I can’t decide who’s messing with me more: Fat Popsicle the Gangsta, or the cracked out 8 year old who’s got his back.

Props to J-Boogie for bringing this brilliant piece by Josh Raskin to my attention:

Having finished another boxing bootcamp with Irish bad ass Simon Redmond at Titanium, I’ve been trying to find other intensely athletic distractions to maintain my monk-like abstinence from my former darling vices of strippers, blow and cigarettes.

Check out my highlight reel of my recent OLYMPIC FEVER fueled workouts:

OLYMPIC FEVER BABY! FEEL IT!

The herd they were tracking was small, only eighteen head, but up close and streaming through the sage where the butte touched the waters of Lake Hebgen, the buffalo shook the earth and seemed even to shake the water…The forest was silent but for the buzzing of gnats and the breeze moving through the pines and the firs. Then the buffalo burst from the trees, nearly trampling me, the calves with their umbilical cords still hanging, the cows panicked for the safety of the calves, and one big bull not happy at having his morning disturbed. Hard behind them came a rider…clad in a Stetson, chaps, and aviator glasses, and carrying a whip. Seconds later, the forest was flooded with horsemen slaloming through the trees, hollering into their walkie-talkies—“Your goddamn mike’s open”—wary of broadcasting the details of their locations or methods over the airwaves…In total, perhaps twenty officers had been dispatched from six different agencies, in as many as twelve vehicles and riding as many as eleven horses, deployed sometimes sixteen hours a day, arrayed at a cost of $3 million, their purpose nothing less than the corralling of the last wild free-roaming herd of genetically pure buffalo in the United States.

Read the whole of this interesting and captivatingly proseful article on the online presence of Harper’s Magazine…