By:  Herb McPherson

Mailman's Log #7

Good God in Heaven, I'm huge.

I feel the rolls of cellulite surround me like a mob of Vietnamese whores.  It's really not my fault I'm a great sphere of a man.  Morbid obesity runs in my family.  

Although I enjoy leading the life of a bratwurst on the go, I've decided that I must take action.  That is why I have enrolled as a member of my local gym.  They gave me my own personal trainer and whatnot.  Here's a picture of him:



His name is Gary, but he told me to call him "Butch."  I don't know why.   He doesn't seem that butch to me, yet he insists on wearing bright tank tops.   Anyhoo, Butch said I should work on my arms, so he threw a medicine ball at me when I wasn't looking.  "This'll help you keep your guard up," said he.  He then winked, which was indescribably disturbing.

After making me stare at a wall while he threw several heavy objects at me, he decided I needed a quick "pick-me-up," as it were.  It was a beverage that tasted as if it consisted of gym socks and several missing members of the Harlem Globetrotters.   Since it came from Butch, I wouldn't be surprised if it did.

After attempting to swallow my ghastly potion, Butch looked me square in the eye and said, "Don't you dare look at my groin again!"  It was hard not to look at his groin.  After all, he was wearing banana yellow bicycle shorts. 

He went on to tell me in a loud voice that he was engaged and that he would never cheat on his "sweet Norm."  He then banned me from the gym for life, or until he forgets who I am.

Ah, well.  At least I lost some weight due to fear.