Body building a beer belly

by Joe Stewart

I drink. A lot. I’m a huge fan of red meat, potato and cheese. I have terrible sleep habits and the extent of my exercise is the walk to my car. I will probably not live a long life.

It’s still better than the alternative. While you’re in a gym watching yourself run in place like a hamster on a wheel, I’m playing skee-ball. While you’re eating salad and chalky nutrition bars, my taste buds are exploding in orgasmic bliss enjoying three full, cholesterol-filled meals a day. While you’re working on your six-pack, I’m working on mine — it’s still cold from the fridge.

I’m in no way suggesting everyone should stop working out. First, gyms stimulate the economy and create jobs. I hear that’s important. Second, I enjoy competitive sports. Now playing, that’s too much work. But watching, definitely. Especially women’s volleyball.

If it’s part of your job, do it. If it’s a hobby you enjoy as much as I enjoy taking body shots and smoking cigarettes in public places, do it.

But if it’s just something you feel a responsibility to do, why do it? For your health and your looks? I can’t see a reason to care about my health. We all have to die; it’s just a matter of when.

“Don’t you want to live long enough to see your grandkids?” Hell, I don’t want to live long enough to see my own kids.

“You’d feel so much better.” Better than what? I didn’t know I felt bad. Why are you so presumptuous to insist I don’t feel as good as you? That’s not nice. I don’t think we should be friends anymore.

And it’s probably safe to assume that every year after 65 is pretty much the same: no more sex, a lot more doctor visits and being patronized and disregarded by anyone more than 10 years younger. Excessive sweating and flavorless meals so I can endure an extra 20 or 30 years of that?

Pass me another beer.

When I am at a place in my life where I have enough time and money to do what I want, then I’ll concern myself with my health. Really, who would want that life to end? And I’ll probably have myself frozen so I can come back to rage some more once they figure out eternal youth.

But as long as I’m just living the rat race, I could be taken out tomorrow and it would be a blessing. Think about it. Mommy and daddy didn’t consult with you before steaming up the windows. You didn’t ask to be here.

But here you are, thrown into a world that generally doesn’t even care you exist, spending most of your time with more questions than answers, surrounded by media persuading you of a need to be better looking, have more money and have more stuff. Then, at some point you will suddenly and unexpectedly cease to exist, most likely in a painful and frightening manner. I’d happily take a refund if I only knew where to go.

And what good are your looks? A sharp mind and a good line of B.S. will take you much further. Richard Nixon is testament to that.

And anyway, I’m a white male. I can already easily access pretty much anything I want in this world. I know that white guilt and political correctness force our society to not address it, but you’re an a-hole if you don’t admit it. You’re also an a-hole if you try to maintain it. But using it to your advantage isn’t being an a-hole; it’s being resourceful.

Good looks are secondary to a good credit score and a well-groomed, non-threatening image.

Let’s get rid of terms such as “healthy lifestyle,” “body building” and “working out” and replace them with more reasonable terms like “active narcissism” and “douche-bagging.”

Food is delicious. Running hurts. Working the mind does not result in sweating. Sweat does not smell good. Bars are comfortable. Weights are heavy.

And anyway, the only reason you give a damn about your looks is because you don’t think you could get laid without them. And you’re probably right. Dull personality, overbearing egotism and “that’s what she said” jokes don’t get you far. I guess if I ever run into that problem I’ll go see what the gym looks like. I’d just have to figure out where it is first.

Joe Stewart is a journalism senior and an avid body builder majoring in fist bumps and faux hawks. Read more rants at thisismejudgingyou.blogspot.com.

—This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.