The Lifter

. . . and I’d like to add that I will pick it up, I will clean and jerk, I will crunch and squat.
I will not be fubsy. I will sleep on the weight bench. My biceps will have charming grottos of muscles hidden from the sun. I will be fatless, convex. I’ll be cubist as a  Rock ‘en Sock ‘em Robot,  I will tan, I will redden, I will carrot, I will blood-orange, I will teriyaki beef jerky. I will not question the questionable masculinity of displaying my dark bronze ass in a slingshot thong. My golden ass, like a Thanksgiving turkey.

I’ll have bitch tits and an androgenic wife.  I’ll be extra beefy. I’ll have pot roast pecs.  My spine will telescope, buckle and warp like a knock-off slinky. I will be cut. I’ll be shredded, ripped, covered, topped, diced, peppered, scattered smothered and chunked like the hash browns at Waffle House. I will live on a floating island of empty creatine powder containers. I buy a muscle cow for Muscle Milk. I will be the dumb bell. I’ll have the abs of a stone crab. I’ll be neck-less as a snow man

I will work at car shows, spend much of my time oiled and flexing. I will quit academia, leave my colleagues behind like so many flaccid, piddling, overcast, impotent, runty, caviling rodents for the Mammon and nutrient-rich sunlight of muscle beach. I will change my name to Maxy Nietzsche Magnason, spawn a phalanx of slightly smaller gophers and troglodyte flunkies. I will take fistfuls of black-market Ukrainian steroids and specious Russian stimulants. I’ll make Barry Bonds look like a 7th Day Adventist

I will eat whole live chickens and ducks. I’ll be freaky huge. I will have Popeye forearms, like gallons of milk up my sleeves. I’ll have two monster hogs for thighs, lats of a pterodactyl, grisly ropey veins will bloodworm under my drum-tight skin. I will wear sleeveless shirts and suits, take them off sluttishly like a Chippendale dancer at a woman’s prison for the criminally insane.  My banana hammock Speedo will vanish down a canyon of beef and eventually grow into my flesh.

I will have Herculean toddlers, turn the swing set into Conan’s Wheel. I will be the truck pull. I will herniate like a strafed dyke, enough mesh in my abdominal wall for a screen door. I will not be puny. I will diuretic like a bilge pump. I will speak only to people with barbed wire tattoos.  I will limit my vocabulary to the word absolutely and various testiculate red-faced shouts of triumph and exhortation. I will live in the mirror, under the bar. No one will spot me

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