Can't be arsed

You know, dear readers, there is something that has been bothering me for quite a while now.

You see, after I emerged from the tumultuous, hormonal, depressive awkwardness of puberty, I became something of a butterfly.

My sculpted figure seemingly chiseled from white marble by Michelangelo himself, a face that lends an air of nobility wearing a look of scorn of having to be around inferiors. Luxurious, flowing hair, iridescent in the sun.

That however is not my problem, my most certainly by now moist readers, my problem is this.
In light of my overwhelming good looks, people find it somehow appropriate to ask me questions like, “How did you get such wondrous looking bum?”

While it is easy to make the mistake that I was simply born with it that is not the case.

In fact I work hard for my arse, some might say I run my arse off, but I have to correct these people as my arse is still firmly attached to my delicious body, even though I do run a lot.

Yes, its true, the secret to my magnificent arse is running. Now many pompous smart-arses might point out that just running would not in fact yield such an arse that might be so beautiful as to be invited to be displayed at the national museum (mine was displayed july4 2006 – july15 2006), but that’s because they don’t clench.

Now many of you might be thinking that you would want to own an arse as delectable as mine, but before you do I would give you one tip on running.

It is extremely advantageous to run behind an attractive female, especially if she herself has a nice bum. In addition to motivating yourself to achieve a rump like her’s, the hypnotic, rhythmic swaying of her gorgeous trunk would help distract you from the exhaustion, it might also help to listen to “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot.