No gain, but plenty of pain

Who invented working out? Did they not realize that they’d be sentencing millions of people to a life of pain, sore muscles and sweaty undergarments?

I know the results are probably worth the effort, but I’m still too lazy to keep up a good work out schedule.

I’m in the army, (surprise, surprise!) where physical training is often considered more important than a person’s ability to do their job, (“Well, you’re extremely organized and you’ve made this office 100 percent more efficient since you got here, thereby saving the government thousands of dollars. But, unfortunately, you can’t march 12 miles with 90 pounds of gear in under three hours. So, even though it’s something you’ll never encounter in your military career, it’s going to affect your chances for promotion.”)

Which means that I’ve always got to make sure that I’m in peak physical condition, ready to run five miles uphill in the snow, wearing nothing but a flimsy plastic poncho and a pair of high heels, (you never know what you might be called upon to do for the American government and if they every want me to dress as a women I would do it with a tear in my eye and pride in my heart, proud to do my duty for this wonderful country!) Or do 75 push ups consecutively for no good reason, or even be prepared to assault any nearby and convenient hill.

Bad news though. I can’t do any of that shit, (except for maybe wearing the high heels, which is sounding more inciting the more I think about it.) I’m too damn fat! I spend too much time sitting on my ass and not enough time killing interesting and indigenous third-world people in the name of peace.

Which means that I have to work out on my own. Not an exciting prospect.

Luckily the army is chock full of guys with tiny wangs who try to make up for it by getting huge and having to walk through doorways sideways. Which means that gyms literally litter the military landscape, (digging on that alliteration?) Which makes it easier to find somewhere to workout. Unfortunately the actual act of lifting weights is still strenuous and involves considerable effort, something I don’t like to put forth willingly.

So I work out from time to time. Not too much, (not enough actually) but enough to ensure that I don’t end up like (insert ridiculously fat male celebrity here). Sadly, working out is actually more addictive than crack. I mean the more you work out the more you need to work out, in order to maintain some sort of socially acceptable form. Ask any guy you know that works out and you’ll see that he’s trapped! He’s a slave! If he doesn’t continue to work out, his pecs that he works so hard at developing will turn into Meatloaf-style bitch tits. And no man wants that, (come to think of it, I don’t know any woman who wants that on a man either.)

Just keep that in mind next time somebody asks if you want to go to the gym. Do you really want a life full of pointlessly lifting heavy things? Or do you want to just sit on your ass and let cosmetic surgery do its magic?

I think the choice is clear.