Their original mission, under the aegis of Ronald Arnsbuckle, had been to celebrate bravery and courage wherever found in society. Lawsuits had become so commonplace, it was pretty much impossible to accomplish an act of courage that wasn’t going to be very expensive to defend in court. But medals from a cohort of poorly paid activists wasn’t enough to overcome the stigma and expense of committing bravery prominent enough to attract attention. So the ever-enterprising Ronald took his cue from the latest anti-trend and launched an underground guerilla war against the “inexpressibles,” as he called them. The everyday professionals with their khakhi trousers, blue cotton collars, and utter lack of enthusiasm for emotions.

He began by practicing the most extreme expressions he could in the mirror in his room at the Y. Delight, rage, and amazement were among his repertoire, but he tried to avoid anything too sad. No anguish or disappointment. He found that a combination of shock, amazement, and a hint of fear produced the most satisfying reactions on his face, hastening the aging process until he began to resemble a weathered corpse. Satisfied with his experiments at home, Ronald decided to launch his first campaign. He was going to frighten people into premature old age.

The end. Meera knew every story had a beginning, middle and end. She liked the endings the best, which is why she resolutely refused to see movies made in any language other than English. It wasn’t that she had a problem with subtitles, or dubbing, it’s just that the probability of the film having a happy ending was way lower. Meera’s happiest moments, the ones she thrilled to, anticipated while sitting in class or lying in bed waiting for sleep, were the last moments before the hero grinned, the music swelled, and the credits rolled. Her heart felt like it would burst when the romantic tension after rising for nearly two hours would finally spill over into that all-important kiss. Meera would hiss between her teeth when the boss would finally slap him on the back and give that sly declaration of a long-denied promotion finally being just around the bend. She hummed with pleasure when the little boy threw his arms around his sobbing mother, as the snub-nosed kidnapper was dragged off in cuffs, snarling his displeasure. Nothing made her happier than when justice was done.

But that’s right folks, it’s the 147th annual Living Monument to Flesh Championship Cup, and I am so honored to have been invited to welcome you all and open the games. Dr. Z was kind enough to express his admiration of my remarkably thick forearms and lustrous leg hair, and he asked me to share some words of wisdom with you all.

I am reminded of that remarkable day just one year ago, when I was standing here, at this very podium, thanking my mother and of course, the Almighty for their blessings and their gifts, for giving me this wondrous physical machine into which I have pumped compounds, chemicals, and countless hours of strength and endurance training to become the glorious man I am today. Of course, this isn’t all I ingested, and I would like to share certain details of my daily routine that I hope will benefit all of you aspiring Iron Johns as you too dream of grasping that platinum baby we all love so much, the official trophy of the Living Monument to Flesh Cup!

First of all, with plenty must come denial. Even as we partake in the “all you can meat” buffet, remember that each of these animals, the noble steer, the fierce lion, the strapping bull, each of these creatures died to make us who we are today, and since we are men, we must not eat of the female. Sows, cows, deer, none of these are open to us on our path to fleshdom.

Secondly, it is only the men who are willing to sacrifice who may enter the garden of fleshly delights. During my twelve year training regime, I partook of absolutely no whores after the third trimester of training. And that includes dudes. No whores of any kind or suffer the kind of flesh loss you think can only happen on a vegetarian diet. Knock on wood!

Finally, pain is fear but victory is dear. My old coach Bubb told me this, a whale of a man whose loss six months ago is still as raw as a T-Bone and as tough as a 22-point training circuit. Just keep your eyes on that platinum baby, and you’ll push that pain so far down in your soul, after a while, you won’t even know it’s there.

Stay strong, brothers, stay strong. Let the games begin!