In recent months, I have started running. And when I say running, I mean jogging. And when I say jogging, I mean waddling in a manner almost imperceptibly quicker than walking.
The whole operation is working out OK, except for the minor point that it goes against everything I have ever stood for (being warm and comfy, eating cheese sandwiches, staying very still, etc). I’m not even too self-conscious about it anymore, because although I look a state when I’m done, I genuinely feel quite good. I believe endorphins are involved.
Having said that, I find it a bit much when FAT BUILDERS sit in their van EATING PIES and laughing at me as I go past, which happened this morning. Do they not see the irony of this situation? Apparently not, because they’re too busy blocking up their frontal lobes with processed meat and gravies to use their reasoning or problem solving skills.
For you see, fat builders, after sixteen minutes of joggling I may look as if I am about to explode, but I won’t actually, because that's like, impossible, and afterwards I’ll be in the metabolic position to burn off my pies, leaving my cerebrum shiny and clear. Ha. In your faces, that's SCIENCE.