Yesterday, the very day that I started my new exercise and eating regiment, someone brought boudin and deep fried cracklings in to work.  Today we were brought a catered Bar-B-Q feast chock full of forbidden delicious treasures.  Tomorrow I fully expect it to start raining ice cream.

I have jumped back into a workout regime after being off of the wagon for almost 2 years.  My jovially soft belly has been expanding since before Obama ran against that gay chick, fueled by a steady intake of empty carbs, simple sugars, and retarded proteins.  To counteract the predictable, yet somehow blind-siding, entropic forces of time I have started torturing myself in order to make myself feel better.  Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me either.

I can’t straighten my arms out this morning.  I’m running around like a handsome balding Caucasian T-rex, my tortured arms coiled in protest against my soft cuddly chest as I shuffle painfully through my work day.  Last night I blasted my upper body.  I fucking BLASTED it.  Today I run in place, and tomorrow I get to blast my lower body.  I’m gonna fucking BLAST it.  According to my sources, repeating this muscular mutilation will extend my life, give me more energy, and make some strangers treat me better because they will want to bed me in nasty sinful acts.  Well, time’s gonna tell on all of that, but as of today I can’t imagine that this is anything more than a fool’s errand.  And being a fool, I will persevere… unless it’s too hard.  Then I’ll just give up and blame it on the world.

So here I go again, trotting off to the gym.  The God damned gym.  I fucking hate that place.  It may be the fermented shadows of my high school memories, but any building where vainly fit men and women rub sweaty elbows and exchange uncomplicated grunts as greetings makes me very cautious and a little sociopathic.  Thanks be to my invisible God that I have enough IPods to choke Steve Jobs.  It’s a small comfort to have the ability to block out the Freudian flirtations and loud mongoloid encouragements that my fellow gym members sometimes yell at each other.  If it weren’t for the fact that we’re all located in a widely public area with countless hazards of mercilessly heavy pinch-points, the sounds of their grunts and shouts would lead one to believe that they were filming rough gay porn.  Their fevered shouts of ‘Come ON!’ and the labored moans their partners reply give the impression that one of them is dominating the other one… in the butt.  I’m not ashamed to say that makes me uncomfortable.