“Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there, mostly because I’m facing the opposite direction, but I couldn’t help but assume you were admiring my overall backyard area: calves, hammies, and of course my ‘tocks, wrapped in the finest denim that Creepy Ernie helped me into almost a dozen times when I bought them.
“My name’s Bob Weir. Yes, that Bob Weir, but today I’m not speaking to you as co-author of the popular children’s book Panther Dream, but as a licensed gym-attender and shorts-wearer. Let me help you get the short shorts body you’ve always wanted.
“Science: short shorts are freedom. Fact: short shorts are the best. Truth: everyone wants to wear short shorts. Why don’t they? Fear.
“Fear is the short shorts-killer.
“Let that fear wash over you, though, and when it’s gone: Bobby will be there. And, I’ll have kettleballs or those stupid ropes dummies are always hucking up and down or maybe we’ll go for a swim or bike ride like civilized people. Neither of us will know what exercise we’re doing, or what equipment will be necessary for it, or even when and where to meet until we’re already sweating.
“I call it Bobbercise.
“We will hit the gym and life weights; we will hit the gymnasium and swing clubs around while wearing grey sweatsuits; we will hit the gymnasia and oil ourselves thoroughly and engage in pankration.
“Then we shall eat, and take pictures of our food, and weigh our food, and take pictures of the food on the scale; not in that order.”
“Dammit, Weir: could you concentrate on the damn song, please?”
“HE DOES IT, TOO!”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, MICKEY!”
“COME BACK HERE AND MAKE ME!”