For one thing, I was sick of jacking up my car to change my oil. Now I just lift the front end of my Ford F-350 a few feet in the air and get 'er done.
Sure, my arms are too big to reach around and remove my wallet from my back pocket, but that's why I wear basketball shorts 24/7. I'm a man on the go, and I need to be ready for hardcore physical exertion at any moment.
Speaking of being a busy guy, I don't have hours to spend at the gym every day—I need to tear apart my muscles as fast as possible and get on with the rest of my life.
Steroids help me recover and rebuild in no time flat. Just a few sets benching 575 pounds, drop the damn bar violently on the floor, and head on home. That way I can run my errands: a $100 bottle of protein powder from GNC, a 30-pack of 'Stones from the gas station, maybe hunt some feral boars if it's light out.
Oh, and pick up my Viagra prescription from Wal-Mart.
Yeah, it was tough convincing my doc to prescribe the Viagra. That's why I dropped his skull down onto my knee and made him watch as I achieved a 60 percent erection and spent an hour jerking off. He seemed disgusted at my shriveled balls and by my manboobs that jiggled while I wanked it, but he got the point.
I can't rely on nature to make my body function. That's what chemicals are for.
To be honest, I'm glad my sexual ability has decreased. Pre-steroids, I was pumping my fake-baked, platinum blonde girlie full of way too much baby batter. Once after I forcibly face-banged her, she vomited a gallon of my pudding.
I threw a towel at her and went out to the living room to watch some UFC.
I'd still be dating her if she hadn't mouthed off, telling me to take the garbage out. Obviously I had to stab her a hundred times, chop up her body, and burn it in the dumpster. The whole time I was murdering her she kept shouting, "This isn't you! This is the steroids!"
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