Why I don't gym.

The one and only time I ventured into the seventh circle of hell that is my local gym, I was confronted with a stupidity I did not think humanly possible. I finally have conclusive proof that some horny yob screwed an ape somewhere on the evolutionary ladder.

So I finally haul my sorry ass to gym, to get signed up and hopefully beach-ready in less than six weeks. At Planet of the Apes gym I proceed to fill in 8 million forms and spit on a stick for a DNA sample. But I digress. The folks also want some identification, so I hand over my driver's licence. Now my licence has a big red Organ Donor sticker on it, which prompts the master of observation sitting opposite me to remark 'so you're an organ donor?'. I reply a terse yes and continue to lie on the forms (I don’t smoke and exercise 7 times a week, incidentally. Was not in the mood for a brain-damaged gym bunny to give me shit). Then he asks - and I kid you not, this is the godhonest truth - 'so what organs have you donated?'

Am trembling just typing that.

I look up and ask a shaky 'whaahaahaat?' and he actually repeats the question. To which I reply, very slowly, that You. Can. Only. Donate. Your. Vital. Organs. Once. You. Are. Dead. One would think that would conclude the conversation, but no. Dr. Darwin here then asks 'how will they know?'

How will they know I’m dead? Because I’ll have this pen I’m currently holding, jutted into my eye.