Weightlifting is for the birds... the big, scary, sculpted birds

So I'm experimenting with this thing people call "working out."

Verdict: I don't dig it. But it's doctor's orders. While I thought that I was worth my weight in goldschlager, the doc's professional opinion was that I'm a "fat tub of shit who'll be dead by 33." I said, "But that's only a few months away." He said, "I have spoken."

Thus, here I am participating in a lot of movement that gets me nowhere. Lifting things that don't need lifting and putting them right back down. Operating machines that don't generate electricity or anything else for that matter. Shouldn't gyms at least be hooked up to a city's power grid?

I have a sadistic trainer who thinks that repetitive motion is good for me. I say, lifting a dumbbell more than three times is playing with it. Ya feel me?

And the results? Pain. Pain for days. I thought a doctor should, first, do no harm. The caveat apparently is "harm is cool as long the doctor doesn't personally witness it."

Now I'm aching and burning from top to bottom. Even my teeth hurt. I assume that's related.

All the curls have made my biclops sore, not to mention my tridents. I see no difference in my chest even though the trainer insists I work my pterodactyls. But what I hate the most is exercising my legs. There's a reason I have fucking desk job, yo. Thanks to these leg exercises, I can barely stand up and sit down due to the pain in my hamstringcheese. And I have to get up and stretch my cows ever 15 minutes because they get tighter than a virgin vagina coated in alum.

And we haven't even started on my abominables.

I'm working on a theory that if God wanted us to be healthy, he wouldn't have made us in his own fat-fuck image. And he wouldn't have invented pizza buffets or Saved by the Bell marathons.