I Declare War On The Tyranny Of Sit-Ups


You know, I’ve tried. Crunches, knee-lifts, that stupid bicycle thing my mom always did on the dining room floor. (Maybe she wanted to make it feel used, since we didn’t ever eat in there.) I’ve tried them all. None of them worked.

Push-ups, preacher’s curls, squats? Fine. Love ’em. They offer some results. But sit-ups? Go fuck yourself, sit-ups. You’ve been nothing but a disappointment and a pain in my gut since Mrs. Himmelstein* sang your praises in elementary school. And that goes double for all your ab-defining friends. When things get too bad, I’ll get kiss-assy finding some local Mr. Liposuction in Melbourne. Adieu.

* The Himmelsteins were the only Jewish family in Laurel at the time, and possibly the last Jewish family the town has seen. They lasted about three years. No one burned crosses on their front lawn or anything, but between all the revivals and BBQ, they probably felt a little left out.

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