Chad Powers stood in the doctor’s office, wearing a pair of opaque shades on his forehead, tight fitting gym shorts, and a tight fitting tank-top that read “I’d rather be pumpin’” and admiring his glistening, muscular forearms. A few sharps knocks came from the cracked door and in walked a portly, balding man in a starched white coat.
“Hey doc, can we make this quick? I’ve gotta get to another appointment; my biceps are gettin’ pretty sick and I need 50ccs of pure iron, stat,” Chad said, flexing and giving his ham-like upper arms each a quick smooch. He stood up and flexed even more, his veins bulging like fleshy spaghetti and a satisfied grin smeared across his face.
“You… you might want to sit down, Mr. Powers.”
“Whatever, doc. You’re gonna tell me some nerd shit about how I need to cut down on the protein shakes, I’ll say ‘sure thing’, and then I’ll go drink some protein shakes so I can bulk up my perfectly sculpted bod. I’m in,” Chad grunted, flexing so hard that his eyes bulged, “peak physical condition and you pasty science nerds are just jealous, no offense intended.”
“Uhm, none taken. But this isn’t about your exorbitant protein intake, Chad. There is something… wrong.”
“What do you mean, doc?”
“When we were doing your blood work, we found high levels of a certain protein that-”
“High protein levels are good.”
“Not that kind of protein, Mr. Powers. This protein is associated with a disorder called lenta agmen, which is characterized by the-”
“These… these nerd words are scaring me, doc.”
The doctor removed his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. “You have a disease called Tough Butt syndrome.”
“Like, my glutes are like super fuckin’ ripped or-?”
“No, it means that you will soon experience a hardening of your gluteal muscles, hence the name. We are not aware of any cures at the moment, although there are some experimental therapies that have-”
“I… wow, this is a lot to take in.” Chad fell back onto the examination table and stared up at the ceiling tiles.
“This may seem like a bunch of medical jargon, but, in plain English, the implications of this diagnosis-”
“I know, doc. I studies to be a physical therapist for over three months. It means…” Chad breathed in deeply and let out a harsh sign, “it means that I’ll never be able to work my glutes again. I’ll be forever cursed to a life of having perfectly sculpted abs, pecs, and lats, only to have the ass of some unfit freak.”
The doctor looked on, dumbstruck. “It… it means you won’t be able to poop, Chad. Your sphincter will grow tighter and tighter and the fecal matter will build up until the point when the pressure is too great… and you’ll explode. Now, while there may be no cure for your condition, that doesn’t mean that this is terminal. We could perform a procedure similar to a colonoscopy in order to bypass the normal waste excretion process, bypassing the explosion and allowing you to live a relatively normal life.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. I don’t want this procedure. I may be able to live a ‘normal life’, but that’s not the life I want to live. You say that my choices are to live a normal life, but with a flat, bony, unmuscular ass or to die an adonis, a perfect man whose body is a toned work of art chiseled from marble by the gods’ finest craftsmen. If you call that a choice then, well, I will choose death.”
Chad leapt to his feet and opened the door to the examination room.
“Mr. Powers, wait! It doesn’t have to end like this!”
“I’m going to go do a couple thousand crunches.” Chad flicked his shades down over his eyes. “See you at the gym, dweeb.”
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