I’m in a bit of a creative rut right now.
Personally, I blame the weather. Who can focus on anything longer than 4 seconds when you’re constantly peeling yourself off of the furniture? I have an anniversary coming up coupled with a week-long trip to Canada, and I can’t for the life of me think of anything entertaining to talk about. Perhaps this vacation is just what I needed.
Don’t get me wrong, sitting around the house is great. However, I’ve been feeling mostly worthless lately. Not only because my creativity has taken a backseat to humidity, but because I’m dropping the ball around the homefront as well. Normally, I’ll get home and clean the house before the Missus shows up. I pay the bills, balance the checkbook and sometimes even make dinner before she arrives from a job that’s much more difficult than mine (she works on the kill floor of a turkey slaughterhouse). I’m happy with the routine, and the Missus is content.
Nowadays, I come home sweaty and ripe. The humidity makes me feel as if I’m walking through broth, and the only thing I want to do is sit down until dinner is ready. The most I do before the Missus arrives is play a little Mario Kart on the GBA, and change from khakis to jeans. Lazy.
I’ll get out of this rut, I always do. The problem is that I still feel worthless. What I need is a little motivation.
What I need… is Tony Little.
If Tony Little can’t motivate you, then you’re already dead, brother. This guy was a two-time national body building champion who almost lost everything in a horrible automobile accident some time ago. Since then, his Ab Isolator along with his Gazelle (pictured) have changed his life and the lives of millions of others (quoted directly from memory, I watched a lot of late-night infomercials in the 90’s). Quite simply, this guy’s going to whip you into shape, or at least scream in your ear until you write him a large check. I was on board.
After some light travel and dining arrangements, Tony was on his way to my house. I was worried that he would be disgusted by what I had become, but I knew that I was doing the right thing for myself. This was going to get me back to top form, and maybe I’d get a cool Gazelle out of the deal. I tried one of those at Dick’s Sporting Goods a few months ago, and I tore my groin so badly that the assistant manager could hear it all the way over by the pool tables.
I was laying on my couch with a bottle of New Glarus Spotted Cow beer, when Tony Little kicked in my door, leaving splinters and scattering cats in his powerful wake. He wrestled the beer from my tight grip and smashed the bottle over his head, shaking the shards out of his beautifully groomed, curly blonde hair.
Then he kicked my ass.
It felt like an hour. Maybe two. Turns out it was only a few seconds, but I swore I was going to die. The last thing I remember was Tony raising his massive “Mr. America” trophy over his head, and then everything went dark.
When I woke up, I was a new man. Tony was gone, and he even cleaned up the house (it was included in the fee). The only proof that he was even there came in the form of an Ab Isolator, sitting on my kitchen table with a red bow on it. I was stunned, and most importantly, I was a man again.
It’s only going to get hotter as the months roll on, but thanks to Tony Little and his beating me to within an inch of my life, I’ll function like it’s October all year round. What can’t that man do?
Read. That’s what Tony Little can’t do. Tony Little can’t read.