The wife 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 nosey computer on my wrist,
going to stop me smoking or getting pissed,
unless each time I raise a pint or cigarette to my lips,
it electrocutes me.
My wife wouldn’t listen to my excuses so 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.
I found out Fitbits are daft as they beep excitedly when you get out your chair
saying, “well done your exercising,” but I didn’t care
As I was only going to the kitchen where,
I had stashed a packet of chocolate hob nobs.
Then there was the time my Fitbit said my pulse rate was surprisingly healthy
which might have been because stealthily
I was spying on a woman who was quite seductively,
I got cross with family members bragging about how many steps they took
and I’d say, “I’m 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 pushed a stake through its electronic heart
covered it in salt
And buried it a midnight at a crossroads
went home and ate a chocolate hobnob
Thinking that’s enough exercise for me.