Pounds and Porcine Tears

We are a fat, wobbling mess, puffing and panting our way through our tubby existence. Our children don't go out to play, but from the safety of their own homes, never having to lift their rotund, whale like derrières from the couch, their dumpy little digits thrashing away at their Xbox controller as they blow little Mike from next door to smitherines. These butterballs will enter adolescent life with fantastic hand eye coordination skills but lack the ability to talk to anyone who isn't comprised of pixels and dressed in futuristic war regalia. As they get older the media will make pariahs out of them, they will cry porcine tears and dream of a skinny and slender world of asymmetrical haircuts and 17 year olds who drive brand new cars. To live the dream, they will swallow their pride, dignity and morality. They will join a gym.

I know why most people avoid gyms, its not blood, sweat or tears, its not its testosterone pumped patrons strutting around like two swinging bollocks at a eunuch rally. The reason why people avoid working out is solely due to the mid numbingly tedious music pumped from 1000 speakers (all of are usually directly above where you are sitting). Often its feel like the scene in Star Trek - Wrath of Khan (I know, I was small and it stuck in my memory along with another film where a naked woman got beaten to death with a baked bean can). In this scene, what looks like a common garden slug is forced into a hapless crew members aural canal (obviously not key cast), lays its eggs and waits to strike. The immigrant parasite eventually slimes its way around the ear canal, again and again and again, causing fierce and biting pain which dramatically escalates until the poor sod clutches his head and jumps into the nearest vortex. Gym music, however, is much more severe, its spreads through your auditory synapses like an STD in Texas, ripping them apart with its wishy-washy, over produced banality until your noggin blows clean off your shoulders. Its just a shame I know I'll be whistling the latest Lady Ga Ga song while little Mike chases me through a pixel rendered rainforest, bullets whistling past my ears.