Friday, Oct. 24, 2003 - 2:19 p.m.

7:35 a.m. As much as I hate going to the gym and working out I freely confess that I love the favorable consequence that is derived from hoisting weighty and cumbersome objects above my head.

7:36 a.m. Staring at myself in the gym mirror while gritting my teeth, grunting and flexing, coaxing every muscle I can muster to respond, in an attempt for my body to perform the series of mandatory poses of a competitive bodybuilder showing off muscularity, definition and proportion, I methodically position my body in a manner to optimally illustrate and reflect each pose. However, what is reflected, staring back at me with the cruelty of a scorned and embitterer lover left bruised battered pregnant and penniless, is my reality of a man striving for not only muscularity but also masculinity with a well-defined midsection consuming most of the bodies proportions.

7:37 a.m. With my Apollo-like delusional self-image shattered leaving me in a horrified state of confusion and anger, unable to take any responsibility for the years and years of damage done by mass consumption of Hostess snack foods, I call for my personal trainer, "Where in the fuck is Mr. World?"

7:38 a.m. Mr. World, oblivious to my overwhelming distress, nonchalantly walks up to me and asks, "Garloo, dude, whassup?" "Isn’t it obvious? Look at me, I’m hideous, I’m disgusting, I’m Rosie O’Donnell!" Even with the IQ of a 20lb barbell he’s still able to sense my pain and says, "Garloo, are you out of your mind? You’re awesome, you’re hot, you’re Chris O’Donnell! You’re nothin’ but twisted steel and sex appeal."

7:43 a.m. After several more minutes of posing I calm down and realize he is sooooo dead on.

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