Ironically, I spotted the ad in the back of a Hulk comic book. Not that anyone had kicked sand in my face or stolen my girl—mainly because there was no girl—but the tough guy, the bully, well now, he really sprouted a boing in my shorts. Charles Atlas had it all wrong, you see; it was that muscle-drenched asshole that was the hot one, the one I wanted to f**k silly, not that pissed off dude with the fickle girlfriend.
Still, I was that proverbial 97-pound weakling, give or take a few ounces, and if I ever wanted to land the beefcake, I’d have to do something about it. And quickly. In other words, I sent away for Mister Atlas’s program.
Well, that and I ate right and exercised, sucked down hundreds of raw eggs for protein, whey shakes for lunch, jogged, and lifted, pushed up, sat up, and
