Learning Day: Physical Culture for Babies

Is your baby jacked enough?

Sure, you’ll mostly love them either way. But are they the biggest baby in the gym? Or masters of tiny acro-yoga?

We’ll find out in a minute. First, a small request.

We’re buddies, right? It’s been three high-stakes years. If either of us planned to snitch or go fascist, it’d have happened. Agreed? We can trust each other? Hold each other accountable? Great, because I need something. I’m in some trouble.

Don’t let me overdose on Physical Culture.

Let’s stick to twenty columns a year. Thirty, if the withdrawal looks severe. One image in, and I’m close to ditching today’s original premise for remedial Sex Ed. Physical Culture is the dumbest thing I love, and my brother collects memecoins.

Physical Culture’s a bygone wellness magazine run by Bernarr Macfadden, described better by this image than anything I’ll write today:

To you and I, quoting yourself over nudes labeled Perfect Masculinity in your own magazine reeks of madness. At least 0.8 Arnolds of ego. Without any of Bernarr’s opinions on vaccines, marriage, or starting religions, you still smell lunatic. Yet Bernarr’s unfazed. Where others worship mirrors in private, Bernarr spreads the wealth. Every man, woman, and baby can be swole and jab-free.

As for the accompanying article? There isn’t one. That spread’s just in there.

I’ve got an addictive streak. I could easily drown in the Macfadden Expanded Universe. Think of my twenty (maybe forty) post limit as an extension of the Anime Week Accords. While Physical Culture itself contains informative health tips—

Tasteful ads—

…stopped-clock moments–

…and editorials I wish I’d written—

The magazine truly thrives as a scam index. Every page hides a spinoff grift. This is a living vault of comedy weapons. I’m waiting for Shāng Bù Huàn to kick my ass and take it back.

Sidebar: Bernarr pitches replacing marriage with a “legal mating contract.” Involving joint finances, cultural weight, cohabitation, and personal commitment. You know, marriage. He just emphasizes boning. In Bernarr’s mind, 1940s marriages didn’t churn out enough kids.

It’s an early innovation in crankdom. Bernarr found the mass media equation for losing your fucking mind. Labor we take for granted today. In case you missed the last decade, here’s the formula:

And some relevant examples:

Well, that first joke’s unfair. Physical Culture for Babies—a MacfaddenVerse book—is mostly dumbbells, bodyweight, and pictorialist crime scenes. Maybe follow-up books have Gerber power cleans, but I have to stick to the facts. Slandering white corpses might be a felony by print time.

While reading a normal number of Physical Culture back issues, I noticed a recurring topic: parents across America thanked Bernarr for keeping their babies alive. No critics appear, so I assume his techniques always worked. The praise often came with normal photos:

Parents tend to be shy with their costumed baby photos. I don’t open Christmas cards, which gives me extra time to be an expert on the topic. Bernarr’s book might be something special. Let’s see how he earned the love of sepia kidfluencers.

Bernarr starts by setting the stakes. Well, not really, but Chapter 25 bangs. We’re starting there.

Even among all the prophetic self-owns I’ve read, “future clowns will mock our childrearing standards” stands out. Should I even rib this? Is a single stupid word wrong? Bernarr’s chokeslammed Physical Culture without one speech balloon. And his entire era. And our entire era. Respect.

For the curious, our actual opening’s another normal baby photo.

Looks normal to me, but I’ve written these for three years. My sister says I should burn the desktop I wrote this on. I’ve got a 14th-gen Intel chip, so I’ll just wait for it to blow.

Now, Marion’s description implies mutant children outside the physical culture master race exist. I don’t know why you’d do that to a kid, but some people need a scientist’s permission to inhale. Macfadden takes unjacked parents to task:

Ghastly! But who’s sabotaged baby Thermopylae? Specifically, the lack of oiled abs? It can’t only be smallpox vaccines. Unrelatedly, what’s Chapter 30 called?

We’re two for two! That’s right: Eugene Francis was a Physical Culture advertiser/minion. I’m not that good a researcher, one con just leads to another. It’s like trading your number for loyalty points—expect texts from your lost cousins in Lagos.

Fraud was my monthly theme, but a second thread’s emerging. Given our short list of eternal scapegoats, I should’ve expected it. Next time, for variety I’ll pick a less fraught topic like games, swiping, or unmarried breath. Maybe that AI assistant for pickup artists. Or the effects of forks on wall sockets.

“Many fine young cattle know of Physical Culture, and even attempt to read it. Too few put muscle voudou into practice. A moment of silence to the innocents lost to weak triceps and the jab.”

Cranks have a flexible relationship with modernity. If the sane path’s new, like not letting your kids die of smallpox, real wisdom hid in the ancient world. See: Bernarr and all medicines not grown in his backyard. If the sane path’s old, like not dribbling your child like it’s Game 7, then the future is now. In both cases, mothers are fuckups.

That quote opens the last chapter. It’s as literary as Physical Culture for Babies gets, and a mistake. Bernarr loops this sentence construction at length:

Bernarr’s being polite: you’re killing Timmy’s gains. He should be showing off the guns–wearing at most a Physical Culture tank top–drinking protein powder with unpasteurized milk, and fighting other children for a bench. The survival craze among moms is a silent purge of Physical Culture’s new race.

His list goes on. I respect your time, so I’ll compress his less-zany gripes:

Fair perspective, if you ignore everything Bernarr can’t spell. He sounds like a leader, though he could sue more dissenters. Get your tiny power racks ready—scrawny babies won’t survive the new world.

Finally. Why’s Bernarr cram so many words and anime jokes before the good stuff?

You might wonder: “how does a vertical pull build mu chest?” Good question. And much easier to ignore than “how does playing airplane build my chest?” Or “how does dislocating my kid’s shoulders build my chest?” I’ll hit those when I’m done ignoring the first.

That’s Bernarr. A line about cheapness is tempting, but he’s definitely the type to model for himself.

More questions slip in. Does the child have to be naked and swinging in the wind like a weather vane? Is that Bernarr’s kid, or just a child star building character? What baby-chuck techniques didn’t make the cut? Do swole babies get cold?

Keep ignoring them. Instead, once you’re done with your kid, let someone dangle you like a nude puppet. Then you can have baby gains and love. Or just baby gains, if you keep it professional.

Even Bernarr “Inoculate These Nuts” Macfadden considers this one dangerous, so the gains must be crazy. Again: why limit it to babies? Find someone you trust enough to hit you with a naked lucha finisher, and build the physique you’ve always dreamed of. Stick to raw food and sewage-enhanced water, and you’ll be leading unwatchable films and ruining Wrestlemania in no time.

More of a rest hold, but you can’t wrestle the entire match at high intensity. This gives both fighters time to breathe, posture a bit, and tell a real story.

I’ll admit, I’m slightly worried this round. Exercise No. 6 sounds like a passive-aggressive squat, and early nagging might build a lifelong disdain for exercise. Pushing past all the dislocation trauma’s tough enough, why add gifted kid syndrome?

Ah, the flying plank. Classic movement. Unlike squats, dead hangs, and being thrown around by their hands, planks seem intense for a baby. This only risks dropping them on their head, and they haven’t learned much yet.

Something’s off, but I can’t pin it. Time to use a lifeline. I live in the borough of eternal childhood, so I’m only in touch with one parent. Let’s see what they think.

Some people never change. Protect your feelings: not everyone’s as conscientious as Bernarr.

Dope. This is definitely how I’d train someone that owes me money, or knows what the Joker’s planning. I guess kids like it too.

Again, it’s just a skull. There won’t be a complete thought up there until fractions. Even then, if your kid’s a bit slow, a fall might be just the reset their head needs. Think of it as the Fonz and a jukebox, only the Fonz gets to meet child services.

Hmm. While this looks traumatizing, life with weak calves sounds worse. Tough choice. I asked J what a good parent would do, and heard I’d never have to worry about it.

Let’s step back. While Bernarr’s ordered us to keep trainees naked, I don’t remember why either.

Good enough. I’ve got a full week before shock gives way to fury, and I’ll buy anything until then. And Bernarr has a set of naked baby tricks just for moms! They tone the baby and you:

I smiled at this chapter title with a full range of motion. There’s a level beyond tombstone piledriving your baby, and it hides gains for both of you. If you have the courage.

And you’re naked. You also have to be naked.

Aspirational. You can play martyr with the last chapter, if you’ve given up. Or you and your baby can get massive. Then you can eat more, to get bigger, to inhale even more Gerber protein powder. Lifting’s like coke, but pricier and more addictive. If I had kids this chapter would whisper to me like the Ring.

See? Captions can’t lie–even the baby’s hyped. Probably just to be alive, but it’s fun to pretend.

I say bet it all. What’s up first?

Ah. The famous “bored babysitter.” It might take more to win the Mother-Boy Olympia.

Hammer curls? With a baby? It’s definitely a safety improvement: your elbows are in more danger than the baby’s spine. Open season on the neck, but were two tombstones past caring.

I’m an idiot: of course the Mommy-and-Me section is less infanticidal. Physical Culture treats mothers like talking goldfish. Suplexing a baby is a man’s j–

I stand corrected. The other tricks keep the baby in sight, letting you see the moment your lives change. Here you’re swinging blind. If I wanted my Saturdays back, I’d try daycare first. But gravity’s a bit cheaper.

Some Physical Culture Babies survived! Reportedly.

There’s a full chapter of “baby athletes,” and I’ll never get to type that again. Bernarr’s a self-published liar with an active imagination, so I could switch in Children of Dune quotes and call it a day. But I suspect this’ll have more kids in more danger.

Meet Perry Crawford. Hi, Perry!

Bye, Perry!

No wonder a chance at everyone’s attention drives people mad. Look what they do for a handful of lunatics. Everyone that’s read the whole book has a name that rhymes. And people will still do or say anything for exposure. Or make their baby do it.

Perry’s an A+ Physical Culture student, meaning all neck exercise, no clothes. He’s never been sick in his life, because he’s a thirdhand account from a dead man and you can choke on your CDC data.

Maybe his parents know what they’re doing. The neighbors disagree. Giving the Crawfords, like any patriot caught fucking up, a victim complex.

You know the story. Yet the Crawfords, like true innovators, walk off the hate. Perry has too much ass to kick. Mostly his own. Perry seems to drop his baby weights a lot. Also, he has baby weights.

It sounds bad, but Perry uses his real baby muscles to fight real adult snitches. As depicted in this real story, in which two women freak out over a naked baby in the dead of winter. You know how people are.

There you go. Practice Bullet Club finishers on your baby, and they can knock out the neighborhood watch. The cops will just ask for deadlift tips, which tracks without sarcasm. Why deal with Hulk Jr. when there are migrants to hunt? Much easier reports.

Don’t fret: Bernarr says Perry was fine, along with every other Physical Culture baby. They share similar flawless immunity, braindead nonbelievers, and grip strength. Trained adults run into all kinds of colorful injuries, so it almost beggars belief. But fossil athletes wear clothes like cavemen. The next time you hit the gym, wear your imagination. You’ll feel the difference. And mace.

By the way, Bernarr really did start a religion. More on that later.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: John Dean, a tiny, oiled gladiator preparing for Baby’s First Thermopylae.

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