Your body’s hot garbage, and I’m going to make it smell worse.

When people count you out, consider whether they know something you don’t.

We’re whipping that butt into shape. Shame about the face, though.

You didn’t wake up to be mediocre. That’s the job of the deadbeat still sleeping in your bed.

Feel good! Look good! Still think dark thoughts anyway!

Your workout doesn’t make you basic. You’re basic because you’re an intellectual cipher.

We’re not here for the trophies. Except, ya know, this Peloton itself, which you very much treat as a trophy, ensuring it’s just visible enough in your Instagram story so your friends know you have one, but not enough to seem out of touch with our economically insecure times.

You’re more than a number on a scale. Your 401k matters too.

Get in good enough shape to not have the worst body during the drunken fourway you're secretly hoping to have with your neighbors.

I only ride with royalty (except whichever racist one worried about Archie’s skin color).

Today’s pain is tomorrow’s strength. Which will be useful for the double homicide you’re planning for the day after that.

We eat regret for breakfast—then a big ass pizza for lunch.

This bike might go nowhere, but you’re used to that, right?

It doesn’t get easier; you just get more cognizant of what you paid for this bike, guilting you into getting fit. Plus you spent all your food money on the bike, so there’s that.

They can knock you down, but they won’t knock you up unless you have abs.

You’re better than your best excuses. But that’s not any real compliment, as you’re truly shitty at excuses.

Your body’s not Uber—strangers are more discerning about whether they’ll ride in your rear.

Go, go, go! You’re going to die no matter what, but pedal anyway!


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