The missus said, “I think you’re unfit bab,
you’ve started to wheeze like a horse that’s smoked too many fags,
your sweat smells like the meat from a donor kebab,
you know what you need, you need a Fitbit.”
Ok, but tell me how is some plastic on my wrist,
going to stop me smoking or getting pissed,
unless each time I raise a pint or fag to my lips
it electrocutes me.
So to cut a long story short I did briefly wear a Fitbit
even though I didn’t want to be a bit fit,
and I think exercise is well just shit,
as it interrupts my naps.
Fitbits are daft as they beep excitedly when you get out your chair
saying well done your exercising but I don’t care
I was only going to the kitchen where
I believe there’s a packet of chocolate hob nobs.
Then there was the time my Fitbit said my pulse rate was healthy
which might have been because stealthily
I was looking at a woman who was quite seductively
I started to get cross with family members telling me how many steps they took
and say I’m really not interested, here comes my foot
doing the only work out I like, kicking you in the butt
switch that Fitbit off – I did…
…then I hit it with a hammer
then I threw it in the bin
then I pushed the bin into a lake…
that’s enough exercise for this week.