Just Don't Drop It
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Brain: General, we've got an emergency. Arms and Chest are reporting massive strain and burning.
General: What is it this time? Control's not back on his bike again, is he?
Brain: Not unless he's adopted a new riding technique.
General: Check that attitude, soldier, or I'll have you doing Mad-Libs for a month.
Brain: Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I mean, this is a new sensation.
General: Control isn't having heart trouble, is he?
Brain: Heart reports all clear, General.
General: See if you can raise Arms.
Arms: Arms here, General. We're doing a lot of pushing and straining, but it doesn't seem to end.
General: Are you doing push-ups?
Arms: Not sure, sir. We're not pushing Control's total weight, but it's still pretty heavy.
Brain: Sir, Eyes are reporting a type of bar that's moving toward and away from them.
General: Oh, good God, don't tell me. . .
Brain: Yes, sir, I think Control is lifting weights. He's doing the bench press right now.
General: I knew it! That idiot! Who does he think he is, Arnold Schwarzenegger?
Brain: No, he thinks he's 23.
General: We always seem to have these problems when Control wants to relive his younger days. What started it this time?
Brain: Searching memory banks. . . Ah, here we go. It seems that Mrs. Control got a seven day pass at the local YMCA, and Control and his family went for a visit to try out the facilities.
General: Let me guess, Control used to lift weights?
Brain: Extensively, General. He did it nearly every day for a year.
General: And so he saw all the weights at the Y, and thought he'd pick up where he left off?
Brain: Not exactly, sir. He, uhh. . .
General: What is it, soldier? Spit it out.
Brain: Preliminary intelligence says he saw some younger guys lifting, and didn't want to look weak.
General: I swear, I hate my job sometimes. You know, if I thought it would make any difference, I would order Lower Intestine to perform an emergency gas release just to get Control to slow down.
Brain: I don't think it will work, sir. Control might--
Arms: General, what's going on? We're under attack in a new zone.
General: Put a map of the affected area on screen.
Brain: It's the biceps, sir. Control is doing bicep curls now.
Arms: Can't maintain. . . this level. . . of output.
General: Prepare to stand down, Arms.
Ego: Hey, what's going on here? We can't stop now!
General: Ego! I knew you were behind this.
Ego: Who else, big cheese? I'm the reason this big hunk of man does anything healthy.
General: I knew we made a mistake allowing a hippie into the command structure.
Ego: Yeah, yeah. It is what it is. Now why are you allowing Control to slow down.
General: We're not slowing down, we're stopping.
Ego: You can't do that. The other boys are watching.
General: I don't care if the Queen herself is watching. Control can't keep this up.
Ego: Too late, dude. I've already installed a new program into Control's main data banks. That boy is on a mission to get pumped.
Arms: General, if you don't do something, we're going to cramp up. We won't be able to work on the computer for the next two days.
General: Get ahold of yourself, Arms.
Ego: Good one, general.
General: Shut up, you. Brain, see if we can get Control to try something new.
Brain: Switching to triceps. . . now.
Arms: What are you doing? We can't hit both areas.
Brain: Relax, Arms. You used to do it all the time, remember?
Arms: It's been so long. We don't know how long we can keep this up.
Ego: You'll keep going until those other boys respect you, soldier!
General: Ego, you do not order my men around, do you understand me?!
Ego (whispers): General, I didn't want to say this in front of the other men. But it's actually Mrs. Control and their oldest daughter who are behind this. They didn't think Control could handle something this heavy, ever since he turned 40. But we need to show them that he's still as rough and tough as he was 10 years ago.
General: Mrs. Control, you say? Hmm. . . all right, Arms, you heard the man! Grunt it out until I give the order to drop those weights. Now get lifting. We've got some iron to pump!
Stomach: Request permission to hurl, sir.
General: Permission denied. Don't get too comfortable, Stomach, because you're next. Now suck yourself in and look sharp.