Dear (no homo) Ben Kunz, Golden God of Gainz,
In 2010 I was a mere first-year college track star, sparsely covered in muscle, unlearned in the ways of whey, when I turned on my dorm room TV at 5 in the morning. I saw a totally shredded guy, no homo, shaking a dumbbell in motionless anger like it was a baby on an airplane. Forgive me, Mr. Kunz, for my foolish young mind did not yet understand the muscle building power of dynamic inertia to be scientific fact, or believe the promise that I, too, could be so jacked that my torso appears to be constructed from recycled car parts, no homo.
But now I am. Seven years later I am a fully grown man with sinewy biceps, rippling delts and an opulent display case for my Shake Weight, which I must add, unfortunately, is where it spends most of its time. Sure, I may take it out for the rare 3 am rage fest, or just to, you know, hold it for a while. But Mr. Kunz, the gainz I'm accruing as a result of your scientific breakthrough have outstripped my clothing allowance, and just for now, I must not force my muscles to contract as many as 240 times per minute. It's just too much. I will rip the seams of my even my sturdiest D&G shirts. Italian stitching is unforgiving, Mr. Kunz. I am sure you know this.
And sure, you may say, "let them rip!" And you would not be wrong, because I have, on many occasions indeed, let them rip. It's a fucking cool party trick. But I am down to my last dozen shirts, and the bank isn't buying me more until the next fiscal year, which is lame as hell, but I am not going to drop precious Robinhood play money on something I can get for free. And maybe you would say, "take them to a tailor!" But I have been blackballed from every tailor in Midtown due to the beef between me and the Jewish community as a result of some very hilarious things I tweeted while hammered.
Do I regret ever getting this yoked? Hell no. Am I embarrassed that I did it without ever setting foot in a gym? No fucking way, the Shake Weight is way more hardcore than any of that fancy machine shit, and also I am constitutionally incapable of feeling embarrassment.
So, Mr. Kunz, let me conclude by saying thank you, fuck you, and stay swole.
Fear The Bulge
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