I torture my trotters first, and work my way upwards.

Starting, sticking with, and finishing a leg workout struck fear into me for years. I made every excuse there is. But when I did 'em again, the satisfaction was unbeatable. The next day....aw wow! Nothing like it. No other body part has the potential to be tender for an entire week. I was high on the results of my endeavours for days on end, bonded to the Earth again by my heavy pulsing beams full of oxygen-rich red blood cells, instead of floating about on wispy threads. Can you understand what I mean here? It's like gravity was suddenly, oh I don't know, more there.

I've never looked back or shied away since and I recommend it to anyone who may feel similar to how I once felt. Your legs are half of you, and sucking in all that air at the bottom of a squat or deep leg press will release natural growth hormone throughout your whole body, making your pecs and guns grow bigger too, believe it or not. So remember, even if it's only now and again, or once every blue moon, it is still of utmost importance....to get them big legs up!

Nothing to it....but to do it.

© Done Legs MMX

Zombie Publications®

Models: Branch Warren and Lisa Auckland

Click below for feature length short story by Done Legs

http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/05/pump-party-by-done-legs.html

Female Bodybuilder Collage

IRON MAIDEN

Art Till Death

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Valentina Chepiga, Ukraine, 48

Former Miss Olympia 1999

Won the crown from Kim Chizevsky

~ Kim is in main blog title picture

and the woman from The Cell movie (2000)

***

Original photos of weights in O'Malleys gym. The Body Sculpture 20kg plate is on the hack sqaut machine, positioned by the window and capturing bleached spring sunlight at noon. The stacked plates in the background are on the leg press machine. It's neat how the red, blue and faint yellow can be seen in the iron.

***

Link for more A.T.D female collages at Redbubble.com

http://www.redbubble.com/people/piebald77/art/5795262-1-battle-of-the-sexes

DOWN BUT NOT OUT by Got Boulders

SCHMOE

Because Figure comes First

Boulders gets emotional here, but I must stress that just because a post is in the 1st person narrative, it does not mean that the content is autobiographical. Each individual post assumes a theme and a character from the contributor. They are getting their point across effectively without going into the traditional ‘once-upon-a-time-he-said-and-she-said’ story mode. I would never describe what we have here as short stories; I prefer scenes and sketches, or perhaps maybe the odd ‘short-short’ story.

Part 1 of 3

I was thin and I was wasting away. I didn’t want to eat; I didn’t want to live. I’d fell into a hole and reality was swallowing me whole. Somehow, someway, I’d become distant from the world of metal. I’d lost other things over time, like relationships with family members and God. I’d ruined business deals and spoiled career prospects and opportunities every which way but loose. My twenties were barely through and I was already a finished article, an end result, not a blossoming work in progress like so many others around me.

I envied my prospering friends. They had long since given up on me and I didn’t blame them one iota. The only people who recognise me anymore have just one thing to say....Christ, you’ve lost some weight, what happened? Like broken records they are. About as sensitive as a gynaecologist in a gas mask.

Have you no family and friends? They add. Are you not mobile? No doe? You look like a waste man these days, rude boy.

Nothing hurts like the spoken truth from someone who doesn’t give a shit. They don’t realise that once you lose the muscle, you lose the will to live. That means you start to die, from the inside out, like a rotting core.

When my bitch took my kids away, denying me any chance of access, I lost all the motivation and preparation needed for my contests. No more ready-cooked Tupperware meals neatly-packaged days ahead. No more hugs from my little ones in the morning to set me up for the day. It became a struggle to force down a tin of tuna. One thing led to another and soon I could hardly afford to pay my rent, never mind protein shakes or gym membership. Press-ups and sit-ups at home just aren’t the same. You miss the smell and the sounds of the iron pit. You miss it almost as much as all the other things you have lost.

And sometimes, perversely, more.

© Got Boulders MMX
Ya what, ha? Production
Zombie Publications