Pumping Iron

Today I was admiring my own body in the mirror, then remembered it had been a while since I had pumped iron.

In order to keep my beautiful, robust shape, I went to the gym. I haven’t actually lifted weights in years. You may remember that I’ve been a block tosser since October. During the last few months, I was getting a decent workout. Because of tour, and the slow winter season, I am not quite as active.

Anyway, to preserve the wonderful piece of bodily art I’ve become, I greased down my body, slapped on a pair of red super-man briefs, and headed to the gym. Just for the hell of it, I let my car run out of gas on the way there. I manually pushed it 5 miles, while imagining scenes of my hero Arnold Schwarzenegger machine-gunning foes in Commando. When I arrived, I pushed through all the posers in the parking lot, kicked open the door, lunged at the front desk kid and demanded that he played “Break Stuff” from my Limp Bizkit mix over the gym’s speaker system. Then I removed the clothes pins from my erect nipples and started pumping with estrogen-shattering, vein-popping shouts that forced worms out of the earth and sent birds into the sea.

If you need an explanation, it’s past midnight and I can’t sleep.