So there I was, ready to tackle the day in a parking garage, wetter than a swimsuit calendar in monsoon season but warmer than yesterday’s frozen hellscape. Just as I was prepping for some solo misery at 5:14 AM, Fletch rolls in like a spicy savior, hot sauce in hand. This wasn’t just any hot sauce, though—it was Fletch’s special blend, the kind that burns twice, if you know what I mean. Naturally, I knew it had to go to Bushwhacker, the only guy who won’t whine about getting left out of the heat.
And just as I’m cursing the heavens for starting without him, who do we see rolling up in his signature white chariot? Bushwhacker himself, arriving late but still managing to make an entrance. Hot sauce exchange complete, we got to work.
Since it was January 10th and football is life, we honored the playoffs with a First-and-Ten special: a brutal round of 11s, featuring burpees and copperhead squats on opposite ends of the driest concrete we could find. Between sets, we experimented with various ways to move—sprinting, sidestepping, karaoke-style, bear crawling, and then, thanks to Bushwhacker’s brilliant idea, catapulting. Turns out, launching yourself repeatedly down a parking garage isn’t the best move unless you’re training for the Olympic Dizzy Decathlon. Three attempts in, Bushwhacker was down for the count, but hey, at least he left us all laughing.
We wrapped it up with a trip to the spa—aka, the driest spot for some Mary. We crunched through LBCs, flapped like penguins, and topped it off with the infamous wife pleasers (a crowd favorite for both fitness and innuendo).
By the end, I had to bounce, leaving the rest to round-robin their way through the last few minutes. COT brought it home, and I thanked the crew for letting me lead—a morning filled with sweat, spice, and more questionable decisions than a college frat party.
Remember: never catapult the length of a parking garage, but always show up with hot sauce.
