same rob schuh from misc.fitness.weights???
Yeap, I looked it up yesterday he got his transplant around Nov 98, and died Oct 6 2012. After MFW went bad with spammers, he tried to use regular forums, but couldn't get used to being nice, and it took the snap out of his posts -
https://forum.bodybuilding.com/search.php?searchid=2843924043 .
Later he started a drum building business called "Hard Bop Drums" , and was getting into custom knife collecting (karambits), but then the transplant went south, and that was it.
Here is some of his early drumming, he actually did ok with it, but never really got bigger than session work, and some album stuff here and there -
.
Face to the name -
https://www.musclememory.com/show.php?a=Schuh,+Robert .
The types of stories Rob and his transplant would conjure up from other users -
" PusBag
This is a long, bizarre story, so please bear with me while I go through this catharsis.
I got laid-off and I haven't worked in over one year. Just to get out, I took the E train down to Canal Street and walked around in the bitter cold, eventually making my way into the heart of Chinatown. I was attracted to one interesting herb shop with lanterns hanging outside. An amateurish, hand-written sign boasted of an herb that would promote "manhood and better secks." Fascinating. I was intrigued and could not move-on without knowing more.
I went inside to ask about the potion. I pushed aside the hanging beads in the doorway and proceeded toward the source of some twangy, serene asian music.
The shop was dark and cluttered with merchandise: a Buddha statute,a tranquility fountain, decorated pots, incense, and candles. The old hardwood floor shifted and creaked under the weight of my black biker boots. I weaved my way to the back of the shop while knocking into assorted crap along the way
Toward the back, there was a thin, frail, elderly asian woman tending to some bamboo plants. Alongside her was cashbox and an old 33 1/3 rpm phonograph from which the soft music emanated She lifted her head as she heard me appraoch in my sqeaky leather jacket. She seemed somewhat startled initially by my appearance, then she grinned a toothless smile and said: "Bamboo prant bring good ruck."
I explained to her that I wasn't there for the plants, but the herbs. "Oh, you want full head hair!" She exclaimed, while looking at my shaved pate. "No ma'am, I want the good stuff, you got advertised in the window."
Apparently upon hearing the sound of my voice a young asian kid with a muscular build and some jailhouse tats came up from the cellar. Are you for real? The kid looked like a character from "The Fast And The Furious" and had an attitude to match. This punk had a chip on his shoulder the size of City Island. "You a cop? Huh?!? You rook rike undercover five-oh narco pig! You come here from Porice Praza to collar my grandmother, PIG!"
"Relax guy, I ain't no fuckin' cop. I'm not from Police Plaza. This chain on my jeans ain't handcuffs, it's a biker wallet. Chill, bro."
Grandma and her charming descendant exchanged some words and he turned to me again:
"So, what you want, Scarface?!?" "Scarface," I never heard that one before. Presumably the kid was referring to the beauty mark over my left eye that a guy gave me many years ago with his school ring. This kid was a real charmer, reminding me of myself in my teenage years. I'm beginning to like him.
"I'm looking for those virility potions you have advertised."
"I have formura that give bigger muscle and make more powerful than Samuri warrior!"
He handed me an 8 ounce, blue plastic bottle. It was homemade with a handwritten label bearing Chinese characters. I asked how much, the punk shouted: "FIFTY DOLLAR!" "Fifty dollars???" I asked. "FIFTY DOLLAR!!!" he bombastically retorted. He had a look of disdain on
his face, almost as if to say, are you deaf AND stupid round eye?!?
"Alright bro, here's forty-five." The kid squirreled-away the money. As I turned to leave, he started: "you rooking to party?" "I have young girl, but she rook 17!" No, pal, that's it. "Hashish?" No, I answered. "How about gun, I have cop model Grock 19s." Uh, no. "How about car, I have paperwork to Caddy Escarade." He continued as I turned and exited the shop.
By now, it was late, dark and motherfucking cold. A light snow was falling. I walked toward the westside and hopped on the N train at Broadway and took that to Grand Central. It was peak rush hour so the terminal was crowded and all the suit-wearing zombies who were scrambling home to their re-heated leftovers and the latest episode of "American Idol."
I took the 7 train back out to Queensboro Plaza and decided to just hoof it back to the crib in the fucking freezing cold. As I walked back all
I could think about was Daytona Bike Week, the smell of pussy and getting my scooter back on out the road. Since early October my low rider has been under a cover in a self-storage unit.
I crashed when I got back to the crib. I fed my pitbull and let him out to shit in the yard behind the building. I turned on the tube and watched some maudlin flick with Brian Bosworth infiltrating a white-trash, meth dealing biker club. It was actually worth a few laughs.
Around midnight I remembered I had that shit from Chinatown and decided to try it. I took a tablespoon of the vile crap and went to sleep.
At 7:00 am my alarm went off to the sounds of Sonny and Cher's "I got you babe." Not a good way to start the day. The radio announcer
said it was going to be cold and not to forget your "booties," whatever the fuck that is.
I walked downstairs and stepped out onto the street, but I wasn't on Broadway in Queens, I was on Beaver Road. Some douche nozzle was hurrying by on his way to work and I called out to him: What up dawg? Where the fuck am I at? "Punxsatawney Pennsylvania! It's the festival!!!" He shouted.
What the fuck happened? Did I sleepwalk from taking that shit? I followed the groups of folks that seemed to be heading toward the center
of town.
In the town center there was a stage with music and some guy with a top hot speaking over a megaphone. People were imbibing and eating bratwurst and wieners and other shit. It seemed to be some kind of celebration.
There was some guy dressed like the Schmenge brothers from SCTV. "Yo, dawg, what's goin on?"
"You don't know?!?" He said with incredulity. "Oh, you'll see. I gotta go!"
I approached the stage and much to my surprise, I saw a familiar face! It was Rob Schuh! He seemed to be the guest of honor. His wheelcahir was up on a pedestal and there was a floodlight immediately over him. He was eating, no, was gorging himself, laughing and joking. I'd never seen him so happy and everyone seemed happy to have him.
Then it happened.
Suddenly, he began to violently tremble and convulse. His wheelcahir was rocking and the shit in his colostomy bag was churning like the contents of a blender set on puree. The music stopped, the crowd hushed and the top-hat wearing man said "hold-on folks!"
Rob's abdomen began to dystend to ridiculous proportions. So much so that he looked pregnant. "Rip!" His jacket burst open, then his t-shirt. All we could see now was his scarred abdomen which lookled like an overinflated swiss ball about to burst.
Oh no, not again, Schuh whimpered. "Please! Please, make it stop" he cried to top-hat man. Top-hat man just smiled. "Ugh, oooh, gulp, gurgle. Please... help... I'm gonna..." Rob was farting, vomiting and urinating on himself simultaneously. The crowd was going nuts!
Then it happened. "RIIIIIIIIP!" His inflating abdomen popped like a balloon. "Ooooh," the crowd groaned. One young girl began vomitting, another buried her face in her boyfriend's shoulder. One elderly woman collapsed. Blood, skin, hair and fecal matter sprayed the front rows of the crowd like a Gallagher Show. It was Rob Schuh's Shit-o-Matic.
Rob's emaciated, limp carcass fell to the stage floor like an old laundry sack.
Suddenly, his kidney popped up from his abdomen. It had what appeard to be a little head and two fear-stricken eyes which stared at me.
Just as quickly and unexpectedly as the kidney appeared, it retreated back into his decomposing corpse.
"Ohhhhhhhh" the crowd groaned with disappointment. Top-hat man had done a 180. He was now sullen, morose, visibly shaken and disappointed. He lifted the bullhorn to his wind-chapped lips and sighed:
"Well, folks, you know as well as I what that means, Punxsawtawney Peliosis saw his shadow and we're in for six more weeks of winter. Sorry, see you next year."
Then I woke-up back in my crib in Queens. I haven't touched that herbal shit since. "
