So let’s talk about my butt. It’s not like we aren’t all doing so already; I’m just the only one with the guts to call attention to it. First off, let’s get one thing straight: I love my ass. However, over the course of the year, I have noticed my buns of steel have slowly transformed themselves into buns of aluminum. Soft, fat aluminum. I call this phenomenon “thesis butt.” Hours of doing sedentary thesis research have left their mark on my rump. I have no problem with this. In fact, I’m rather amused by my new ass. However, when discussing thesis butt with my friends I am often asked, “Well, why don’t you work out?”
To which I reply, in a calm and well-mannered fashion, “I HATE WORKING OUT!!! FUCK OFF!!! ARGGGHHH!!!!” And then attempt to run off, only to trip on my huge posterior.
Quite honestly, I don’t understand the whole “working out” or “being healthy” thing. I mean, if I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t be in college right now, would I? These are supposed to be the best years of our otherwise meaningless lives. Why waste them spending hours a day exercising? Some people might say “because it makes me feel better.” To which I have to say, “Shut up. You’re wrong.”
I mean, let’s look at those people who go running. For fun. As a hobby. What could possibly explain this? Are they trying to get somewhere? Walk. Where’s the fire? What’s the hurry? Buy a car. [Editor’s Note: We do not endorse buying a car as an effective form of fire prevention. Or running or driving towards a fire. If you know of an accidental fire, please call 911. If you are unable to get away, stop, drop and roll.] Maybe runners are running from something. From what? A fire? This would make more sense. Some sort of predator? That’s the only reason I can think of. Unless a cannibal or land-shark (that is, a shark that has evolved to grow legs and breathe oxygen, á la 1970s Saturday Night Live) is chasing me, I see no reason for this whole running business. And as long as I stay in my thesis cell, I’m safe.
I tried to run once. After five minutes, I had injured three people, caused one minor traffic accident, violated the trade laws of four countries, killed a squirrel, and sent a child into therapy. In addition, a poor sports bra caused my breasts to slap me in the face, rendering me unconscious and ending my run. I fell flat on my butt, which made me appreciate the extra thesis-borne padding all the more. So running is not only pointless, but incredibly dangerous as well. There is no need to run when one could walk, skip, or do a jig. Jigs are fun, safe, and reflect a disappearing part of the Irish cultural heritage. And I may not be Irish, but they don’t run, and I respect that. But other than jigs, let’s cut out this whole “working out” business, shall we? Because, darn it, we’re in college. We are invincible. We don’t need to aimlessly run around in circles to feel better. That’s what drugs and alcohol are for.
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