King of the Beasts

I didn't mean to give the wrong impression about Jane. We have a solid thing. A thick, heavy, solid thing. Well, she has me, anyway. And I believe she loves me, wholly, mind body and soul. It's just that I'm not sure she loves the extra 50 lbs. of Crisco I've injected into the body part since we met.

I may just be using food as a substitute for sleeping with multiple partners. At least that kind of juggling was a form of exercise I didn't mind.

If she dumps me, I don't know what I'll do. I'll totally have to get in shape, because the singles market is vicious, and those nightclubs... well, I don't know why they call them meat markets. If they truly were, then pound for pound, I'd be a helluva catch.

I suppose I could always travel to the more recessed portions of West Virginia and start my own game show: "Who Wants To Marry a Brian Blair?" First prize will be me and a canned ham. Runners-up will receive a week's supply of squeeze cheese. All contestants must be 16 years of age, stacked, and willing to bring a cute girlfriend on the honeymoon. That's just awful of me, isn't it? I am of course, kidding.

I would never give away my squeeze cheese.

With my addictive personality I guess I just have to find some happy mediums in my behavior. (Hmmm... "medium" was a long time ago. I may have to look for some happy extra larges.) The first time I quit smoking, I turned to excessive drinking. When I quit excessive drinking, I turned to compulsive shopping for compact discs. When I shook that habit I started compulsively buying albums. When I ran out of good music to buy, I turned to punk rock. When my punk rock collection neared completion, I became an eating machine. I knew I had a problem when I woke up, hung over, my Sex Pistols record skipping on the stereo and I automatically did my morning stretch to the nightstand for the aspirin -- but slathered them with mayonnaise first.

That was rock bottom. I resolved to abuse myself no more. Well, I still drink... and there's that private time in the bathroom... but no more Fatman! I returned to the store that sold me my sea of denim and bought running shoes.

I know I'm a jolly sort, lately, but that damned salesgirl didn't have to laugh all the way through the purchase.
"You find it humorous that I am buying running sneakers," I asked her.
"No sir. (Giggle-giggle) It's just that spandex went out of style, like, 20 years ago."
I signed for the purchase and collected my bag. "I'm not wearing spandex," I indignantly replied, "These are sweat pants." I huffed out of the store. I could hear the laughter well-up as I reached the door. Someone chuckled, "I've never seen cotton do THAT before."

I went home, put on my new sneakers and started my new exercise regime at 6 p.m., making sure to stretch real well before running. I finished my new exercise regime at 6:09 p.m., staggering back into my house, sucking wind. My lungs were on fire and I could feel each individual tooth vibrating in my head. I wobbled to the fridge on rubber legs and poured a water, steadying it with two shaking hands as I gulped it down, half the glass running down my neck, into my sweatshirt, cooling my heaving man boobs. The liquid's weight was too great for my weakened legs and they collapsed under me. So I traversed the room via the kitchen cabinet handles, monkey bar fashion, finishing the circuit at the liquor cabinet, where I poured one vodka for the pain, then one to forget.

There has to be an easier way. I mean, I'm pretty sure my strength is the same it ever was, but the load keeps getting heavier. Shouldn't this inherently have made me stronger? Speaking of loads, I was quite dismayed when I started jogging and realized that the persistent tugging motion I was feeling was the rise and fall of Abner as I staggered down the street like a wounded wildebeest. It wasn't nearly as interesting as watching a buxom jogger bounce by. At least if my breast were a little larger I would have kept running for the sheer entertainment value.

I can't believe all this flesh is mine. The up and down of the gut was really embarrassing, too -- not to mention a bit painful. With every crushing step into the pavement, the impact would jar my nards, causing them to bounce upward in time, as Abner was thrusting back down upon them. After one block I became the human Ker-Banger -- my stomach pile driving my testicles in sadistic rhythm. That was a lot of stress to put on my knees as well. At any moment I expected my shinbones to splinter, piercing through my knees in a spray of butter and gravy.

These new sneakers are clearly flawed.

So, I've done the running thing for the past week, but the pain didn't cease. It did, in fact, increase. It feels as though I'm driving my spine through my brain like a barbecue skewer through a cherry tomato. So I've taken to running at night, in the dark. The daytime finger pointing, staring and laughter was just too reminiscent of showering in the high school locker room after gym class.

Sometimes, when running at night, I've pretended I was a ninja, rapidly stalking my unsuspecting enemy. But the thunderous steps beneath my bull-like legs have ruined the fantasy, so now I pretend I'm a Tyrannosaurus Rex, crashing through prehistoric jungles rabidly in search of my next prey. What would I eat as a T-Rex? Hmm... Mozzarella sticks, chicken nuggets, baked potatoes with cheese, and two quarter pound burgers with everything. (T-Rex's don't eat junk food, lardass.) Shut up! I'm a T-Rex! I'll eat YOU!