A Sudden Word on the Gym.
After consulting with my crowned imagination and my all-conquering arguments, I must admit this section fits beautifully into — or dare I say, synchronizes with — my previous thoughts on Sports.
But the world of professional sports concerns only a rare few, while you — the many — are much more familiar with that one specific place: the gym. So let's mentally transport ourselves there.
You're standing there now, thinking:
"I came here to stay in good shape, but honestly? Deep down you know —
you're just trying to slightly enlarge your ego-dick and give it a nice figurative rub".
And who, if not Me, should be the one to encourage this noble pursuit of resembling an ancient Olympic athlete, right?
Well, yes — but first let's talk about some tedious little details. Like the fact that the human body wasn't exactly built for this kind of artificial bulking — the kind that comes not from hunting mammoths, but from fiddling with machines that look like medieval torture devices.
Your muscles don't want to tear and grow. Your joints and tendons aren't thrilled to get shredded (even if they won't say it out loud). So what to do? You won't get hot selfies just by manifesting them into existence!
Step one: see a doctor. Get tested. Hire a coach. Pump yourself up with anabolics. Only then — maybe — go ahead and pump some iron.
In a short while, you'll reach the desired shape. Before it deflates — quick, go schedule that photoshoot, my loyal chufus! Pose in such a way that when you post these pics online or review them later, you get aroused by your own damn reflection.
And if you naively believe you'll always look like that and that you can inject anabolic juice while waiting in line for a next-gen console — well, your organs might not appreciate that initiative. And when the console never arrives, guess what?
You'll be the one queued up for Valhalla.
Since gym owners haven't paid me for native advertising, I'll continue throwing them under the bus. Forget the gym. Better switch to something less taxing on your health — like gymnastics or light stretching.
Not that I care about your future, but sooner or later you'll stop lifting the barbell — and the barbell (aka coffin handles) will be lifting you.
And if by some miracle you borrowed a buffalo's health and outlived your back pain, then congratulations — you've now earned the same bleak fate awaiting professional athletes:
The body decays = the joy of deadlifts and bench presses evaporates.
Well, that's a whole topic in itself. And since this particular outlook might not thrill you (me — I'm eternal), I'll take a little commercial break.
I now hand the mic to my esteemed colleague — Donya Juanita, author of the "Useless Immortality" series, whose work was boldly and shamelessly stolen (applause!) by some clown named C.J. Night.
"Viktoria, actually — I don't applaud. Plagiarists must pay. Toss this case to our legal team, let them prep a lawsuit."
Only this magnificent techno-shamaness can show you how to overcome your inevitable decay and…
"Valeria, Casey just whispered to me that Donya's running late, so let my stand-in on stage keep rambling for a bit. We'll swap him out later."