I didn’t really feel like going to the gym today so I called up Vicky, hoping she’d let me off the hook.
I said, “Hi, honey. I don’t really feel like going to the gym to day. Do I have to?”
And this is what I heard her say:
No. You don’t have to. Odds are you probably won’t get off your fat ass long enough to take a shit, shamu. Stay on the computer and order a new crane for wiping your ass, you lethargic fuck. You corpulent pile of crap. We’ll just hire Exxon/Mobile to cart you around from now on if they can afford another environmental disaster. And you can stay in front of your fucking computer playing World of Warcraft in an attempt to remember what real movement is like until the cheese between your ass cheeks sprouts grubs! Hell, you can keep them as pets! You really want to find a job, you unctuous, swollen leech? Why don’t you auction off your methane and solve the world’s energy crisis? You wanna write a book? Write down your last meal and fill a thousand pages? Can’t act? Bitch, you can’t fucking fit on a screen, no less a stage! I realized why you remind me of working on my old VW Bug – cause it’s all I can think of when you roll that tanker truck you call a body on top of me and “have sex”. We’ll have sex when the dough boy comes out of the dough – shit, it’s like watching a twig being swallowed by an avalanche! That Rolo hasn’t seen air in months – it could be dead! How about you get your flabby ass out of that chair for five minutes? Or are you afraid the fat whiplash is gonna crush your spine?!
What she actually said was, “Probably.”
Which makes me think I might be slightly neurotic.