Watch Out for the SCAT

Upon a dark arrival and finding the right spot behind the tower, Paul Blart arrived in an official golf cart (with siren) to see if I was setting up a beatdown or setting a plastic explosive.  I assured him the only explosions would be of the flatulent nature, then he said I must leave, quickly.  I should have told him that no one has died from these, but claims have been made by Scuba of respiratory distress.

After being ousted from the tower by Sergeant Blart, we headed to the SCAT bus center for a whole new experience.  Apparently a billion rowers from the nation’s biggest and brightest institutions were converging on NBD for a row-fest later today.  During the mozy, we tried to EH a homeless man, but he wasn’t moving from the bench.  Toward the end, we had to scramble to avoid direct contact with an incoming SCAT (not scat, that would have been really messy.)

The mozy was free-flowing.  Did lots of runs.  Pretty crappy…and corny.  Nothing you would take a picture of and send to your friends.  Not that I ever did that.

The original workout at the tower was improvised.  We had to learn the original spelling game by bear-crawling to the tongue depressors with letters on them.  After turning over 4-5 sticks, the Pax guessed the hangman word was B-E-A-T-D-O-W-N.  That was done just to “make room” for the main course.

During the main course, we had 3 teams of four.  Each team ran to one of 5 stations to retrieve a stick.  They brought it back hoping to spell B-E-A-T-D-O-W-N.  Some got wildcards, some got the same letter multiple times.  Eventually we all spelled it.  While one stud on each team was running, the others grunted though a few exercises: 5 step-up/knee-ups, 5 Dirkins, 5 Tuck jumps.

The first dessert was 6 teams of two Pax bear-crawling and crawl-bearing to a pile of sticks.  Again each mini-team spelling B-E-A-T-D-O-W-N (Jimmy Dean admitted to cheating and will be punished accordingly).  Some put the sticks in their mouths while bear-crawling and commented that the stinks had the essence of scat, but tasted more like shat.

The last dessert, courtesy of Bruce Lee, was a kickboxing workout that took us right to 6:00.  We were working on kicking the scat out of an intruder, should they be stupid enough to enter the house of an F3 warrior.  Papa Smurf might need to call for help should this happen…unless the intruder was looking for a dance partner.

We were all steaming piles of human waste at this point, but still managed a well-orchestrated COT, wiped off and went our merry ways.

Sorry for the potty humor, I was too pooped to think of anything else.

F3 Suncoast