All I'd need is a sauna and I could definitely make weight. I'm obviously crazy enough. The only thing is, I'd rather clip my toenails than ride Poppy's Little Candy Legs in the Preakness. So there's still a hurdle, there, I guess. I guess you're supposed to be a little more motivated or something. Also, I can't read Seabiscuit. If that's a requirement, forget it. And then there's the fact that I'll stab myself in the eye with a shish-kebob skewer before I do competetive weightloss again. That, as well, would constitute a stumbling block.
I weighed in a few hours ago and found that I have achieved the mass of a stunted high school girl. Of course, now I've had six tongue tacos (sans shells) and a pint of guacamole (sans chips), so now I have the mass of a bloated stunted high school girl, and man, does it feel good!
My co-workers are busy stinking the place up with microwave popcorn and various frozen Stouffers preparations. If I had to be them, I'd read Seabiscuit and develop an interest in the fortunes of Poppy's Little Candy Legs, just so as not to have to eat anymore.
Eight and a half pounds in 10 days. All thanks to horseracing. If Slick beats that, then I will be sanguine and shake his hand: he's a champion cheater.