The other day in Earlton's* Klass, I observed my rival, Slick, minutely to determine what occult powers have enabled him to reach 1st place (for now) in this competition. I discovered that at all times, whether at work or at rest, be he standing, sitting, or lying on the floor groaning and not doing his core strengthening moves, Slick sluices great cataracts of sweat from his every pore.
So! I have discovered your secret weapon, Mr. Slick!
All I have to do is spend the last week of the competition up to my neck in a sealed, heated barrel sucking ice chips and spitting out the meltwater. I'll get plenty of cardio batting away the flying toads and other hallucinations I'll start to have once my brain begins to shrivel in my skull like an oyster left ajar in the noonday sun. Hell, jockeys and Ana kidz do this type of thing all the time. Piece. Of. Cake.
Speaking of cake, after I win I am spending my $750 on cake.
*Not his real name.