Tapout

So I was at the gym yesterday (yea, I'm really good looking + I like to work out my snakes (arms) = women love me) and much like every other place that isn't a gym, I saw about a billion guys there wearing fight shirts. Those guys are so badass. I didn't actually even get to see what the guys looked like. The first thing I saw were there shirts, and, instantly intimidated as I was, averted mine eyes so as to avoid provoking them. Yea ladies, I can bench press about four hundred twenty pounds (weed) but I still don't like to fight. But anyway, I got to thinking, and I determined these urban warriors obviously need people to know they are tough. These guys must operate on some sort of points system where you advance through the proverbial organization the more people you make think can be beaten up by you. I can only imagine that the person with the least amount of points at the end of the day/week/month/year/fiscal year etc. et al. is ceremoniously murdered by William O'Leary. Anyway, being the lover of peace that I am, I don't want anybody being killed. So here was the wife altering decision I made. From now on when I see somebody wearing a fight shirt, I'm simply going to walk up to them, introduce myself, and then punch myself in the penis and balls. Thus will I complete the selfless sacrifice of my statuesque body, offering my measly Hulu-credit of punching to those stronger than me.