I’m Tim Kennedy and I can do super human things. Ooooooo. Look at me. I have six pack abs and can cup your ears and suck on your nose until your head collapses. Ooooooo.
Tim Kennedy comes on here every week and posts workouts that leave us mortals quivering like Anne Frank when the goose-stepping Waffen SS comes a knockin.’ Well, fuck Tim Kennedy. You want a real workout? Try this one.
This pleasure cruise needs two acres of mangey lawn so first go buy yourself a tract of land. It’s an absurd price to pay, but for the opportunity to give Kennedy the five-finger salute, it’s priceless. If you can’t afford two acres in this economy, find the nearest bushy soccer field or beg a European chick to expose her armpits. Being a self-proclaimed expert on Germany, RU Nick can probably direct you to the nearest German colony.
Kennedy would mow the land by running laps around the yard at Sonic the Hedgehog speed with his Wolverine claws at full extension. We’re not so lucky, so to match his level of manliness I use an ailing push mower on its last dying legs. If you have one of those Roosevelt-era mowers with the open spinning blades, even better. Refuse the support of your buddies when they offer their riding lawnmowers. That would be unmanly.
Pick the balls-out, hellfire hottest CAT 5 day of the year and wait until the mid afternoon to execute this workout. Triple digit heat will lower both your sperm count and ability to tap out. It’s imperative to show Super Tim we’re not quitters.
Roughly 30 minutes after kickoff (and one RU t-shirt change for us sweaty guys), run over an exposed root hard enough so the bagger unit gets stuck open. This way the grass clippings blow all over you and create a Yeti-like coating. Neighborhood kids will run. Their dads will aim rifles with big scopes at you (if you live in the right neighborhood). Ignore them. They’re bluffing.
At the halfway point, drop your iPod at just the right angle so the back wheels of the mower run over it as you watch helplessly in slow motion. Yell “FUCK!” as loud as possible just as your kids walk around the corner to show their friends the “Really Angry Yeti.”
Periodically you will have to empty the miniscule amount of clippings that miraculously find their way into the bagger. During each trip to the compost pile, slip on the mud just in front of it and fall on your ass so the clippings add to your Yeti suit. Again yell “FUCK!” (it’s therapeutic isn’t it?). In Kennedy’s universe, his Jedi powers would have suspended the clippings in mid air so they wouldn’t touch his Prada sunglasses, linen suit, or eight desinger watches. No matter how many times it happens, don’t learn from this mistake.
When the yard is done, break out the trimmer. Don’t wear safety glasses so you can plausibly say, “Wow that was close,” when the trimmer kicks up yard debris that impacts your orbital bones mere millimeters from causing permanent blindness. Again, yell FUCK! By this time of day, it’s just fun.
Tim Kennedy can’t drink or his sixpackistan turns into fatassistan, so enjoy an ice cold brew of “Fuck you, Timbo Slice” when it’s all done. Chase it with a Metamucil and a nap. The feeling of accomplishment from besting a guy who strikes fear into the Biggest Loser trainers is better than watching suburban dads take baseball bats to the groin on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
People do stupid things…
This was just plain FUNNY AS HELL!
Hilarious, but what’s this about “T-Shirt changes”? Wearing a shirt interferes with the sweat sticking the gras clippings straight to your skin, causing a rash that only barely rivals the sunburn-to-come from the first half- hour, before the yeti-suit was there for protection (Since we have not developed Timlike imperviousness to the Untraviolet rays that only make his physique appear more deed)