Todd hovers around the free weights at Healthy Life while flicking through his own Instagram account. It’s been 25 minutes, and Todd hasn’t lifted a single weight.
In the act of staggering shitblokery, Todd has come to the gym dressed as a Rebel Sports catalogue: Under Armour compression shorts and compression t-shirt that is adorned with a Superman logo. The shirt is, of course, a joke, because how can you be Superman if you are already God?
After 45 minutes of slimey leering and smugly showing uninterested gym-goers his Tinder matches, Todd decides to call it a day and hit the showers. He walks into the change rooms and gets a little bit hard when he notices his triceps looking straight shredded.
Like the human dickpic that he is, he pulls out his phone, flexes uncomfortably and snaps a photo of his shirtless rig in the mirror. The camera sound flabbergasts some seedy old bloke who has his old man cock shrivelling in the breeze. “Soz bruh, just a snap for da biaaatches ay”. Ew.
Todd uploads the photo followed by 20 hashtags to Instagram and waits for his followers to roll into the sloppy wet patch of pre-cum on the sheets of narcissism.
One of his follower’s posts instantly, “fuk the haters bae, looking good xxx”. Seeing as she spends her day sucking down skinny tea, it’s kind of amazing that she had the energy to even type a comment.
Todd flexes his chest to every notification sound he receives “chyehhhh bud”, he says out loud while preparing every single meal for the week.
He meticulously positions each of his Tupperware containers on his bench and spends 4 minutes trying to get a ripper photo of the nutritional shrine he has created in homage to the Church of Shredology.
Todd uploads the photo and totally nails the hashtags, “#ChickenBroccoli #CleanEating #8pack”. Someone pass Todd an umbrella because he is about to drown in the moist juices of female adoration. You’re so healthy Todd.
Todd’s mates are having a few beers and a feed at the Windsor Hotel. Todd heads down dressed like a fuckwit – string singlet, skins and a pair of Air Max. He makes sure he takes the long route to the table his mates are sitting at. The world is your runway.
Much like an inconveniently timed boner, Todd pops up just as the lads are taking their first delicious sips of an ice cold pint. Todd lifts up his shirt and gestures at his 8pack, “beer? Gotta think of the bigger picture, lads”. Jesus Todd, it’s a pub session, not an audition for “So You Think You Can Poorcunt”.
Todd sits smugly with a glass of water while tapping his abs to the rhythm of the shiteater.