Alright, imagine this:
It’s a crisp 62-degree morning, perfect for some quality pain. Enter the crew: **Darkwing Duck**(respect), swooping in like he’s ready to fight crime, **Einstein**(respect, respect), showing up with theories on why star jumps are the greatest, **Moby**(respect, respect, respect), low-key brooding because that’s just how Moby rolls, and then there’s Jose10K… yhc… the villain, taking all the flak because, apparently, you *asked* for this. Naturally, *hate* is served up hot for you.
Cue the ramp. It’s not just any ramp—this is where sweat meets tears. We’re talking round robin style, because why stick with one exercise when you can juggle a whole bunch? At the top, 10 reps of anything horrible; at the bottom, more 10-rep torture. Between sprints, we’re shuffling sideways like confused crabs, jogging backward like we’re dodging regrets, and throwing in other random moves that only Einstein could scientifically explain.
As if the ramp massacre wasn’t enough, the grand finale is 5 minutes of core at the top. Naturally, everyone has a brilliant suggestion for which core exercise to suffer through next. It’s like a buffet of agony, and of course, everyone gets a turn.
In short: chaos, camaraderie, and a few too many “respects” thrown around—except for me, yhc. I get none.
