Failure
There was a time, many years back, when I hit upon a genius plan.

Women like buff men, visists to the gym would make me buff, a buff monkeyboy will need a shitty stick to beat the ladies off.

With such logic how could I fail to be knee deep in promiscuous young ladies. And surely I could transform my body in a month or two, can't really take more than that.

So off I pootled, down to the local gym.

Now, I wasn't exactly unused to physical activity, I worked in a brewery lugging barrels around, but fitness, pah! I couldn't run for a minute without wheezing like a asthmatic rape victim. After 45 imnutes of strenuous-ish activity, I decided enough was enough and it was time to leave.

Now, not only had I done the buff=women sum, but also the virtuous activity in the gym = I'm allowed to be a little naughty equation. So, as soon as I leave the leisure centre I spark up my congratulatory spliff, pre-rolled in preperation.

Now, it's a half hour walk home, and I couldn't be arsed with that after my *ahem* marathon gym session, so I decide to go to the pub and order a taxi. A couple of hours later, six pints down and feeling it after my gym burnout, the taxi arrives and I'm on my way home.

This cycle continues for a couple of months, I'm not noticably buff, and I don't seem to be any fitter, so, like I do when anything fails to go my way, I quit.

Moral of the story. Sod it, just go down the pub.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 10:23, 1 reply)

Hahaha
Good work soldier, you should be proud of the effort at the very least!
(aroe_m0rre, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:47, closed)