It was a boring workout.
I did three pull-ups from a dead hang.
That’s the ones with palms forward.
I used to do three sets of six when I weighed 250, now I weigh 199 and I can only do three. Not three sets… three.
Since sometime back in 2011, I kept track of all my free-weight workouts. This workout today was workout number 600.
I had invited the entire Writer’s Workshop to my private gym.
I had a surprise for everyone.
“Working out with you sucks, Botendaddy. You’ve got no goals. You’re weak. I want to make love to you now!” Said the Swole’ Bro’.
“Bro’, people might begin to think that you’re gay if you keep talking like that.” The CEO said to Swole Bro’.
“No he’s totally straight…” said the Park Ranger, Guyasuta and Ramon all in unison, rolling their eyes.
“Who cares, he’s high BMI! So what if he’s 8% bodyfat, he’s a shit-covered Lardvaark Land-Walrus. His hips will break and he’ll need a scootypuff! FLAIR UP FATTY!” Shrieked the Voat Fat People Hate Shitlady.
“Moron.” Muttered the Professor.
We all got on the private Charter party bus. It was catered by ‘Extreme Thai’ along with an open bar.
The Boten-Daughter checked everyone’s passport.
“Where may I ask are we going?” Asked the Caribbean Queen.
“That’s why they call it a secret, dear.” Replied the Boten-Daughter.
It was a long bus ride, but everyone was tanked on the free booze. The CEO was plastered and she passed out on one of the hammocks with Devon asleep on top of her.
“I guess they passed out before they could do it.” Said the Weird Foreign Doctor Chick.
“Awesome.” Said the Punker Model Writer Chick.
We went down a lightly paved road into a dense pine forest. There was a secret gate manned by a uniformed guard, he was dressed in mysterious fatigues with a corporate logo ball-cap. His shoulder patch had the UTONIC™ Corporation label.
The bus stopped at a small, but exquisite private terminal at a secret private ‘corporate’ airfield.
There was a Gulf-Stream 600 18-seater, completely stoked on the runway. We sat in the terminal as the Boten-Daughter handled the flight manifest and UTONIC Guards loaded the luggage.
“This is Awesome!” Said the Librarian.
“Is that your jet? Because no-one cares if you have a jet.” Asked the No-one Cares Lady
“DOWNVOTE, DOWNVOTE, DOWNVOTE!”
Shrilled the Angry Online SJW Guy, flailing his arms, red in the face, like a spoiled mentally deranged little girl.
“Look at me! Look at me! I’m so Ivy League! Botendaddy sucks! What about that can you people not understand? Got any more hors d’oeuvres?” Continued the AOSJWG, albeit no one was listening.
We lined up and got on the jet.
The Librarian whispered to me: “Take off that succulent adult diaper and let’s join the mile high club, you filthy pervert!”
Once everyone was seated, we were cleared for take-off. Igor ‘Alexei’ Bhutfukhov, last servant of the great house UTONIC was the pilot. The Botendaddy-Daughter acted as Stewardess, (Not a genital-less Barbie doll ‘flight attendant’) replete with a UTONIC Industries, Inc. uniform.
We took off steeply into the mysterious, rainy, dark clouds. In a short time we were just above the storm.
“On the wings of love! On the Wings of Love by Jeffrey Osborne. Only the two of us together flying high!” (© Jeffrey Osborne) Screamed the Librarian as I f*&ked her behind the curtain.
There, I said it, I f*&ked, her, in every depraved slimy way imaginable in every orifice so sue me! I literally filled her with hideous spermatazoans. I looked up after a fashion and I saw the entire Writer’s Workshop holding the curtain back watching me F*&k the Librarian senseless.
“Awesome work dude!” Said the Swole Bro’
Devon was frantically taking notes in a little green leather notebook.
“I didn’t think that position was possible. I’m next anyway.” Added the Stalker
TO BE CONTINUED
Peace be the Botendaddy