PAiN
11-27-2014, 12:55 PM
Almighty God, as I train furiously and forcefully, sculpting my massive pecs and divine glutes and seeking the Heavenly pump while the mere mortals around me with paunchy guts, cellulitic thighs, atrophied arms, disproportionate limbs in general, and wheezy decrepit lungs struggle to somehow overcome the inertia that has condemned them to a life of quiet desperation, a fully-insured nine-to-five life with 2.3 colicky children who are destined to become slackers on the Lollapalooza tour to the grave; a life filled with cream-filled snacks and hoagies and triple-cheese-burger-arterial-plaque-bombs-in-a-bun chased down with Jeraboams of Maalox; a life filled with excuses, broken promises, passionless sex, of which the major accomplishment is a sterling credit rating — grant me, dear Lord, as I stare into their semi-dead eyes, the ability to at least not get too cocky about it.
And while you're at it, God, I sure wouldn't mind a protein jug that kept filling itself up like that flagon of wine in one of the Bible stories, because it would save me a lot of dough and I wouldn't have to work nights and weekends delivering Chinese food and I could tell Mr. Fong to shove it, even if it caused him to smite me with a wok.
And please grant me the steely resolve not to stare at Chrissy Johnson's Spandex-sheathed ass, which, if you don't mind me saying, is one of your finest creations, right up there with trees and low-fat mayo and stuff. I tell you, God, one look at her and I get a stiffy like the forearm of Abraham or a rung of Jacob's ladder, and this causes her boyfriend — who looks like a plague of locust had a revival meeting on his face — to wail and gnash his teeth, all the while chasing me around the gym until he catches me and goes "Old Testament" on me, if you catch my drift.
I wouldn't mind busting through my latest plateau, either, God. I mean, would it kill you to help me set a new 1RM? Hell — scuze' my French — I've been stuck on 490 in the squat since Moses brought those stone tablets down from the mountain. And what's with this fat around my waist, God? I bust my hump trying to get this stuff off. I've held up my end of the bargain. I go to church, say my prayers, and I've pretty much honored those Ten Commandments, but I guess I could use a little work on number ten — you know, the one that says I shouldn't covet my neighbor's wife? But I ask you, God, if you really didn't want me to Simonize Mrs. Pinski's kitchen floor with her naked ass, why did you make her so hot? Sheesh!
By the way, God, I found an overseas 'roid connection. If you could find it in your heart to give me some sort of a sign that it's not a DEA set-up and that I can safely order some D-bol without having the Feds kick in my bedroom door, I'd appreciate it. It wouldn't have to be a big sign or anything. Maybe you could have my wife's hair spontaneously combust, sort of like that burning bush thing.
Anyhow God, thanks for listening. Bless my mother and father and stuff. Go New Orleans Saints!
Amen.
And while you're at it, God, I sure wouldn't mind a protein jug that kept filling itself up like that flagon of wine in one of the Bible stories, because it would save me a lot of dough and I wouldn't have to work nights and weekends delivering Chinese food and I could tell Mr. Fong to shove it, even if it caused him to smite me with a wok.
And please grant me the steely resolve not to stare at Chrissy Johnson's Spandex-sheathed ass, which, if you don't mind me saying, is one of your finest creations, right up there with trees and low-fat mayo and stuff. I tell you, God, one look at her and I get a stiffy like the forearm of Abraham or a rung of Jacob's ladder, and this causes her boyfriend — who looks like a plague of locust had a revival meeting on his face — to wail and gnash his teeth, all the while chasing me around the gym until he catches me and goes "Old Testament" on me, if you catch my drift.
I wouldn't mind busting through my latest plateau, either, God. I mean, would it kill you to help me set a new 1RM? Hell — scuze' my French — I've been stuck on 490 in the squat since Moses brought those stone tablets down from the mountain. And what's with this fat around my waist, God? I bust my hump trying to get this stuff off. I've held up my end of the bargain. I go to church, say my prayers, and I've pretty much honored those Ten Commandments, but I guess I could use a little work on number ten — you know, the one that says I shouldn't covet my neighbor's wife? But I ask you, God, if you really didn't want me to Simonize Mrs. Pinski's kitchen floor with her naked ass, why did you make her so hot? Sheesh!
By the way, God, I found an overseas 'roid connection. If you could find it in your heart to give me some sort of a sign that it's not a DEA set-up and that I can safely order some D-bol without having the Feds kick in my bedroom door, I'd appreciate it. It wouldn't have to be a big sign or anything. Maybe you could have my wife's hair spontaneously combust, sort of like that burning bush thing.
Anyhow God, thanks for listening. Bless my mother and father and stuff. Go New Orleans Saints!
Amen.