The Bruce Palma Report

  I have given up trying to lose whatever baby fat I have hanging under my ribcage in a pile of unwanted lard. I’m talking about my pot belly. I’m not sure if it’s as big as a potbellied stove. But it’s big enough. It looks unseemly. It just hangs there. Or rather it just rolls over my belt buckle in a pile of flesh. I’m sorry for being so graphic. But you know what I mean. I’m supposed to do something about it. Eat more steak, less carbs. Less cupcakes at midnight and more celery sticks. I’m supposed to do squats and burn my fat at some ridiculous heart rate achieved only by running on a treadmill in some overcrowded gym open 24 hours (except when they clean the bathrooms with foul smelling bleach). I’m supposed to do all this and more so I can have tight firm abs and look like some underwear model in some catalog just posing for the cameras and collecting their take-home pay which is probably way too much to offer some buffoon with a six-pack (not beer but belly or lack there...