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July 6, 2008

Weighted Lure

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 6, 2008 3:55 PM
Permalink |  Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists  | Digg It

“You’re fat,” Dean Charleston said abrasively.

“I know,” I replied softly. “I’ve been out of the limelight too long… Margo loves me the way I am. So does Perdida.”

“Unfortunately,” Charleston said, “they’re not accurate gauges of what America’s youth wants. There’s a documentary you should see called Bigger, Stronger, Faster. The takeaway from it is that both boys and girls respond to men with ripped abs and bulging biceps. You used to have them. Now you’re a ball of failure and stretchmarks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Diet and exercise.”

“But—”

“I’ll be sending a dietician and a personal trainer by your apartment this afternoon. Be there.”

I nodded solemnly.

“Dismissed.”

I made the shameful walk out of his office, trying not to cry. I went back home and told Margo what Charleston had said.

She sighed. “Well, you could stand to lose a few―not for your image, but for health reasons.”

“But… That means I have to cut out all the Doritos and pop and eat nothing but rice, steamed vegetables, and tuna,” I whined.

“Again… That’s not the world’s worst idea. Maybe you can get some nuts to snack on, as long as you’re working out.”

“What do I look like, a goddamn squirrel?!”

“Girth! We’re all looking out for you.”

“Dean Charleston is not looking out for me,” I snapped. “He wants me to look good so guys will want to fuck me.”

Margo looked baffled. “What?”

“I know. I think he’s confused.”

Margo had an unsettling thought. “What if he’s not?”

I bowed my head in shame. “That explains why he was so intent on having a giant penis on the cover, but he refused to let me put naked chicks in the insert!”

A knock on the door interrupted us. I answered it, and in walked two muscular, oiled men in blue spandex unitards.

“Jesus,” I sighed.

“Hey,” the first one said. “The name’s Geoff. I’m gonna train you, buddy.”

“And I’m Kip,” said the other one. “I’m a licensed dietician.”

“All right,” I groaned. “Have a seat. Tell me what I need to do.”

And that was it. They spent the next two hours going over my new diet and exercise regimen. It’s going to be a fucking disaster. Two hours of cardio a day, brown rice, oatmeal, ungarnished chicken, yogurt… Geoff stood guard while Kip patrolled the house, finding all my secret snack hiding spots and tossing everything into a garbage bag.

Margo and I just sat and watched in silence. I guess I know it’s the right thing, for my health and well-being (for instance, losing weight and putting on muscle will increase testosterone production and decrease estrogen production, meaning I’m more likely to get boners and less likely to start crying when middle-aged closeted record execs insult my looks). Still, I can’t help feeling like the invasion of privacy and disruption of a well-worn―if unhealthy―routine is overstepping the bounds of a record label.