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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