Put down the remote, son

I was a rather corpulent fellow. I enjoyed eating lots. I cried and threw tantrums when my parents would tell me that they wouldn't buy me a second chicken sandwich. I went back for fourths. Entire buckets of ice cream would disappear from my household and somehow end up undearneath my bed.

In short, I was fat.

So, being told that I would have to run a mile in gym class was akin to having someone pull out my fingernails with pliers. Or take my sixth slice of pizza away from me. Hmm...more of the latter than the former. I dreaded the yearly run as much as anything else. Physical exercise was something I hated so much that I went to extremes to prevent participating in any form of it.

Through the years, I became pretty good at faking my way through the mile run. I would complete three out of the four loops without anyone noticing. One year, however, some bastards tried to tell on me and I denied it throughouly. One of my fellow students backed me up: "He would never lie. He's an honest guy." Oh, but I did. And I got away with it.

Boo-yah. Politics could be in my future.

Another year, I became aware that the mile run was going to take place the next day. Being a genius, I sat on my parent's bed watching "Wild & Crazy Kids" and spent the hour beating the crap out of my ankle so I could claim that it was sprained. Smack. Whomp. Plop. Welp. Pizza?

*Sidenote: Have you seen Donnie Jeffcoat- host of "Wild & Crazy Kids"- recently? Look.

*End Sidenote and swoon.

Of course it worked. After an hour of beating, a nasty bruise formed and I simply knew I had gotten away with murder. I limped into gym class the next day, totally selling it and smirking like a total jackass. With every step, I emitted a groan of complete agony. "Oooh." "Ouch." "So much pain for such a little, tubby kid like me." My "pity me" stare was so good that the gym coach handed me a bag of ice.

Much to my chagrin, the gym coach decided it was volleyball day. Needless to say, I was pissed. Beyond belief. The one sport I was semi-good at was volleyball and as I watched the class have a gay old time, I cursed the damn remote control. My plans were foiled and I was left sitting on the side with the kid that picked his zits and ate them. What was I to do?

I immediately opened the bag of ice the gym teacher gave me and began eating its contents.

I was hungry.