Here I was, perusing a bunch of New Age books in search of alternative methods of getting so pumped up that you could slaughter legions of your enemies, Arnold-in-Commando-style, when it occurred to me that I knew of a way, right offhand, that’d work. From there, I built it up into a wide array of odd motivations which you guys might or might not use, but I’ll wager my right testicle and all 34 cents in my pocket that you’d find interesting enough to put off the completion of that excel spreadsheet you’re working on long enough to read this.

My very first tattoo was an effort to utilize the religion of my ancestors to my benefit in the gym. My ancestors, if you couldn’t guess by opening your eyes and looking at me, were Germanic, and they took no shit from anyone. Their religion centered upon this general theme as well, and though they didn’t impose it upon the peoples who they conquered and slaughtered, because clearly they weren’t man enough to worship Germanic Gods, they used it to their benefit daily. My tattoo? Two runes in elder Futhark that serve as a bindrune of my own creation consisting of runic wishes and talismen whose power I evoke my using incantations, and by wearing them. Now, that might serve as some wacky fucking witchcraft horseshit to you, but I’d imagine Benny Podda would be right there next to me ripping out your entrails and feeding them to your children as an object lesson if you found yourself making light of them. Why? They fucking work, for one, and they’re fucking metal, for another.

Lemme tell you why. For one, I believe they work. Whether or not that is a placebo effect or not is immaterial, because the outcome is the same. For another, it’s in my blood to believe in them and use them. The Norse and Germans utilized the Runes, which were discovered by Odin after impaling himself upside down with his own speak onto the Tree of Knowledge for them, and after ripping out one of his eyes as payment for other knowledge. the man was a fucking beast. Anyway, they were used from pre-Christian times until the 13th Century, were primarily used for divination and runestones, and consist of 24 letters (in Elder Futhark, one of three runic types).

My tat consists of two runes- Teiwaz (Tyr) and Uruz. Tyr is the creator god of the Germanic peoples, and warriors used to call upon him to grant them courage and righteousness to secure victory. He was a model of masculine honor and courage and his rune was the phallic symbol of procreative energy, so as you can imagine, this is the perfect badass to call upon in times of strength events or epic nights of fucking. In addition to invoking courage and brutal hardons, Tyr is connected with the astrological symbol Libra (my symbol), and the color red, like the blood of your enemies, or the color all over your shins after a set of deads so brutal your kids are left retarded and the bar has to be brushed with a brillo pad to disinfect it. In essence, my ideal fucking symbol.

Uruz signifies an aurochs, and for those of you who don’t know, they were wild bulls that roamed Europe until the 17th Century and were described as “slightly smaller than an elephant” by Julius Caesar, not a man given to a great deal of hyperbole. Uruz means strength, courage, skill, and determination, and represents primal force.

Together, they fill you will all of the badassitude of ten Chuck Norrises, and that’s why I put them on my wrist. When I feel like I need a little boost, I concentrate on those symbols, which I conveniently located on my wrist so I can see them while lifting, and it’s on like fucking Donkey Kong.

That’s just one of the many things I use to pump me up for a lift, and an idea of the kind of wacky shit you fuckers can use to get you psyched. In an effort to cover all of the bases, I’ve done a bunch of research on alternative methods to become a bonafide Godzilla of lifting, and shall share them with you in installments, as it’s been brought to my attention that my blogs typically rival David Copperfield in length, and as I find Dickens to have been a verbose hack with no skill whatsoever at writing, I’ll shoot for brevity and keep this one to half a million words. More to come, fuckers…

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Now playing: On Broken Wings – On Violins

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