A Few Words From a Real, Live Motherfu*ker


Please enjoy this guest post from my friend James Fell. I’m thrilled that he decided to drop a motherfu*king bomb here.

It’s true, I am a motherfu*ker. In case you are unfamiliar with the term, it means I am a man who finds pleasure in having intercourse with a woman who is a mother. In my case, the woman in question is my wife and the mother to our two children.

I was prompted to write this piece in support of Noah Michelson’s story in the Huffington Post about him being a cocksucking [word I choose not to use because I am not one].

But there are people who use the word motherfu*ker who have never fornicated with a woman who has birthed and raised a child before. It’s important to put emphasis on the word “raised,” as simply evacuating a human being from one’s uterus does not a mother make.

And since we’re qualifying terms, simply having had sex with a women who is a mother doesn’t make one a motherfu*ker either. My best friend has never been married, fathered any children or, most importantly, helped raise any children. And yet, I know he has fu*ked some women who are mothers. This does not make him a motherfu*ker.

A true motherfu*ker is one who fu*ks a woman who is a mother, and is involved in helping that woman raise those children. It is not necessary that the person makes a genetic contribution to those children, and note that motherfu*ker is not a gender-specific term. There are many lesbians who are motherfu*ker.

Being a motherfu¢ker has a long history of shared pain. It’s our word, and people who haven’t been through the same struggles as we have need to stop using it. A person who is not a true motherfu*ker cannot understand what it really means to be a motherfu*ker.

Permit me to elaborate.

  1. A motherfu*ker has had to go for weeks or months without sex while sensitive body parts heal from the trauma of childbirth. This one is not a firm requirement, as raising adopted children can qualify a person for motherfu*ker status.
  2. Not only has the mother been too tired for sex due to late nights with a child who won’t Go the Fu*k to Sleep, but the motherfu*ker themselves have also been too tired to copulate due to children born on Tokyo time. Unless said children were actually born in Tokyo, in which case they were born on Kansas time.
  3. A motherfu*ker has had to forego spontaneity in their love life in exchange for, “He’s finally down for a nap. I think we might have time for a quickie.”
  4. A motherfu*ker has had to put a lock on the bedroom door.
  5. A motherfu*ker has had to listen to knocks on the bedroom door followed by the words, “What’s going on in there?”
  6. Once the child has learned “what’s going on in there,” the motherfu*ker has heard the words, “You’re disgusting!” and, “Stop that!”
  7. A motherfu*ker rarely gets to have sex on a family vacation. Especially if it’s a camping vacation.
  8. A motherfu*ker has been forced to learn to muffle their cries of ecstasy.

Now before anyone gets worried, Samuel L. Jackson does have a daughter, born in 1982, who he helped raise. He has every right to the use of the word motherfu*ker.

Unfortunately, however, Bruce Willis’ first child was born the same year Die Hard came out. Knowing that production almost certainly took place before the birth of this child, I’m afraid that his use of the phrase “Yippie ki-yay, motherfu*ker!” in said movie was inappropriate, and must be expunged from all existing copies. It can, however, remain in the Die Hard sequels, although nobody watches those.

Alec Baldwin did a bad thing in using that word I choose not to use, and he should give a wholehearted apology rather than make lame excuses. I also think he should be denied use of the word motherfu*ker, due to his questionable parenting skills.

I hope you see the sarcasm in this piece. This is actually a serious issue, and all kidding aside, people like Alec need to stop slurring people using terms loaded with so much hate. It makes them look like real motherfu*ker.


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samuel l jackson for muthafuckin president


I Fought My Bully


headlock fighting

Thanks to James Fell for a wonderful guest post. It’s nice to have an XY perspective. 

Often it’s the weird kids who get bullied, and I was weirder than most.

I said and did inappropriate things and was terrible at sports. I couldn’t even fit in with the smart kids because I wasn’t. I was a pariah who dressed funny.

I was also a coward.

All through school it was rare for me to have friends. I once tried to boost my popularity amongst my fellow fourth graders by biting a worm in half and eating it. This did not have the desired effect, and that half worm wriggled in my stomach for hours.

My status reached a low point in eighth grade. I was publicly ridiculed, shoved, kicked and spit upon. I did not fight back. I possessed a mental block when it came to self-defense. It was a combination of not wanting to get in trouble and fear of being punched in the face. For me, there was a third “F” in the flight or fight response, and that was “freeze.” When attacked, I just took it, hoping it would be minimal and praying for it to stop.

I was not a pacifist. I hated my tormentors. I fantasized about being a martial arts master who beat the crap out of them. Then the pretty girls would tell me I’m awesome.

It was ninth grade when I fought back.

During the eighth grade I’d finally made a good friend named Oliver. We lived on the same block but went to different schools, so he had no idea about my leprous social status. Conversely, Oliver was popular. He was big, strong, got good grades and was tough because he had three older brothers.

I think Oliver was willing to be my friend because I had a motorized go-cart.

Towards the end of eighth grade I asked my parents if I could move to Oliver’s school. My mother and stepfather were workaholics and didn’t know what was going on, but seemed to sense I needed this; they agreed.

My slate did not stay clean for long.

Oliver’s popularity did not trickle down. He often hung out with an aggressive group of boys and it wasn’t long before they realized I didn’t fit. I wasn’t athletic and didn’t give off an aura of “don’t mess with me.” I still exuded the target vibe.

Within six weeks everything had gone to hell.

In this group of boys my primary tormenter was Puke Face (not his real name). He was slightly shorter than me, but made up for it in meanness. He started elbowing me in the hallways and would sneak up and make rapid, threatening gestures causing me to flinch. Then he would laugh and extol to everyone in earshot about what a pussy I was.

I imagined him being run over by a bus.

One day, in gym class, he shoved me and I shoved back. I don’t know why I broke with my cowardly character, but instantly came to regret it because he challenged me to a fight on the spot. I walked away, face flushed, stomach in knots.

Word got out that I was chicken, and things went from bad to worse.

Puke Face continued to taunt me and challenge me to fights daily. Others jumped on the bandwagon. My pariah status gained steam. Oliver began to distance himself and I don’t blame him. Well, at the time I thought he was a disloyal bastard, but in hindsight I understand the juvenile desire to stay away from the lowest in the pecking order to preserve one’s own status.

After two weeks of this, Oliver staged an intervention. As we walked from the bus stop towards his house he said, “You have to fight him.”

“I … I just can’t.” This was the first time I’d ever been truly honest with my only friend. “I’m terrified of fighting. He’s going to kill me.”

“He’s not going to kill you,” Oliver said. “At worst you’ll get a bloody nose or black eye. Even if you lose it will make things better.” Then he didn’t give me any choice in the matter. He grabbed me by the sleeve. “Come on.”

Oliver took me into his backyard, grabbed two pairs of boxing gloves out of his parents’ garage and threw one set at me. “I’m teaching you to fight.”

And that’s what we did for the next three hours until I got called home for dinner. The next morning my right wrist ached from all the boxing practice, so I wrapped it in a tensor bandage. When Oliver met me at the bus stop he said, “Challenge him first thing. Don’t chicken out.”

The first class was art, and before the teacher arrived I walked up to Puke Face. “After school. The field.” It was all I trusted myself to say. I walked away then, my heart rate in the low 200s and great lakes forming in my armpits.

I didn’t hear a single word any teacher said that day, and my lunch went uneaten. I’d never been so afraid.

Three o’clock arrived and I realized that issuing the challenge early had been a mistake, as word got around and a crowd of thirty or so of my fellow students gathered in the field behind the school, ready to see blood. We had adults in the audience as well; the roof of the school was being redone and a dozen workmen sensed something was up and stopped their labors to bear witness to teenage combat.

Puke Face was chatting with another boy and seemed not the least bit frightened. Oliver gave me last-minute advice. “Keep the sun at your back. Remember the fake I showed you.” Then he gave me a gentle prod forward into the open space between my foe and I.

My opponent looked at the bandage on my wrist. “You’re not going to use that as some lame excuse when I kick your ass, are you?”

As much as I hated him, I didn’t feel it at the time. I was too busy thinking. All the tactics Oliver taught me ran through my mind, leaving no room for anger. I kept my hands up in a left-handed boxer pose and my chin tucked down. Puke Face and I circled, and then he threw a punch, I dodged my face back and it missed.

It was early November in Canada. We were having a mild autumn – snow hadn’t yet arrived, but due to the northern latitude the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. I kept circling until the sun was at my back, and struck with a slow and telegraphed roundhouse punch with my right hand. Puke Face accepted the decoy and blocked it. I drove up hard into his nose with my more powerful left, and it drew blood. I wanted to shout with joy.

The fight lasted about five minutes. There was no grappling, kicking, or rolling on the ground. It was a standup punching contest. I don’t know if Puke Face landed a single blow – I was undamaged – but I got in several hard hits. His white Billy Squire T-shirt was covered in blood. (Billy Squire? He sucks.)

“Hey, you in the white shirt,” one of the roof-workers called. “I think you should give up.”

Bless that man.

I used this as an opportunity to extricate myself from the fight by stepping back. “It’s over,” I said. “I won.” My innate cowardliness had returned. Puke Face may have been bleeding but appeared capable of continuing. In fact, he looked pissed off. I worried he was about to go berserker and turn the tables.

But he seemed willing to admit defeat, possibly because there was still a lot of blood coming from his nose. Then, in an act of chivalry I hadn’t known I possessed, I removed the tensor from my wrist and handed it to him as a peace offering to staunch the flow. He snatched it from me in an ungrateful manner and I left the field of battle with Oliver at my side, feeling victorious.

Unlike the movies, this didn’t suddenly skyrocket my popularity. The next morning I was at my locker and Peter, the smartest kid in the school who’d experienced his own share of bullying, said, “I heard you beat up [Puke Face]. Good job.” That was the only acknowledgement I got.

Then I went to class and saw my enemy stalking towards my desk, angrier than ever. His right eye was swollen and scraped, and all I could think of was, I don’t remember hitting him there.

“Rematch,” he said through clenched teeth. “After school.”

“Screw off. I proved my point.” A façade. I was just as terrified of a rematch. He seemed bent on murder. I was relieved when he didn’t push it.

I didn’t become popular; I just removed the target I’d worn most of my life. I got to spend the rest of the school year in relative peace, which was so much better than what I was used to.

For tenth grade I left Oliver and Puke Face and went back to my original-track for high school, and saw those jerks from my previous junior high. But either they picked up that something had changed, or the year away meant they’d lost interest in me.

For a brief time I became a hypocritical jackass. I made some new friends, and in an effort to impress them I bullied a smaller boy a couple of times. Adrian, I am sorry.

Thirty years later I’ve come to realize how much that fight was a catalyst. I don’t condone violence, but the experience taught me something about facing fear. To this day, I feel a level of fear about many things, like it’s encoded in my genes. Perhaps I have a mild anxiety disorder.

The fight was the first step in prompting me to achieve, and by that I mean I obsessed over not being a loser. I became a risk-taker and status-seeker. I’d spent so long at the bottom of the totem pole I wanted to put a buffer zone between it and I. Fear of being bullied pushed me to pursue education, career success, fitness and even celebrity. I slowly learned to face fear and take risks in order to achieve, because the terror of once again being that low-status boy with a target on his back was unthinkable.

I know. I was overcompensating.

Last year, at my 25th high school reunion, I saw some of the boys – now men – who had bullied me in seventh and eighth grade. Thanks to Facebook, many of my fellow grads knew about my successful career. I’d discovered exercise in a big way and become a well-known expert. It was the epitome of a cheesy movie cliché. The bullies had mostly gotten fat. They looked old and tired, whereas I was youthful and fit. One of the men, who I’d particularly hated, came up to speak with me, asking, “What are you up to these days?“

“I’m a fitness writer,” I said. I no longer hated him, but this doesn’t mean I liked him.

“Well, as you can see,” he patted his massive belly, “I am not.” I chuckled then excused myself.

My wife was at a friend’s birthday and some of the aforementioned pretty girls – now women – wanted to talk to me because they were fans of my writing. It was surreal, and shamefully, I reveled. Stupid.

Even more stupid is the fact that I reveled in the victory of beating another person bloody. In hindsight, I realize now that even though I faced him, I still took a coward’s way out. Mahatma Ghandi said, “Victory attained by violence is tantamount to a defeat, for it is momentary.” And it was momentary, because I never lost the fear, and this lead to much focus on silly totem poles and pecking orders.

Thirty years ago there was an opportunity to be courageous. While there may be a time and place for violence, this wasn’t it. I could have taken a stand against such juvenile idiocy. I could have called out my tormentors for their immature need to establish their superiority via aggression. It would have meant beatings, but those can be more easily suffered when one’s cause is right. Fighting back against a tormentor didn’t mean my cause was right, it just meant I was willing to play his game.

Now I realize what a foolish game it is.

Get your FREE Weight Loss Report from James.

James S. Fell, CSCS, is the co-founder of www.SixPackAbs.com. James is a nationally syndicated fitness columnist for the Chicago Tribune and Los Angeles TimesHis book, Lose It Right: A Brutally Honest 3-Stage Program to Lose Weight Without Losing Your Mind is coming from Random House in fall, 2013. 



My Attractive Plagiarist


This is a guest post from James S. Fell

There once was a great man who was a plagiarist.

In fact, this man was so great – he did so much to advance the human cause – history has largely glossed over his indiscretion. His contributions to society overwhelm his plagiarism to such a degree that I will not mention his name.

If someone plagiarizes, I do not believe it means they are a bad person. They could be a good person who just made a mistake. So I was willing to forgive her.

The fact that she is an amazingly hot bikini model might have had something to do with it.

I am a fitness writer, and not a humble one. I’ll just get this over with and say I went from my first published work (a story about my penis) to nationally syndicated via the Chicago Tribune and Los Angeles Times in just three years. My work is now read by millions of people each month.

It was one such reader that let me know I’d been plagiarized.

I’m also a man so happily married I named my personal website BodyForWife.com. Still, all that exercise keeps the testosterone flowing, so when I saw the scantily clad pictures of the woman who copied my work plastered all over her Facebook page, I said, “Wow,” and surfed a little.

She’s a fitness competitor. I’ve shamed her enough on my own Facebook page, so I’m not going to reveal her identity here. Again, I’m still holding out hope that she’s a good person who made a bad mistake.

See, I think I’m a good person, and I know that I have sinned. In fact, Jessica and I became friends because of something bad I did. I once wrote an article, and it was awful. The site I had recently joined as a columnist suggested the topic, and I suggested an alternative way to present this topic, and they insisted on their way, and I was still new and wanting to impress, and even though my gut instinct screamed at me not to do it, I wrote it. And it was published. And it was awful. And the Internet let me know it was awful.

Jessica was part of that Internet; she blogged about my awful article.

It wasn’t just damage control. I was genuinely sorry. I knew I had screwed up and did the biggest, most sincere and public mea culpa I could manage. I posted in the comments on every blog criticizing this article, taking responsibility and telling the world how sorry I was and that I’d never do it again.

Since that time, I’ve had this sticky note on my desk where I can easily see it:


sticky note rules 

I did wrong. I knew I was wrong. I should have stood up to the publisher, but I didn’t and it was time to pay for my crime. I was so penitent that even Jessica forgave me.

So you see, I know the proper way to atone for making a mistake.

My attractive plagiarist, who I’ll call Model, took one of my articles from last September that was about burning off post-vacation flab, and she posted it as a Facebook status update on her fan page, which has several thousand followers.

There is more, which makes it blatantly obvious that this was not just a copy and paste, but an actual attempt to pass the update off as her own work. First off, her previous update of the same day was about just getting home from vacation. Second, she removed a couple of facts in the article that would reveal someone else had written it.

I write everything first person and always include personal anecdotes. She removed the location of vacation – the coast of British Columbia – and the mention of sea kayaking. She left in the mention of running, however, because Model is also a runner, although apparently not a sea kayaker. She also swapped in a few of her own words. Overall, however, the status update was about 98% the same as my article.

And it was just a copy and paste with the aforementioned tweaks. No title. No, “Hey, check this out.” And certainly no, “This was written by James Fell” or even, “This was not written by Model.”

Yeah, that’s fucking plagiarism.

I showed my wife, who said I should shame her on my own fan page, which is precisely what I was already thinking. So I did. I did not use the word “plagiarism,” but I linked to her status update and to my article published five months previous.

I have dedicated fans, and the Facebook vigilante justice began. I should have foreseen such a happening and told them in advance not to go apocalyptic on Model, but I was remiss. So, I had to make a second post on my page asking them to please stop, and they did.

The vigilantism made me feel guilty about the public shaming.

At the same time I made the post, I sent an email to Model. The opening sentence was, “I am not very happy with you.” I explained that she had plagiarized my work, and that I wanted her to do a public apology on her fan page saying so, linking both to her offending status update and back to my article. If she did that, I’d consider the matter closed.

I didn’t tell her this, but I was willing to unleash hell if she declined. I would have contacted the supplement company that sponsors her, the magazines that she has modeled in, and the physique organization that she competes in and shown them the evidence of her transgression.

She was away from her computer, and it took a while for her to get back to me, but when she did Model was quite conciliatory, although not admitting full guilt. She said that she did not mean to upset me, and that I would get the credit I deserve. She also referred to it as a “misunderstanding.”

And I knew what was coming: One of those “I’m sorry you were offended” non-apologies that politicians are infamous for.

My mother taught me that people make mistakes, but that sins need to be atoned for. You’ve got to make it right. I once wrote a shitty article, then took responsibility as well as groveled, and people forgave.

I emailed Model back immediately and told her a bit of my “I wrote this offensive article once” story, and said the best way she could make this go away quickly was a complete admission of guilt and full apology. I was warning her not to fuck this up.

She promised that she was going to make a full apology, and that she was not a bad person, and that she’d just made a mistake. I believed her, and I was wrong to do so.

Here is what she then posted on her Facebook fan page:

In early February I posted an article and failed to give proper credit to an author. I want to apologize to James Fell, he wrote a fabulous article on how to get back on track with your fitness after a vacation and deserves credit for that. I never meant to pass this off as my own work, and I am very sorry that it came across like that.

She also included the link to my original piece, and encouraged people to visit my Facebook fan page, but she deleted the post where she’d plagiarized me.

As for the apology part, note the last sentence where it says, “I never meant to pass this off as my own work.” I call bullshit.

I read what she posted, and determined to forestall emailing her back. I wanted to sleep on it and decide what to do. The next morning she sent me another email, telling me she hadn’t slept and was full of anxiety over this issue. I wasn’t feeling terribly sympathetic.

I took some time to mull things over then crafted my reply.

I told her it was not my intent to be vindictive or ruin her career, and that I did admire her for being willing to apologize, where others may have failed to admit any wrongdoing. I had actually done some searching of other’s reactions to being plagiarized, and found one author who, when he confronted a plagiarist who had copied his article by about 95%, received a reply from the offender that it was “uncanny” how similar the articles were, yet denied that he had copied it.

Model wasn’t in such full denial, but certainly partial denial

I pointed out that I did not believe her statement about not intending to pass it off as her own, because she had made specific changes to the piece that identified someone else as the author. Nevertheless, part of me understands how difficult it would be to come out and admit to your own fan base that you stole someone else’s intellectual property, so I came to the conclusion that this was about as much as I could expect from her.

I told her I considered the apology barely sufficient, and let her know I was on to her, and that she sure as hell better not ever do anything so stupid again. She didn’t reply, and the way I worded my email, with the degree of finality it contained, I would have been surprised if she had.

I don’t think she will ever plagiarize again.

In fact, I hope she becomes a better person for this. I know that I did from my own transgression. That sticky note serves as a constant reminder to do the right thing, and I think I’ve been pretty faithful to it. Hopefully Model will remember this unfortunate event for a long time to come, and she will make better decisions in the future.

It’s important to learn from your mistakes.

If you actually read all that, permit me to ask a favor unrelated to plagiarism or this story at all. I have a gift for you. Well, it’s more of a trade. I have gone into a partnership to launch a new fitness website, where I’m in full control of all content, meaning it contains brutal honesty, and nothing resembling the bovine droppings rife in the realm of fitness and weight loss.

This new website has a free Weight Loss Report and a free Metabolism Report, and all it will cost you in trade is subscribing to occasional emails from me (from which you can easily unsubscribe if you decide you don’t like me).

But the URL for this website may throw you. A lot of money was put into its purchase to drive traffic to the site, but know that our tagline is “Hardcore and more.” That “and more” means we have something for everyone, regardless of shape, size or gender. The new website is www.SixPackAbs.com.

So please check it out. There are lots of exclusive articles, celebrity interviews, and a section specifically for women. There’s even a shirtless picture of yours truly, if that’s your thing.

Thanks for reading.