I slept in. Now I’m paying the price. I haven’t even brushed my goddamn teeth—the only way I could make it to boot camp fitness was to throw on some clothes and drive like a bat out of hell.
“BOX JUMPS!” our instructor yells.
As I hop up and down on my thirty-inch crate, I suddenly realize I’ve made a grave mistake:
I’m wearing gray sweat pants.
People leer at my jouncing and bouncing, award-winning peen with envy, lust, or an avaricious combination of both. I stop exercising, but it’s far too late.
“IT’S PERFECT!” a soccer mom screams. “GIRTH, UPCURVE…I’M BETTING IT’S ALSO GOT A HEALTHY DOSE OF MELANIN, WHICH WOULD PREVENT IT FROM LOOKING LIKE A GROSS-ASS MOLE-RAT!’
Vajeens and wieners expel gallons of fluids, mingled with spurts of horned-up saliva. In the blink of an eye, I’m swept out of the studio and onto the street, screaming my ass off with dozens of other bystanders who are now caught up in the torrential flood.
One of them manages, “Damn you, Kent! DAMN YOU AND YOUR WIENER-HIGHLIGHTING GRAY SWEATPANTS!!!” He tries to keep yelling, but it’s lost in a mess of glub-glub-glubs.
Fuck. FUCK. All I wanted was to start my day with a challenging workout. Now I’m gonna drown in a river of sex-juices.
No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The WHUP-WHUP-WHUP of a nearby chopper cuts through the air. I sputter and gasp, narrowly avoiding a floating Prius and an uprooted stop sign, then spot Giada De Laurentiis leaning out from the helicopter, staring down at me as the skids draw abreast.
“I said godDAMN!” she bellows. “Look at that beautiful he-slut fuckpig!”
“Stay back!” I gasp. “My wiener wreaks havoc on untrained minds!”
“I’ve shielded my psyche with a year of meditation, just so I could enjoy your girthy upcurve!” she assures. “Also, I’m hooked up to a backpack IV so I won’t get dehydrated!” She leans down from the helo and extends a hand. “Come with me if you want to smash!”
I grab hold of her arm, grinning like the cat that got the motherfucking cream. This is WAY better than some lame-ass box jumps! Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
Have you unthinkingly rushed into a group exercise class, wearing a pair of sweatpants that highlight your unbelievably gorgeous, hydration-depleting genitals? Never fear! Buy my books and summon a Food Network hottie that will put your junk to good fucking use!
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