My brother is egging me on. He actually likes me to suffer. After my recent emails to him, he had the audacity to say this:
email: Keep sending. Hilarious.
Au, contraire dear brother mine.
I had to straighten him out.
Dear Older, Wiser and Great of Stature Brother,
Are you serious? Hilarious? You should try being me and then it would not be so funny. Take a look in the mirror, bro. This ain't no laughing matter. Mock not when you have conquered but I still suffer. I can hardly walk up the stairs and I am starting to feel something that vaguely reminds me of my serious stint of shin splints. I suppose the wise thing to do would be to acquiesce to the truth, 49 ain't 19. I should simply enjoy the middle years and the mid-section, like some of my other relatives. Instead, my pride drives me on, it's compulsive, there is an upcoming announcement from the American Psychological Society that will absolve me of all guilt and then you'll feel for your poor brother. Anyway, as I was saying, I think, I won't listen to truth telling Father Time. His wicked step son, Fountain Youth, spurs me on. I should stay home and have an afternoon toddy. But, no, I'm going to the gym. I will tear something before the day is through. I will laugh at Father Time but he does not take these insults lightly. His wicked stepson reaps a bountiful harvest from his sweet sounding lies. Go to the gym. Pump it up. Feel good. Feel good. Oh, the little twerp. I know he is a wicked little imp but he gets to me. It's really not my fault! I can't help it. It was my upbringing. All that intense discipline that I just can't shake. And now, I'm doomed to a steady BMI and a falling HQ-happiness quotient. Funny? Hardly!
Your diagnosable brother,
Virgil
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