Fat Gut Running

Running up (name) Street, I could feel the French Honey Butter Toast hanging from my stomach. It was a slow start, a very slow start. I had on my little black shorts, the ones with the splits up each leg that, possibly, show more than is required. But, I like joggers who show their undies when they jog, it is sexy.


I really had to drag my sorry arse up the street for a good kilometre before I stopped feeling bloated and heavy and my thick, hairy legs stopped feeling like tree trunks. It took a while before I got into some sort of rhythm. It was the French Honey Butter Toast, I am sure, it wasn’t the pot, I can speak up for the pot. It wasn’t the pot. The damn French! And their crazy diet.