It was a normal weekday for me. I woke up and had my glass of sulfuric acid and rusty nails... ..without any milk. As expected, I got tetanus. Of course, it didn't stay around for long because I intimidated it away with my sheer masculinity. My wimpy wife was back at it again, nagging at me about how much space my muscles took up. I left the house in my 10-inch-raise 42 inch tire Ford F550 Harley Davidson Edition. After driving over several cars, and giving the beta males the drunken road rage, I arrived at the gym. When I walk in, everyone bows to me. I use the 2nd and 3rd toughest guys as my bench press weights. About 800 pounds of pure muscle. After intimidating the mayor, I got my private police escort to my job at the supplement store. When I arrive, my job is furious that I'm an hour late. I sneeze and he faints. The store doesn't get many repeat customers with me calling everyone that walks in a ♥♥♥♥♥ and all. I think they're just jealous of me. After my private dinner with the president in the Salty Spitoon, toughest place around, I trot on over to the city's military base to borrow one of their jets to fly home in. When I get home, my wife is asleep. After watching UFC and laughing at the little girls who are fighting, I decide it's time to hit the sack. I walk in my room, grab my wife, and throw her off the bed. As she hits the wall at lightning speed, I hear a loud thud sound, and to my surprise, she doesn't wake up. Okay, so maybe she died. But that's why I have backup wives in backup houses. "That's just the price of being married to the man," I think to myself. As I doze off, Zeus himself invades my dream at the Playboy Mansion, and for the 5th night in a row, I knock him out cold in one punch. "Puny god," I mutter. The next morning I wake up, and the day repeats.