WELL THIS IS IT. The last day of being a fat guy. I'm drinking some red wine and enjoying some delicious potato chips and cookies. The potato chips, given the impending potato onslaught, probably are not the best choice.
But off we go. Â
Why, you might ask? Why do this to yourself Otis? Is it because your 5 year old daughter was looking at you at the town pool the other day and inquisitively commented that "daddy has boobies too?" ("That's muscle, angel.") No, no. It's not that. This has been in the works for a while. But I've milked it. Like my milky boobs. And now I'm charging towards the part where people starting googling to find out how Otis got those rock hard abs. Because it's simply time. Because I'm tired of groaning every time I get up off the couch. Tired of being out of breath when I get into bed each night from the walk up the stairs. Tired of not feeling like the handsome young beast of a man I once was. It is simply time, folks. Because it's either this, or forever be the guy with a belly in a button down and khaki pants and a receding hairline slowly marching into the sludge that is middle-aged American dad.
No. I will not go quietly into the night.
SPUD-ON, BESHES.Â