I checked out the DVD at the library, brought it home, and shoved my coffee table aside. I was ready to see what Kim could do for my butt. In just minutes a day.
I didn’t think I’d get to Kardashian level, where my butt would grace the covers of magazines. But it was entirely possible that when shooting a magazine cover in a crowded area, a photographer wouldn’t yell at me, “Hey, out of the shot, smallbutt.”
I have realistic fitness goals. Such as not having a stranger call me smallbutt. That seems reachable.
Oy. Maybe we should get to know each other just a bit before I talk this much about my butt. And Kim Kardashian’s breasts. And how these two (three? Four?) things are related.
I’m Pete. I like to exercise, visit the gymnasium or go for a jog. But I’m not so much into workout DVDs. Buns of Steel isn’t my thing. Neither is Tae Bo. Sweatin’ To The Oldies should be nobody’s thing, really. Richard Simmons is simultaneously balding and has an afro, and the guy dresses like a Harlem Globetrotter. Pass.
Newer workout DVDs are just as bad, but in a different way. Every workout sounds like the subtitle to a Saw movie. The Asylum? Insanity? I’m still not entirely sure whether The Purge is a horror movie or a cleansing workout DVD.
And who the fuck are these fitness people, anyway? Denise Austin has her name plastered all over this stuff. Who the hell is Denise Austin? No one says, “Wow, look at your arms! You’re a regular Denise Austin!” Who the hell is Billy Blanks, outside of being the Tae Bo guy? Who in the flaming hell is Tony Little?
I know it’s a little early for a tangent, but on Tony Little’s Wikipedia page, it says the guy has an interest in “obscure species of livestock.” I don’t know what that means, but it’s confirmed my thinking that these fitness celebrity people are not worth listening to.
Which brings us to Kim Kardashian.
If I don’t trust Tony Little or Denise Austin, then why Kim Kardashian?
It’s simple, really.
I’m going to admit something here. I could hide behind the beauty of internet secrecy, but I’ll tell you. I’ll lay my cards on the table. Lay my CHEEKS on the table. As in butt cheeks. As in I’m going to talk about my butt directly now. I don’t think I can peel back any more layers of this verbal onion. It only had about two layers to begin with, so I’ll just tell you I’m about to write words that relate directly to my butt.
My butt is small. I have a man’s butt. A typical man’s butt. Kinda flat, kinda narrow. Poorly jean-ed.
It doesn’t bother me, my small butt status. Not really. It’s not something I think about. But if you put a gun to my head and asked me if I’d rather have the same butt or a slightly jucier version, I’d go juicy. Then I’d be confused why you felt like you needed to put a gun to my head for that trivial information. You could have just asked.
Some part of me, deep down, wants to take my existing trunk and fill it with junk. Now, I don’t know much about fitness celebrities, and I don’t know much about Kim Kardashian. However, the one thing I do know about Kim Kardashian? Butt.
I don’t want to sound like a complete sexist asshole here. To reduce someone to a single body part. I’m aware that Kim Kardashian has other things going on. She has sisters. She dates Kanye West. She has a mobile game that has caused some concerning stills to pop up in my Twitter feed.
My goal in checking out this DVD wasn’t to sexualize or fetishize Kim Kardashian’s butt. My purpose was to sculpt my butt into a shadow of what hers has become, which is the world’s most iconic butt.
If I wanted to paint a decent painting, wouldn’t it make sense to study under a great painter? If I wanted to be a party dude, would I study under the ninja turtle Donatello? No! I’d study under Michelangelo, who is known for his party dude status.
If I want to sculpt a butt, doesn’t it make sense to turn to Kim Kardashian, the person with, arguably, the most famous butt?
Is it so much to ask? As a man in my 30’s, is it so much to ask for someone to fetishize my butt?
Continue to the next page to find out if a dream butt was sculpted.
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