Getbig.com: American Bodybuilding, Fitness and Figure
Getbig Main Boards => Gossip & Opinions => Topic started by: Meta-physical on March 19, 2017, 03:42:00 PM
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Like the majority of you fine gentlemen here, I am no stranger to the gladiatorial way of life. So imagine the look of bewilderment on my face when I settled down to read the latest riveting debate on the merits of various street fighting styles, only to find that nobody had bothered to mention the most deadly one of them all: Capoeira. This underrated martial art is by far the most effective and logical system to be utilised when fighting in the streets, given that most violent confrontations occur when individuals are attempting to socialise with one-another while inebriated by alcohol and exhilarated by the pulsing beats of Hip-Hop’s most talented artists. When one’s movements are already synchronized to the tempo of music, punches and kicks flow like the lyrics of ‘Little Wayne’, art and action unite, and violence manifests itself in the most beautiful of ways. What’s that you cry? ‘Balderdash! You’re selling us a pig in a poke!’ Well, allow me to reminisce about the time I had to put my skills to their greatest test - and almost lost my perfect record.
Rio De Janeiro, 2008. It was carnival season and the streets were now a swarming mass of fraternizing figures. A sense of merriment was in the air. I shuffled my way through the crowds, ignoring the pinches and prods from the various young ladies overcome with youthful exuberance and carnal desires as I approached the vendor. ‘Caipirinha, por favor’, I asked, flashing her a smile. She was middle-aged and well past her best, though her breasts still appeared to be in remarkable condition. To my surprise, she lifted up her top and exposed them to me - giving one a squeeze as she replied with what can be translated as: ‘This one is on the house, donkey dick’. I blushed as I glanced down at the bulge in my trousers, but thanked her for her generosity and turned to make my way back through the crowds. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this’, I thought to myself, as the people danced all around me to the sounds of samba and contemporary Pop.
I decided to join in with the festivities and had been dancing for the past half-hour when an intoxicated and heavy-set mulatto lady slipped and stumbled forward while attempting to perform a ‘twerking’ manoeuvre to Flo Rida’s latest hit. She crashed into me with an alarming amount of force, propelling me forward into the path of a dreadlocked and musclebound local. I attempted to apologise when I realised that my Caipirinha had splashed across his T-shirt and he didn’t appear too happy about it. We continued dancing as we sized each other up. I wasn’t looking for trouble but something told me that it was looking for me. ‘Why’d you disrespect me like that, bro?’ He asked, as he clapped his hands together and flicked his hips back and forth. Both thumbs were in my belt loops as I performed a right-footed coaster step and replied: ‘I didn’t disrespect you, bro. Some fat bitch crashed into me’. He spun around 360 degrees and transitioned up onto his tiptoes as he barked back: ‘It fucking looked like disrespect to me, look at the state of my fucking T-shirt’. Poker-faced, our eyes were now firmly locked on one-another as we simultaneously began to squat down incrementally towards the floor as the music blasted out: ‘Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low’. I knew that this was no ordinary opponent, and as the crowd began to form around us it became apparent that they realised this too, though I doubt any could have predicted the spectacle they were about to witness.
I broke into an esquiva lateral as I attempted to apologise, when out of nowhere he lashed out with a Chapa-de-Frente that caught me high on the temple, causing me to wobble. This was war. I crouched into a Cocorinha in order to compose myself, then retaliated with a blistering Armada that sent him stumbling back into the partisan crowd. They helped him back to his feet and cried out ‘Mais! Mais!’ They wanted a battle and they were getting one. For two hours we danced back and forth in harmony with one another, exchanging the most punishing and spectacular of kicks and arm strikes while the crowd looked on in amazement, sipping their drinks and swaying along to the beat of the drums. This man was a true professional, and I’d never been up against such a worthy adversary in this particular discipline before. The tempo of the music suddenly changed, causing me to stumble, and he immediately took advantage of my mistake with a shocker of an Arpão de Cabeça. I was instantaneously blinded by a flash of white light, and the cacophony of the crowd was drowned out by the overwhelming ringing now in my ears. As I regained my vision I became aware that I had collapsed to my knees, and my opponent was now clicking his fingers and tapping his feet, waiting eagerly for me to rise again so that he could put me down once more.
I was bruised, bloodied, and almost defeated. As a sense of desperation swept over me, I looked up towards the horizon only to be met with a sight that took my breath away: Christ the Redeemer. There it stood on top of the Corcovado mountain; that beautiful statue, as immovable and unwavering as his love for us all. Arms outstretched as if to say: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’
I bowed my head in humility, humbled by his presence. I took a deep breath and quietly said: ‘Jesus, I know you taught me to turn the other cheek, but right now I need your help. I’ve betrayed you before, and sinned too many times to count. I’ve cussed, skipped church, and fornicated with copious amounts of beautiful women, but I swear to you, my Lord, I am truly sorry. Please, Jesus; take the wheel’. At that moment - and I know many of you will doubt me - but I swear to God the statue winked at me. A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky and I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of love and power; as though a wave of electricity had just shot through my central nervous system and rejuvenated every fibre of my being. I was back in the fight. With a renewed robustness I leapt to my feet, launching into a series of rapid-fire punches that knocked the wind right out of his sails and forced him to take a knee. placing one hand on his back for leverage I exploded up into the air, somersaulting over him while simultaneously scanning the ground for my landing. As my feet hit the floor I knew that this was the end. He looked up at me and waved his hand out as if to say ‘não mais’. He was a defeated man and he knew it. With the adrenaline still flowing through me, I was preparing for the finishing blow when I heard a booming voice inside my head: ‘That will do, my son; that will do. Be merciful’. I dropped to my knees beside him, suddenly as mentally and emotionally drained as he was, and placed my hand on his shoulder. We collapsed into each other, our foreheads touching as we caught our breath and attempted to comprehend what had just occurred. ‘You’re a true warrior’, I said to him, wiping away a trickle of blood from his eye. ‘Did you feel it?’ He asked. ‘You must have felt it?’ He pointed up at the statue. I nodded, overcome with emotion. ‘He was with you. He had your back in that fight’. We both began to weep and I knew at that moment that I had a brother for life. We helped each other to our feet and he raised my hand up into the air. Turning to the crowd he cried out: ‘Behold! This is the best man here! The spirit of God is within him and I am honoured to have lost’. I turned to him and replied with the utmost sincerity: ‘There were no losers in this fight. Today, I met my equal’. The crowd rushed towards us both and lifted us above their heads, venerating us as the warriors we were as they paraded us through the streets for all to see and admire. As more of the public flocked towards us I suddenly felt the familiar sensation of my crotch being fondled. I quickly glanced down and was relieved to find that the offending hand belonged to a young (legal) olive-skinned beauty who was making the universal fellatio sign at me as she jabbed the side of her cheek repeatedly with her tongue. Jesus wasn’t finished with me yet. My faith had carried me through the fight, and now, it was time to enjoy my reward. ‘Put me down just here’, I ordered the crowd. I had work to do...
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(http://www.getbig.com/boards/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=627390.0;attach=717217;image)
Weighing in at a respectable 165lbs, I am the perfect combination of grace, athleticism, and devastating power.
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(http://www.getbig.com/boards/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=627390.0;attach=717217;image)
Lol, don't get him pissed him off again. I'll draw back my shower curtain to find him standing in it next.
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Electric kettles and nylon exercise casual wear on the high street abounding in this thread.
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;D
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TL:DR:FY
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TL:DR:FY
(https://media.tenor.co/images/534fb1bfb412e8a13d6302b786488f51/raw)
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Cliffs?
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Cliffs?
I only got part of the way down, but basically Metaphysical went to Rio carnival and ended up dancing with a man for two hours while staring into his eyes or something? What happened next, anyone?
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TL:DR:FY
x2
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x2
You will never be able to antagonise me with this. You may attempt to conceal your true nature behind a cloak of oafishness on here, but I can see through this facade. You are a voracious reader; a lover of all things literary. Do you really expect me to believe that you would deprive yourself the pleasure of absorbing a Pulitzer Prize-winning author's short stories? Puh-lease! Even if it is out of spite, you will only be able to resist for a limited amount of time. At some point in the near future, in the dead of night, your immoral actions and your lack of conviction in justifying them will start to haunt you. And just like Raskolnikov, you'll descend into madness. I will be here waiting for you when you wish to begin your rehabilitation.
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Didnt read, but i can already tell i dont get it.
Same goes for tldryjt... Or whatever. No clue
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Like the majority of you fine gentlemen here, I am no stranger to the gladiatorial way of life. So imagine the look of bewilderment on my face when I settled down to read the latest riveting debate on the merits of various street fighting styles, only to find that nobody had bothered to mention the most deadly one of them all: Capoeira. This underrated martial art is by far the most effective and logical system to be utilised when fighting in the streets, given that most violent confrontations occur when individuals are attempting to socialise with one-another while inebriated by alcohol and exhilarated by the pulsing beats of Hip-Hop’s most talented artists. When one’s movements are already synchronized to the tempo of music, punches and kicks flow like the lyrics of ‘Little Wayne’, art and action unite, and violence manifests itself in the most beautiful of ways. What’s that you cry? ‘Balderdash! You’re selling us a pig in a poke!’ Well, allow me to reminisce about the time I had to put my skills to their greatest test - and almost lost my perfect record.
Rio De Janeiro, 2008. It was carnival season and the streets were now a swarming mass of fraternizing figures. A sense of merriment was in the air. I shuffled my way through the crowds, ignoring the pinches and prods from the various young ladies overcome with youthful exuberance and carnal desires as I approached the vendor. ‘Caipirinha, por favor’, I asked, flashing her a smile. She was middle-aged and well past her best, though her breasts still appeared to be in remarkable condition. To my surprise, she lifted up her top and exposed them to me - giving one a squeeze as she replied with what can be translated as: ‘This one is on the house, donkey dick’. I blushed as I glanced down at the bulge in my trousers, but thanked her for her generosity and turned to make my way back through the crowds. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this’, I thought to myself, as the people danced all around me to the sounds of samba and contemporary Pop.
I decided to join in with the festivities and had been dancing for the past half-hour when an intoxicated and heavy-set mulatto lady slipped and stumbled forward while attempting to perform a ‘twerking’ manoeuvre to Flo Rida’s latest hit. She crashed into me with an alarming amount of force, propelling me forward into the path of a dreadlocked and musclebound local. I attempted to apologise when I realised that my Caipirinha had splashed across his T-shirt and he didn’t appear too happy about it. We continued dancing as we sized each other up. I wasn’t looking for trouble but something told me that it was looking for me. ‘Why’d you disrespect me like that, bro?’ He asked, as he clapped his hands together and flicked his hips back and forth. Both thumbs were in my belt loops as I performed a right-footed coaster step and replied: ‘I didn’t disrespect you, bro. Some fat bitch crashed into me’. He spun around 360 degrees and transitioned up onto his tiptoes as he barked back: ‘It fucking looked like disrespect to me, look at the state of my fucking T-shirt’. Poker-faced, our eyes were now firmly locked on one-another as we simultaneously began to squat down incrementally towards the floor as the music blasted out: ‘Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low’. I knew that this was no ordinary opponent, and as the crowd began to form around us it became apparent that they realised this too, though I doubt any could have predicted the spectacle they were about to witness.
I broke into an esquiva lateral as I attempted to apologise, when out of nowhere he lashed out with a Chapa-de-Frente that caught me high on the temple, causing me to wobble. This was war. I crouched into a Cocorinha in order to compose myself, then retaliated with a blistering Armada that sent him stumbling back into the partisan crowd. They helped him back to his feet and cried out ‘Mais! Mais!’ They wanted a battle and they were getting one. For two hours we danced back and forth in harmony with one another, exchanging the most punishing and spectacular of kicks and arm strikes while the crowd looked on in amazement, sipping their drinks and swaying along to the beat of the drums. This man was a true professional, and I’d never been up against such a worthy adversary in this particular discipline before. The tempo of the music suddenly changed, causing me to stumble, and he immediately took advantage of my mistake with a shocker of an Arpão de Cabeça. I was instantaneously blinded by a flash of white light, and the cacophony of the crowd was drowned out by the overwhelming ringing now in my ears. As I regained my vision I became aware that I had collapsed to my knees, and my opponent was now clicking his fingers and tapping his feet, waiting eagerly for me to rise again so that he could put me down once more.
I was bruised, bloodied, and almost defeated. As a sense of desperation swept over me, I looked up towards the horizon only to be met with a sight that took my breath away: Christ the Redeemer. There it stood on top of the Corcovado mountain; that beautiful statue, as immovable and unwavering as his love for us all. Arms outstretched as if to say: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’
I bowed my head in humility, humbled by his presence. I took a deep breath and quietly said: ‘Jesus, I know you taught me to turn the other cheek, but right now I need your help. I’ve betrayed you before, and sinned too many times to count. I’ve cussed, skipped church, and fornicated with copious amounts of beautiful women, but I swear to you, my Lord, I am truly sorry. Please, Jesus; take the wheel’. At that moment - and I know many of you will doubt me - but I swear to God the statue winked at me. A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky and I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of love and power; as though a wave of electricity had just shot through my central nervous system and rejuvenated every fibre of my being. I was back in the fight. With a renewed robustness I leapt to my feet, launching into a series of rapid-fire punches that knocked the wind right out of his sails and forced him to take a knee. placing one hand on his back for leverage I exploded up into the air, somersaulting over him while simultaneously scanning the ground for my landing. As my feet hit the floor I knew that this was the end. He looked up at me and waved his hand out as if to say ‘não mais’. He was a defeated man and he knew it. With the adrenaline still flowing through me, I was preparing for the finishing blow when I heard a booming voice inside my head: ‘That will do, my son; that will do. Be merciful’. I dropped to my knees beside him, suddenly as mentally and emotionally drained as he was, and placed my hand on his shoulder. We collapsed into each other, our foreheads touching as we caught our breath and attempted to comprehend what had just occurred. ‘You’re a true warrior’, I said to him, wiping away a trickle of blood from his eye. ‘Did you feel it?’ He asked. ‘You must have felt it?’ He pointed up at the statue. I nodded, overcome with emotion. ‘He was with you. He had your back in that fight’. We both began to weep and I knew at that moment that I had a brother for life. We helped each other to our feet and he raised my hand up into the air. Turning to the crowd he cried out: ‘Behold! This is the best man here! The spirit of God is within him and I am honoured to have lost’. I turned to him and replied with the utmost sincerity: ‘There were no losers in this fight. Today, I met my equal’. The crowd rushed towards us both and lifted us above their heads, venerating us as the warriors we were as they paraded us through the streets for all to see and admire. As more of the public flocked towards us I suddenly felt the familiar sensation of my crotch being fondled. I quickly glanced down and was relieved to find that the offending hand belonged to a young (legal) olive-skinned beauty who was making the universal fellatio sign at me as she jabbed the side of her cheek repeatedly with her tongue. Jesus wasn’t finished with me yet. My faith had carried me through the fight, and now, it was time to enjoy my reward. ‘Put me down just here’, I ordered the crowd. I had work to do...
Is this some fucking University dissertation? Dude, who the FUCK is going to want to sit through all of that? ::)
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Like the majority of you fine gentlemen here, I am no stranger to the gladiatorial way of life. So imagine the look of bewilderment on my face when I settled down to read the latest riveting debate on the merits of various street fighting styles, only to find that nobody had bothered to mention the most deadly one of them all: Capoeira. This underrated martial art is by far the most effective and logical system to be utilised when fighting in the streets, given that most violent confrontations occur when individuals are attempting to socialise with one-another while inebriated by alcohol and exhilarated by the pulsing beats of Hip-Hop’s most talented artists. When one’s movements are already synchronized to the tempo of music, punches and kicks flow like the lyrics of ‘Little Wayne’, art and action unite, and violence manifests itself in the most beautiful of ways. What’s that you cry? ‘Balderdash! You’re selling us a pig in a poke!’ Well, allow me to reminisce about the time I had to put my skills to their greatest test - and almost lost my perfect record.
Rio De Janeiro, 2008. It was carnival season and the streets were now a swarming mass of fraternizing figures. A sense of merriment was in the air. I shuffled my way through the crowds, ignoring the pinches and prods from the various young ladies overcome with youthful exuberance and carnal desires as I approached the vendor. ‘Caipirinha, por favor’, I asked, flashing her a smile. She was middle-aged and well past her best, though her breasts still appeared to be in remarkable condition. To my surprise, she lifted up her top and exposed them to me - giving one a squeeze as she replied with what can be translated as: ‘This one is on the house, donkey dick’. I blushed as I glanced down at the bulge in my trousers, but thanked her for her generosity and turned to make my way back through the crowds. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this’, I thought to myself, as the people danced all around me to the sounds of samba and contemporary Pop.
I decided to join in with the festivities and had been dancing for the past half-hour when an intoxicated and heavy-set mulatto lady slipped and stumbled forward while attempting to perform a ‘twerking’ manoeuvre to Flo Rida’s latest hit. She crashed into me with an alarming amount of force, propelling me forward into the path of a dreadlocked and musclebound local. I attempted to apologise when I realised that my Caipirinha had splashed across his T-shirt and he didn’t appear too happy about it. We continued dancing as we sized each other up. I wasn’t looking for trouble but something told me that it was looking for me. ‘Why’d you disrespect me like that, bro?’ He asked, as he clapped his hands together and flicked his hips back and forth. Both thumbs were in my belt loops as I performed a right-footed coaster step and replied: ‘I didn’t disrespect you, bro. Some fat bitch crashed into me’. He spun around 360 degrees and transitioned up onto his tiptoes as he barked back: ‘It fucking looked like disrespect to me, look at the state of my fucking T-shirt’. Poker-faced, our eyes were now firmly locked on one-another as we simultaneously began to squat down incrementally towards the floor as the music blasted out: ‘Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low’. I knew that this was no ordinary opponent, and as the crowd began to form around us it became apparent that they realised this too, though I doubt any could have predicted the spectacle they were about to witness.
I broke into an esquiva lateral as I attempted to apologise, when out of nowhere he lashed out with a Chapa-de-Frente that caught me high on the temple, causing me to wobble. This was war. I crouched into a Cocorinha in order to compose myself, then retaliated with a blistering Armada that sent him stumbling back into the partisan crowd. They helped him back to his feet and cried out ‘Mais! Mais!’ They wanted a battle and they were getting one. For two hours we danced back and forth in harmony with one another, exchanging the most punishing and spectacular of kicks and arm strikes while the crowd looked on in amazement, sipping their drinks and swaying along to the beat of the drums. This man was a true professional, and I’d never been up against such a worthy adversary in this particular discipline before. The tempo of the music suddenly changed, causing me to stumble, and he immediately took advantage of my mistake with a shocker of an Arpão de Cabeça. I was instantaneously blinded by a flash of white light, and the cacophony of the crowd was drowned out by the overwhelming ringing now in my ears. As I regained my vision I became aware that I had collapsed to my knees, and my opponent was now clicking his fingers and tapping his feet, waiting eagerly for me to rise again so that he could put me down once more.
I was bruised, bloodied, and almost defeated. As a sense of desperation swept over me, I looked up towards the horizon only to be met with a sight that took my breath away: Christ the Redeemer. There it stood on top of the Corcovado mountain; that beautiful statue, as immovable and unwavering as his love for us all. Arms outstretched as if to say: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’
I bowed my head in humility, humbled by his presence. I took a deep breath and quietly said: ‘Jesus, I know you taught me to turn the other cheek, but right now I need your help. I’ve betrayed you before, and sinned too many times to count. I’ve cussed, skipped church, and fornicated with copious amounts of beautiful women, but I swear to you, my Lord, I am truly sorry. Please, Jesus; take the wheel’. At that moment - and I know many of you will doubt me - but I swear to God the statue winked at me. A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky and I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of love and power; as though a wave of electricity had just shot through my central nervous system and rejuvenated every fibre of my being. I was back in the fight. With a renewed robustness I leapt to my feet, launching into a series of rapid-fire punches that knocked the wind right out of his sails and forced him to take a knee. placing one hand on his back for leverage I exploded up into the air, somersaulting over him while simultaneously scanning the ground for my landing. As my feet hit the floor I knew that this was the end. He looked up at me and waved his hand out as if to say ‘não mais’. He was a defeated man and he knew it. With the adrenaline still flowing through me, I was preparing for the finishing blow when I heard a booming voice inside my head: ‘That will do, my son; that will do. Be merciful’. I dropped to my knees beside him, suddenly as mentally and emotionally drained as he was, and placed my hand on his shoulder. We collapsed into each other, our foreheads touching as we caught our breath and attempted to comprehend what had just occurred. ‘You’re a true warrior’, I said to him, wiping away a trickle of blood from his eye. ‘Did you feel it?’ He asked. ‘You must have felt it?’ He pointed up at the statue. I nodded, overcome with emotion. ‘He was with you. He had your back in that fight’. We both began to weep and I knew at that moment that I had a brother for life. We helped each other to our feet and he raised my hand up into the air. Turning to the crowd he cried out: ‘Behold! This is the best man here! The spirit of God is within him and I am honoured to have lost’. I turned to him and replied with the utmost sincerity: ‘There were no losers in this fight. Today, I met my equal’. The crowd rushed towards us both and lifted us above their heads, venerating us as the warriors we were as they paraded us through the streets for all to see and admire. As more of the public flocked towards us I suddenly felt the familiar sensation of my crotch being fondled. I quickly glanced down and was relieved to find that the offending hand belonged to a young (legal) olive-skinned beauty who was making the universal fellatio sign at me as she jabbed the side of her cheek repeatedly with her tongue. Jesus wasn’t finished with me yet. My faith had carried me through the fight, and now, it was time to enjoy my reward. ‘Put me down just here’, I ordered the crowd. I had work to do...
RETÖRT (http://i.imgur.com/6CnnUEg.gif)
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This is supposedly set in Brazil and you use the word "mulatto" instead of mulata. Amateurish mistake.
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This is supposedly set in Brazil and you use the word "mulatto" instead of mulata. Amateurish mistake.
Props for even trying to read it P! :D
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This is supposedly set in Brazil and you use the word "mulatto" instead of mulata. Amateurish mistake.
Ah, fuck. Fair enough. However, two of the events in the story actually happened. I'll let the good readers decide on which ones!
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don't people realize that there is free porn on the internet and youtube videos
what i'm trying to say is that there are WAY funner things to do on the internet then start gimmicks and bore the shit out of the 3 unique people who still post here
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don't people realize that there is free porn on the internet and youtube videos
what i'm trying to say is that there are WAY funner things to do on the internet then start gimmicks and bore the shit out of the 3 unique people who still post here
I'm not at my house and there's a child-safety setting on the internet so I can't access porn. Can you post some pics of your nose?
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another boring gimmick
and yeah- i have a big nose--only someone who posted here before would know that
outed
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Wiggs approved
(https://cdn.meme.am/instances/400x/62961993.jpg)
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another boring gimmick
and yeah- i have a big nose--only someone who posted here before would know thatf
Everyone NOSE I posted here before; I'm only stopping by for a few weeks. If you want to liven the place up then give us another mid-life crisis story or something.
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then why not post under your old account?
why start a gimmick that does long winded posts?
why do any of that?...just to attempt to entertain myself, Joon, Josh Aveshar, that Alex guy and who is that dutch guy?
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Props for even trying to read it P! :D
I actually like the fact that the person took time to create this. The imagery, it was like one was right there.
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then why not post under your old account?
why start a gimmick that does long winded posts?
why do any of that?...just to attempt to entertain myself, Joon, Josh Aveshar, that Alex guy and who is that dutch guy?
It's been flushed. Didn't think I'd be back. Dunno who the Dutch guy is - big fan of the other three, though. There's only so much that can be said about men in thongs, Johnny.
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Lord Almighty, Meta-Physical is a cultured badass and a saint!
Friends, I think some here are failing to read between the lines of Meta-Physical's posts and are missing his central point that a physicalist ontology of bodybuilding does not control all the ways in which we can appreciate the brotherhood of iron. Look, the untangling of the Gordian knot of muscle will require something outside the bunny suit of nature, something less superficial and more substantive, i.e., something meta-physical. Why? Because muscle is dumb, it does not think and cannot solve any problems, not even those pertaining to muscle itself. What is woven through Meta-Physical's various posts is the nuanced notion that natural bodies are neither necessary nor persistent, so the activity of bodybuilding, which works on muscles, will require the transcendence of muscular existence. In other words, Meta-Physical is stating that 'bodybuilding' gains semantic currency iff it is an active, mental operation rather than having any recognizable ontic reality, and that without this qualification, the term 'bodybuilder' is ontologically vacuous.
Meta-Physical, thank you for your patience, humility, and magnanimous spirit.
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Lord Almighty, Meta-Physical is a cultured badass and a saint!
Friends, I think some here are failing to read between the lines of Meta-Physical's posts and are missing his central point that a physicalist ontology of bodybuilding does not control all the ways in which we can appreciate the brotherhood of iron. Look, the untangling of the Gordian knot of muscle will require something outside the bunny suit of nature, something less superficial and more substantive, i.e., something meta-physical. Why? Because muscle is dumb, it does not think and cannot solve any problems, not even those pertaining to muscle itself. What is woven through Meta-Physical's various posts is the nuanced notion that natural bodies are neither necessary nor persistent, so the activity of bodybuilding, which works on muscles, will require the transcendence of muscular existence. In other words, Meta-Physical is stating that 'bodybuilding' gains semantic currency iff it is an active, mental operation rather than having any recognizable ontic reality, and that without this qualification, the term 'bodybuilder' is ontologically vacuous.
Meta-Physical, thank you for your patience, humility, and magnanimous spirit.
Old friend,
As von Goethe once so eloquently wrote: 'The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone'. The path of the thonged warrior can often feel as futile as it is forsaken, so to be be accompanied on that journey by one so judicious and erudite is as profound a privilege as I could have ever hoped for. You are a pillar of strength and a shining exemplar of integrity. For most, these words may be dismissed as florid and intemperate adulation; for you they are but a modest testimonial.
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^^^^
Jeez! You two need to 'get a room' (perhaps at the Robbins?)
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^^^^
Jeez! You two need to 'get a room' (perhaps at the Robbins?)
The Mirage....
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Msssrs. Taffin and Kwon,
Gentlemen, you know as well as I that reciprocal praise between bros (i.e., mutual abbroval) is not always motivated by an alacritous desire to Drasin each other's Sprague.
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Msssrs. Taffin and Kwon,
Gentlemen, you know as well as I that reciprocal praise between bros (i.e., mutual abbroval) is not always motivated by an alacritous desire to Drasin each other's Sprague.
Of course. I was merely suggesting that your intellectual discourse would perhaps find a more suitable and fulfilling 'arena' than that presented by this humble 'forum'. The Robbins Library being just such an arena....
http://library.harvard.edu/phi (http://library.harvard.edu/phi)