I have “people.”
I don’t even know what that means, but I do.
Why? They think I’m worth something.
Let me explain. A couple of years ago I started this blog on my old site, Save Gas Burn Fat.
Somehow it became popular. I had followers.
At some point, someone got jealous and hacked my site. So I said to hell with it.
After some prodding and convincing from friends asking about the blog, I decided to do it again.
Low and behold, I have followers again. Enough to make people interested in what I’m doing.
What are my “people” telling me to do? They’re telling me to clean up my act. I find this absolutely hilarious.
I tried to explain to them why I got popular in the first place. I have two things: my balls and a point of view. I’m not afraid to put either one on the chopping block.
My “people” agreed. Then gave me some bull about catching more flys with honey.
Another thing my “people” want? Mention health and fitness in my blog. I’ll mention something about it before the end of this blog, so just keep reading.
My “people” want to turn me into a brand. Trust me folks, it’ll never happen. My last name is Tortorich, which doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
I told you that to tell you this.
Today the commissioner of professional football in the United States handed down a stiff sentence to the New Orleans Saints. In the interest of honesty, I’m from Louisiana. But I can give a rat’s ass about the Saints. If they win, lose or draw, my life doesn’t change.
That being said, I think the team had a lot to do with New Orleans as a city getting back on its feet. Winning the Super Bowl made the folks in the city and Louisiana as a whole believers again.
I also want to say that I don’t think it’s right for any player to cheap-shot or hurt another player. If you are playing within the rules of the game, your job is to knock the crap out of someone else if you’re on defense.
How do I know this? I played the game.
I started playing before puberty and went on to play in college on a full scholarship.
One thing you are taught from day one is to go 120 percent. Then go for 130 percent. You don’t pull a punch.
I’ll never forget lacing them up the first time. I walked out to a muddy field in the swamps of Louisiana. My defensive coach, Lou Latino, told me to forget about my friends on the other side of the ball and annihilate them.
When I did, I was praised. When I didn’t, I was yelled at. Same went for everyone else.
Goodell, or whatever your name is, you can’t have it both ways. Football is a violent sport. People get hurt.
Let’s face it: The NFL has its double standards. They claim to have zero tolerance for drugs. I have news for you…anabolic steroids are widely used in the league. That can do more damage than a blow on the field.
You want a clean league? Get the players to pee in cup.
You won’t do that, Goodell. You know the truth. You just pay lip service to having a zero tolerance for drugs.
Do the Saints deserve reprimand? Absolutely.
But to completely cripple a team, and hurt the livelihood of these players, who only have a few years before retiring, is tragic. That’s just my opinion.
By the way, you want to lost weight? Cut back on sugar.
Sophia Loren…follows soccer
When I was a kid, I believed in Santa Claus. I believed that a jolly, fat man in a red outfit with black boots and a long, white beard would fly around in a magic sleigh.
The story didn’t stop there. You would think a sleigh that could fly would have rockets on it, right? No, not this one. It was yanked around by special flying reindeer. But wait…it didn’t stop there.
That story gets even bigger. I was told those flying reindeer would pull that sleigh and that fat man around the globe once a year on Dec. 25. Why? He would deliver gifts to children everywhere.
Now here’s the crazy part. I really did buy into the whole thing. Why? Everyone around me seemed to believe it.
By the time I was 6 years old, my belief started to wane. The world seemed too big. I had a problem with the concept of the chimney he supposedly slid down. By age 7, I was almost certain he didn’t exist.
I wasn’t going to say anything. I was on the dole. I couldn’t have the toys and gifts stop. I just went along with the rhetoric of St. Claus as a magical man.
By the time I was 8, I couldn’t take it much longer. I went to my parents and told them I couldn’t play the charade anymore. I needed to know the truth.
I learned two things that day. First, I learned that the gifts wouldn’t stop, whether I believed or not. I also learned that to make it in this world, you have to question everything.
I told you that to tell you this.
I’m afraid that your good intentions have been stolen. As Americans, we’re fatter than ever. It’s not our fault.
There are many places to point the finger. Since I’m America’s Angriest Trainer (at least that’s what I call myself), this blog will take you through several scenarios on why we get fat and stay fat against our better wishes.
There’s a huge debate that high fructose corn syrup (which comes from corn) is no more fattening than sugar. True, they both offer the same number of calories and their molecular structures are similar. There’s real studies that prove that not all sugars are the same. High fructose corn syrup can make you fatter than sugar.
As a matter of fact, the Corn Refiners Association (they also know this to be true) has been spending bundles of money on huge advertising campaigns to make us believe otherwise. You may have seen these ads. They claim sugar and high fructose corn syrup are the same. Trust me, high fructose corn syrup and sugar are not the same.
The Corn Refiners Association has spent tons of money lying to us that both are equal. “Sugar is sugar,” they claim. They do it in an All-American, wholesome way. Everyone in the ad is lean and good looking.
They claim they have the research to back it up. They even tell us to do our own research. Listen to the experts, and “get the facts.”
They’re basically telling people to Google it. So what happens after a quick Web search? We find an unassuming Ph.D (not a professor, but an associate professor) named Kristine Clark who shills for high fructose corn syrup.
How do we know she’s a shill? The Corn Refiners Association actually uploaded all of her videos.
Do you know the difference between a nurse and a nurse’s aide? A nurse is a step away from a doctor, while a nurse’s aide mainly cleans bedpans. Just like a nurse and a nurse’s aide have differing job descriptions, the same goes for a professor and an associate professor.
Clark also uses a condescending tone, treating us like babies who are wrong. According to her, high fructose corn syrup is not only equal to sugar – it’s better.
What kind of idiots do they think we are?
Keep in mind, she comes from Penn State. Remember that school? Apparently they think football is more important than child molestation.
See the video for yourself:
I’m not asking you to take my word for it. I’ll put a link so you can find a guy who really knows what he’s talking about – Dr. Robert H. Lustig, M.D. He’s an endocrinologist at the University of California San Francisco Center for Obesity. He’s a foremost authority on obesity in the world. Last I checked, he wasn’t “cleaning bedpans” at a state school. Here is a link to a video where for 89 minutes he spells it all out in great detail. Who’s he speaking to? A room full of doctors.
Truth be known, if you’re trying to lose weight, too much sugar is not your friend.
Remember folks, I don’t have a horse in this race. I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m just trying to sell you on the fact that you don’t have to go into your old age any heavier than when you were a teenager.
Think of me as your trainer now. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to share them on this site.
Anyone who used to read my blog is well aware that I’ve been gone for a while. Why? Because some asshole decided he should hijack my website. So I just said eff it.
Then I realized something. People like this blog. Several months after I stopped, people would ask when it would come back. I was shocked and humbled at the same time. A lot of these people were the movers and shakers around Hollywood.
Enough of that. Let’s move on.
When I was in high school and college I was a football player. As many know, football is a competitive sport. You practice hard, come together as a team, you put your neck on the line and play as hard as you can. There’s more to the sport than meets the eye. They need spectators. It’s almost as much as a comedian needs audience participation for a good show.
That’s why there’s such thing as cheerleaders. They have two jobs: where a skimpy outfit (which sexualizes them) and lead the fans in cheers. It’s all designed to help their team win.
That’s the way it was when I was growing up. But not anymore.
Cheerleaders now have their own competitions. They compete locally, regionally and nationally. In most cases, these girls couldn’t give a rat’s ass about their football team or even the school. Sure, there’s a mascot. They create cheers around it. But that’s about it. They don’t care if the team wins, loses or draws. They want to win in their sport. It’s created some sort of quasi disconnect.
I told you that to tell you this.
If you are a past reader of this blog, you know I have a lot to say about yoga. My feeling has always been that it’s a a great way to get flexible. It cannot and will not get you into shape. In the interest of full disclosure, when I have time on my hands (which is not often), I hit a class around L.A. But I digress.
My friend Steve sent me an article that he knew would infuriate me. It was in the New York Times. They talked about competitive yoga.
Really, folks? Competitive yoga? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Isn’t the whole thing about not competing?
Then I started thinking about it. Yoga was always competitive. Every time I’m in a yoga class, everyone is trying to one-up each other. If a person is standing on their head, another is trying stand on their hand. Then a third person is trying to levitate. If a guy is in a half pretzel, another guy is in a double pretzel. The third jerkoff is trying for a double pretzel with his shirt off so everyone can see his hot body.
After the hour-long stretch fest in a room that smells like feet, everyone puts their hands together and whispers the word “Namaste.” In loose translation, this is an Indian valediction upon parting.
Then they roll up their mats with their new-found self righteousness on the world and walk out to their Land Rover or Mercedes to start cutting people off and flipping them the one-finger salute in traffic.
Sophia Loren, the world’s greatest cheerleader