By Angus “Squid” Turpentine

Every morning, I wake up at 9:46 a.m. and sit in bed for four minutes, scroll through Brietbart Sports and drink my leftover OJ from 6 p.m. the night before. On my way downstairs, I always stop by the coal cauldron and grab a few lumps of our nation’s proudest flammable export. By the time I get out the door, I’ve got a sack full o’coal and have already walked over 60 steps, and I’m not looking to mess around.

I sprint the first six blocks, which are at a 13.5 percent incline, and get my heart rate going faster than a pristinely bred ferret on race day. Then, I stop and open my linen drawstring bag to make sure all the coal is still in there. Of course, it always is. As I jog the next seven miles to the YMCA, I rotate between calisthenics like the shuffle, karaoke and more.

There’s no stopping this.

When I finally trot up to the wood dungeon, I make it very well known why I’m there. I’m there to tone core and score some lady sweat. Not literally, obviously. Those days are far behind me. But nay, there be no denyin’ it. The lassies that swing through the sauna, aye, they be the ones with the most sweat to lose. Not that it’s different for guys. Men are equal.

So, to answer your question guy, yeah. I do need to do my sit-ups in the sauna. And if you’ve got a problem, you can tell it to these scorching hot rocks. And I’m not talking about my rock-hard buns. Not yet, at least.

Suck on that, Jonathan. Go back to the steam room, peasant.

Consider yourself inked.