I Don't Have to Justify This Shredded Wonderland to You

Dear Danny,

another year, another tantrum from a real bad baby called Danny. Don't like what you see? I can't blame you. Your tender little tot arms are like pork legs compared to these Schwerer Gustavs I'm rolling out 24/7 and looking great doing it. Do you know what a tabard is, Danny? Of course not, because only bronzed barbarians in their physiosexual prime can wear a shirt that doesn't even have sides. It doesn't have sides, Danny, do you know why?

Because a shirt can't handle me anymore. I'm evolving. Cenegenics is involving me into a posthuman powergrandpa. I'm better than I've ever been. My balls have shrunk to the size of goldfish eyes but I just hammer harder, do you know what I mean, Danny? Of course not. Of course not.

You want a Hammersmith Viking God body you got to do three things. I will give you those things. Put the candy down. Put away the Nintendos.

First one is easy. Get old.

Number two, crazy upper body routine. I'm talking side scoots, ninety kilo kettlebells on full rotations, triple rep double sets, wagon tongues with and without the extensions, full glute roll ups and then do it all over and with the gym heat up to like 500 degrees. And if you don't got a gym, Danny, if there's no gym in that wasteland of fatty little lardos, then you just pop a hunk of concrete and rebar out of the wall and go to town.

Step three. Phase out all food and fluid and replace with cenegenics. It's all you need. Trust me. Your piss will turn black and your blood will turn like this Barney Dinosaur color. It's perfectly natural. This is caveman diet, minus all the meat and protein and plus whey and cenegenics.

I'm almost there, Danny. One more month and I will break through this.

See you on the other side.

Love,

Grandpa Paul.