Today is the 30th birthday of Pac-Man. Pac-Man we salute thee.

Pic via Dagan’s Blog

Over the holidays those responsible for the hatching of ‘Rodney Fickle – Online Athlete’ took a sabbatical. Now with Christmas fading safely off into the distance in the rear view mirror I feel it’s safe for me to take a quick look back at the highlights of My Christmas – 2009.

Shopping was more frantic and frenzied than ever before. Lots of sweaty people, myself included, packing themselves into buildings that didn’t seem to be built to handle the influx. After safely parking the Mirage (AKA Fatmobile, AKA Stealth Shadow Death Machine) I head to the centre proper. Where I have parked dictates that I must take the Elevator, or the stairs, to get to get to my destination. My thought process is faster than lightning. Before I even know I’ve made a decision I find my hand autonomously pressing the call button for the elevator. Thirty seconds into my wait I find myself internally bitching about having to stand up so long. Standing makes me sweat. I don’t like to sweat. Finally the door opens and I survey the situation. There are about 25 people packed into this elevator. All looking back out to me. There is a glint in their eyes. A collective look of worry hidden behind a very thin veil of perceived cool. They all seem to be thinking the same thing.

“I don’t think this lift is rated to carry this many people, let alone one more sweaty fat guy.” Having been a firm believer of never making the incorrect decision I decided to ride the elevator regardless of the indignity that would surely follow. The indignity that would absolutely follow if the lift stopped between floors and we all had to wait hours upon hours, all the while trying work out who’d be the most suitable person to eat. Naturally I’d be high on the list – more of him to eat, yet he would eat more than us. It’s a simple equation. Using my ‘standing sweat’ I slip my way in between the bodies filling the elevators. I almost immediately regret the decision because of two things;

1. Instead of playing standard elevator muzak they are playing ‘Sexy Motherfucker’ by Prince

and

2. Someone smells of yoghurt. I can’t narrow down who.

Arriving at my destination I quickly dash across the third floor to the department store that I plan on buying gifts from. I do my best not look anyone in the eye. Every time I do that something bad happens. One time I looked a woman in the eye, smiled politely as I walked past she stopped me and said in an unnaturally low register “This is what we call the mulberry bush” then she cackled and went on her way.

Inside the store I start the hunt for the perfect gift. Instead I find that things have changed dramatically since last Christmas. Toys have gotten more…. Freaky. Here is a couple of what I considered to be highlights.

Dancing Snipes?

The finish line is definitely in sight now. Don’t get me wrong I still have a bunch of stuff to shoot and a hell of a lot of post to do but we’re getting closer. We have wrapped the main actress Susie McCann who was an awesome sport from start to finish. Now I find myself worrying about what it is I am going to do once this is all over. I mean, every spare minute I have right now is being poured into the flick. To stem the nervousness I have created a short list of tasks I might take up once the flick is done;

1. Figure Skating – A medal win would be vindication for fat guys everywhere with a body mass index over 35, a tingling of the left arm and a penchant to groan both when sitting down and when getting up. The only thing I fear is wearing a jump suit. We’ve already seen fat dudes do this. A: It doesn’t look very good and B: increases your chances of dying on a toilet.

2. Spend more time with my secret family.

3. Read the entire internet.

4. Build a flux capacitor, travel back in time to 1955 be sure that my parents dance at the Enchantment under the sea dance, thus ensuring that my birth goes ahead as planned.

5. Start an advice column, smoke a pipe, wear a ‘Cosby’ sweater and use my bifocals as a pointer during presentations.

In an effort to be 100% honest with you I’d have to say I think most of my free time is going to be taken up by exercise. I have put on what I refer to as ‘movie weight’. This is the sort of weight you put on because you have no time to exercise and Mar Bars are cheap and available. I’m so fat right now they’re going to have to bury me in the cardboard box stores deliver fridges in. Here lies Scott ‘Fischer and Paykel’ Dickson. In an effort to keep the weigh under control I have started back up at the gym. I do this in the mornings, when I’d normally be sleeping,because I have no other time free. I started by lining up a time to chat with the personal trainer so I could work out the easiest way to become a Brad Pitt level of hotness with a Scott Dickson level of effort.

I get into the gym at 6am. Various parts of my body, in what can only be described as protest, do not work like they’re supposed to. By the time I get to gym my left eye is still closed, it will not open until 7am. I met with the trainer, this guy is a giant. He’s drinking some kind of urine coloured beverage. I figure it’s not urine because he’s fully cut and that’s the result of doing things that are good for you, not drinking urine. He tells me to fire up the treadmill and hop on, I do this. The Treadmill snatches one of the thongs off my feet and spits it across the room into the calf of an unsuspecting exerciser. The trainer suggests I wear more appropriate foot-ware next time. Not knowing what the ettiquette is I dare not collect my thong. Instead I spend the next ten minutes on the treadmill with one thong on as he asks me questions about my ‘experience with food’ . I tell him I’ve have experience in many of the food
service industries and that I hold the current title of ‘Pie Champion’ or ‘El Campeón del Pie’ a prestigeous title gained by eating the most amount of pies in the shortest amount of time while not having any kind of emergency evac style situation.

He instructs me that as well as exercise I need to eat vegetables and other stuff. I spend the next ten minutes on the treadmill trying to force air into my lungs and control the amount my man-boobs bounce, while trying to convince the guy that if I eat any sort of vegetable at all I have an allergic reaction and my throat closes up. This doesn’t fly, he is on to my ruse and it is right now that I realise that this guy is the most awake man at 6am that I’ve ever met. He continues to outline the ‘plan’ to get to Brad Pitt-ville while I try to pretend that the whole thing is a nightmare and that soon I will wake up in my bed. The nightmare continues with me trying to gather my faculties while the trainer, wide awake, shouts slogans at me and high fives other beef cakes who walk by pretending be going to get more water but I know it’s really just an excuse to catch a glimpse of fatty bouncing on the treadmill.

Good times.

Looks hilarious. I’m there release day.