Killing In The Name Of

An oldie but a goodie. Turn your speakers up to max volume, kick back, and let Zack de la Rocha aurally whoop your ass and cause you to question the establishment with such thought provoking lyrics as: "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me / fuck you I won't do what you tell me!" Magnificent.

Rolfs bought new weights. They look like what some movie producer would use for weights in a futuristic sci-fi thriller. Instead of plain old round discs, they're all polygonal and angled, and they've got rotating handles. Anyway, the point is they look different than the old ones, and I somehow got mixed up and added 15 extra pounds onto the bench last night, putting the bar just under my body weight. I managed a pretty steady 6-5-4 before I figured out why it felt so heavy, which I realize is not enormously impressive to many of you, but considering that a) tall lanky computer guys are not widely noted for their brute strength and b) I started out benching well under half that, I'm really quite pleased with my progress so far.

And now, lunch.