Working It Out

"Sixteen more, Ladies. Count them down."

16....

15...

There is a 15-pound rubbery bar in my hands, and a pool of fire in both of my shoulders. I'm not sure I have 14 more repetitions in me, but I know with a certainty that I have seldom experienced in life, that I do still have the strength to cleave the instructor's head in half with this body bar. He is a dirty liar who is currently making us do an extra set of excercises that I think might be making my arms bleed.

Are my arms bleeding?

Even if they were, I'm certain this mad man would not let me stop.

13...

The instructor, a huge guy who I suspect at one point jumped out of helicopters into the jungles of Central America for some sort of top-secret military training, is mean and I hate him. My ass arts. My neck hurts. Soon sit-ups will start and my stomach will hurt. Both British Boob and Southern Belle Boob are yelping. I--

British Boob: *Ahem*

--sorry, we, are in a sad state.

Southern Belle Boob: Uh...darlin?

Ok. I and British Boob are in a sad state. Southern Belle Boob is flawless as always.

Annoying.

Anyway, this sucks. I hate it. I hate everyone in this room, particularly those who have military training, and those who are obviously actually robots because they are still NOT SWEATING. Also those who have coordinated workout gear, and--

Southern Belle Boob: Oh, honey-lamb, look at that child's bottom! That girl in front of us!

British Boob: She does have a rather firm, uh....yes...well. Right. I concur with Miss Belle Boob's previous statement. Ahem.

Southern Belle Boob: Her bottom is gorgeous! Round as a peach.

--and any women in the room whose butts resemble fruit. Also any boobs in the room that talk.