I was at a bar the other day, and it hit me. I know what I need to do.

I'm going to start working out more. Not just a little bit more, but a lot more. So much so that my arms become the size of Emanuel Lewis. My chest will be just as big, but I won't have abs. No, abs are for suckers. Because you can't get abs when you drink as often as I will.

But arms and drinking are not enough. With Emanuel Lewis-sized muscles, I'll need shorter sleeves. I'll buy shirts with sleeves so short, they will actually go the opposite way of normal sleeves, so that they rise up and cover my neck. No, that won't work – I won't have a neck to cover, because my bulbous shoulders will have out grown it. It won't matter – necks are for suckers.

So I'll instead buy shirts that don't even have sleeves. But not just any sleeveless shirts. Shirts that were designed to look like they once had sleeves, and my arms were just too big for them, and POP! The sleeves exploded, leaving fabric corpses strewn everywhere! But there won't really be fabric corpses strewn everywhere because these shirts will come without sleeves, remember? It's just a trick to make my arms look even bigger. Shhh, don't tell.

And I will take my best sleeveless shirt (which could be any of them because I won't care what it looks like as long as it doesn't have sleeves) and I'll wear it to a bar, even in the winter. Because I'm that tough. Cold won't hurt me! It will just make my nipples stand up on my muscle breasts, which look great in shirts that never had any sleeves, even though they look like they had sleeves. The shirts, not my muscle breasts.

I'll get to the bar, and alternate between ramming people I don't know with my bulbous shoulders and high-fiving acquaintances who act like they're my friend simply because I'm bigger than them. I would shake their hands, but the muscle mass on my shoulder blade will be so dense that it's difficult to do anything other than bench press or high-five. So dense, that I won't be able to touch my arms behind my back. Which will work to my advantage, since it will be hard for the police to handcuff me after I get arrested for constantly ramming people I don't know with my bulbous shoulders. High five!

But I need to make sure I don't forget the entire purpose for my Emanuel Lewis muscles – sex with stupid women. That's right, the whole reason I will work out three hours a day is because growing Webster muscles and wearing a previously-ripped shirt is the easiest way to have sex with stupid girls.

Once I'm that guy, I will no longer have game with smart girls. I will only be able to hit on utter idiots, who are distracted by puppies and shiny things and bare arms. And I'll hit on them by ignoring them when they're looking at me and grabbing their ass when they're not. It's a delicate game. I have to balance ignoring with the exact right amount of grabbass. Everyonce in a while, I will grabass too much and I lose the game, and sulk for the next two minutes before I set my sights and palms on someone else.

I will glare at any other guy that tries to talk to the girl whose ass I'm grabbing, especially if he's her boyfriend. And I will flex my muscles so much that my sleeves would have ripped off, if they hadn't already been removed by the factory. If I actually get introduced to another guy, I will grip his hand as if I was holding onto it to prevent myself from falling off a balcony when I was drunk, which I will have done. But it will take me a while to extend that grip because of my bulbous shoulders.

If the other guy has still not left yet, I may be required to have a conversation with him. This conversation will most likely consist of me saying my name and then grunting to any of his questions. I will be very proud to pronounce my own name correctly, having forgotten everything else I knew in favor of the correct way to do lateral squats. I will also have forgotten how funny the phrase "lateral squats" is.

I will eventually bore the other guy into leaving, at which point I will have sex with the dumb girl. It will be my right as a guy who doesn't wear sleeves. By then, her boyfriend will want to kick my ass, as will all the guys I will have been shouldering all night. But he can't because one of my arms will be bigger than he is, unless he is Emanuel Lewis, in which case he will be the same size. No one in the bar will be able to kick my ass. Well, one person. I will be so muscular, I'd probably be able to kick my own ass.

And if I ever get like that, I sincerely hope that I do.