Beware the Sloth

Part of me feels guilty, and moreover slightly less healthy. Why, because lately I seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time sprawled out on the sofa wrapped in the trappings of the professional couch potato. Despite knowing that my body is degrading as I sit, without the exercise needed to stimulate the milions of cells within. Knowing that continued lethargy will mean I will end up a shuffling fat arsed blob of lazy British maledom, joining the increasing number of people that won't fit comfortably on a toilet seat. With all this in my head I am comforted by one genius piece of genetic information that even Darwin would find hard to dispute. We have evolved as a species two extremely comfortable masses of fat and tissue, namely the backside. Arse, ass, bum, postirior, buttocks, whatever you may call it, unless you are American, the Fanny is not, I repeat NOT what you sit on, otherwise my hitherto secure sexuality would be in dispute. Evolution has decreed that this shall be the part of the body that will be required to support the weight of the vastly increasing bulk of the Western world, and how convenient that it also increases exponentially with the mass it's required to support, how clever. For this reason I feel it my duty to make the most of what God gave me when he decided to use those spare bits of clay he had lying around his workbench.