You guys all know that I spend a lot of time sculpting my body. It shouldn’t be news to anyone that I hit the gym at LEAST 4 days a week because keeping a toned body is a great way to distract women from the pinkish skin of my face. When you meet hot chicks on the beach, they’re hoping for that tall, dark, ripped type who glistens and glows from tanning oil. A guy who smells faintly of coconuts and somehow maintains a 2/3rds erection using Jedi mind tricks throughout the day.

Well, I am not that guy. Never have been. I’ve burned off countless layers of skin in the hopes of finding my inner darkness. But with each layer of skin I shed, a new, fresh layer comes forth, pinker than the one before. Here’s a perfect example:

If Ludacris is chocolate milk, I’m strawberry milk. And I’d rather look like coffee milk. Or even regular milk, honestly. Nobody likes a guy who looks like he just came, violently and painfully, all over the inside of his zipper.

But while I’m definitely happy with my body, I’ve always sported an “athletic” build as opposed to a “holy shit, look at the beefcake” build. No matter how much I lift or eat, I’ll never be a monster. My weightlifting numbers in college weren’t that impressive. I weigh 215 pounds so you’d think I’d be able to throw some serious weight around. But when it came time to do our max-out testing, I always fell woefully short of my goals. Part of this was because we always conducted our tests in the off-season. Invariably, I would go out the night before and drink hundreds of beers before making out with tons of chicks, whose names I learned but intentionally forgot as a way of making them feel insignificant. This strategy worked best with girls whose relationships with their fathers were at least confusing, often broken. By toying with this massive source of insecurity, I was able to dictate the terms of our relationship and even the smallest gesture of kindness on their birthday was seen as a massive improvement over their fathers’ forgotten promises. It all came to a head one day when I playfully asked a young lady, “who’s your daddy?” and she burst into tears and said, “I don’t even know anymore!”

The point is, I’ve always wondered if I could join the fabled 1000-pound club if I put my mind to it. And today, I decided to try.

The concept of the club is simple: lift 1000 pounds by combining your 1-rep max of bench press, deadlift, and back squat. For a lot of people, this is easy. For me, it will be tough because my bench sucks. My body has been falling apart lately– I had a big elbow surgery 2 years ago to repair all this shredded cartilage that was flopping around like seaweed, the result of banging around in the paint playing men’s league basketball. Recently, my left shoulder has been bothering me a ton, out of nowhere. I don’t even do pushups anymore because they bother it. So, getting my bench up is going to be the biggest challenge.

My call for advice elicited some interesting responses:

Oh yeah, my gym has chains. They’re right next to the barbell made from a car axel and the plates made from laundry machine parts. For a warmup, try beating King Pookie’s time of 28 seconds for a lap around the yard! Don’t let the Warden catch you mixing your pre-workout shake though… meth is accepted under a “don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t smell” policy since it all comes in through visitor’s buttholes.

Again, farmers and sleds? I’m not training in a gulag. Also, please explain this shit in English. “Add 2 disciplines and do 200 for each lift” is like receiving the upside-down smiley face emoji when you ask a girl to dinner. Confusing!

I mean, I’m never feeling it. That’s the problem. I never feel like putting 405 pounds on the bar because the act of putting 8 separate plates on a bar, and then taking them off again, is enough of a workout right there. I HATE loading and unloading all those plates. That’s why I prefer bodyweight exercises.

Pinch my shoulder blades back, plant my feet, and arch my back? I’m a top, not a bottom. Thanks for nothing, Ginger Prince.

But then, a hero emerged…

BAH GAWD, IS THAT THRILLRIDE’S MUSIC? This guy is, without a doubt, my favorite recurring non-staff Barstool personality. I don’t know how his brain works, but when he dies, I hope he donates it to science. When they crack that thing open, we’ll find a jug of pure NO-XPLODE inside his skull. I can’t WAIT to watch him go berserk at #RNR3.

I’m gonna get to work, but you can bet I’ll be seeking the counsel of our dear friend Thrillride as I work towards this goal. I’m fairly sure I can do this, but I’m also a huge pussy when it comes to weightlifting, so you never know. Updates coming soon!