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Creosote from Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, who finally explodes after eating a thin, after-dinner mint, showering the room with adipose fragments and undigested food. I shudder with revulsion at how I must look to other people these days. I could take comfort in the thought of withdrawing into teaching nuclear age history if I didn't know that attractive teachers get higher student evaluations. nuclear age history Maybe instead of polishing my CV, I should be polishing my abs and bulking up nuclear age history my biceps. I wonder how my colleagues would regard the newly muscular, cut, and vascular me, spouting slogans from Pumping Iron in a faux-Austrian accent: "In the final tenure review there will be no judges, only mute witnesses to my greatness"? In faculty meetings, I could intimidate rivals by alternately flexing my pectorals like Hans and Franz: "Behold my muscles, puny girly man."
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