What are you looking at, buster? You wanna fight? Dear lord, you have no idea what you just got yourself into. My body is a machine that turns paychecks into creatine. When I fly on airplanes, the TSA asks me to take off all my super badass silver skull rings because otherwise, my fists are classified as lethal weapons.
You want to talk about arm strength? We can talk about arm strength. I can take the groceries in one single trip, as long as there isn’t a watermelon or one of those really big jugs of oat milk that my mom likes. They don’t play a fair game. Whenever I’m on the bus, I jump up and slap the acrylic sign with the might of Zeus himself and laugh as the shards spray into the minimum-wage bus driver’s eyes.
I have been toning my quads unceasingly for the past five years. I’ve followed an intense regimen of running away from people I recognize on the street, sprinting blocks at a time. I tell everyone that I drive a Ford F150, and nobody will ever know that I don’t actually have a car. My doctor has told me to stop using whole milk in my protein shakes, but what he doesn’t know is that it motivates me to go full-on-sprint when I inevitably go to the bathroom eight times a day.
What have you done lately? Look at yourself: a mouth-breathing wimp scratching their head as they laugh to themselves about a silly newspaper article. I bet you couldn’t walk to the 7-Eleven for the sixth time today without laboring with every breath. The only kind of “punch” you can throw is the Hawaiian kind, down your swollen gullet. You don’t stand a chance against me.
First, I will leg sweep you with my calves (which are the size of baby hogs). Then, once you’re on the ground, I will start punching and I won’t stop until my antipsychotics kick in. You say you have a black-belt in karate? Let’s see how useful your stupid belt is when your teeth are being turned into baby powder. And, in the end, I will glare at you. You will beg for mercy if your tongue is even still in your mouth — if you’re still breathing, that is.