by Chris Joseph 

I knew it was time to get back in shape when I looked in a full-length mirror while topless and came to the conclusion I was about to give birth to a set of octuplets. What made this even more alarming is the fact that I wasn’t even pregnant. Or female.

At first, I was at a loss to explain my fall into fatness. After serious introspection over a barrel of Double Chocolate Mocha Fudge Brownie ice cream, it dawned on me that it probably had something to do with my exercise regimen, which consisted of vigorous sloth followed by intense indifference.

I decided to join an inexpensive gym, a place called something like House of Fitness and Groin Pulls. I was met by a trainer with a physique so rock-hard that if he suddenly died he could donate his body to bricklaying. A nice enough guy, but I had a little trouble understanding him due to his muscle-bound jaws. I think he said his name was Ben Gay.

Ben took me around to various barbells and other contraptions that looked like they were built for the sole purpose of turning once-sturdy ligaments and tendons into Ramen noodles. I looked on, torn between fear and terror as a guy with a neck the circumference of a truck tire grunted, grimaced, and growled while lifting the equivalent of several city blocks above his head. After allowing the neighborhood to gently crash to the floor, he turned and stalked out the door. He probably went to devour several head of cattle, along with the rest of their bodies.

Now it was my turn. I climbed into a device called a seated leg curl machine, which Ben told me would give me firmer glutes. This apparently translates as “hard butt” in muscle talk. I tried to think of a possible reason I’d want a hard butt, but the only thing I could come up with was to make sitting on it even more enjoyable.

I attempted one curl, and my butt, while firmer, felt like it been kicked by Tire Neck with the full intention of turning my backside into my front side. I decided to stop before I pulled something that could never be pushed back.

“Maybe we should try some cardio,” said Ben, smiling.

“I’m not sure what that is, but it has to be better than never being able to sit again,” I replied, crying.

Ben climbed on a treadmill. After about 30 seconds, his feet were a blur and his arms were pumping like pistons. Somehow, I knew if I tried that thing, it would send me catapulting into my next life. Grudgingly, I climbed aboard. After two minutes, my lungs were reaching for my cell phone to call 911.

“Breathe!” Ben yelled, as if I were giving birth. I know that couldn’t be true because giving birth couldn’t hurt as much.

“Need drink…feel weak…death coming!” I said, not breathing.

“How about a sports drink?”

“Does it include tequila? How about a hemlock on the rocks?”

I decided I’d had enough, and I told Ben I was going home to do something less painful, like sticking my head into a vat of boiling grease. I thanked Ben and told him I’d be sure to come back soon, like right after the Apocalypse.

The next morning, I woke to what sounded like a .12 gauge shot gun going off inside my brain. Fortunately, it was only every joint in my body popping in agony. I decided right then to return to my previous exercise regimen. Sloth never hurt like this.