Bwah-ha-ha! It is I, the Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem. Or, as my peevish personal trainer used to call me, the Nefattious Dr. Wilhelm Slob. Which, I’m not going to pretend that didn’t hurt. I may be an evil genius, but deep down, I’m still human. I’m no stranger to the cunning calorie, the non-amicable amino acid. I have a gut, is what I’m saying.

And I’ve tried to drop the pounds, but they persist like a pesky poltergeist, or a… no, that metaphor will do. I’ve tried all kinds of fad diets, like Android Atkins, where you eat nothing but computer parts. It gave me botulism- robotulism! I even tried that hippy dippy Creeque Alley diet, which assured me that no one would get fat, except Mama Cass. Correction: me and Mama Cass!

You’re probably wondering what prompted this interest in my horrendous health. I really just wanted to be a bully. A real live bully like in those old comic book ads. I had the dream within my grasp one day, when I encountered a 98 pound weakling in the wild, at the beach. It was within my grasp, but slipped through my fingers like sand, which was the whole problem, really. Do you know how difficult it is to kick sand in someone’s face, I don’t care if they’re a 98 pound weakling or not! Sand is not a forgiving medium of torture. I got winded trying to kick it at the 98 pound weakling and he didn’t even get any sand on him! I did, though. I got sand all over me. Sand in places you do not want sand.

So, when the fad diets failed me, I switched to workouts. I hired that previously mentioned peevish personal trainer named Thad, who ran me through the ringer, figuratively speaking. My ringer is still in the shop, so he couldn’t use it literally. But he did push me hard, with pushups, sit-ups, crunches, snaps, crackles, pops, locks, bagels, you name it. But here’s the thing people don’t tell you about working out. It’s hard! I mean, really, really hard! And your muscles get sore and you’re only reminded of how weak you are. I’ll tell you what I hate the most is running. All the fleet footwork and for what? Ragged breathing? No thank you! I seriously don’t know how you poor huddled masses flee from me in terror so often. You must be fit! I did get very good at one aspect of running, though. I am highly skilled in the art of shouting, “On your left!” That was fun, especially because I was usually on the right. Bwah-ha-ha!

So, I retired to my invisible subatomic submarine to sulk about my inability to bully. Then it struck me. This tickle-me taser I’ve been working on, I mean. And I realized I am a bully. I didn’t need brute force to intimidate. I’ve got mad skills- mad science skills! And soon you will taste my wrath, and it will taste like sand. For I have a large robotic leg that will kick sand into the face of any weakling it encounters 98 pounds or lower. Parents, hide your babies, the Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem is in town. Bwah-ha-ha!

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