Hubris trains to punch in the face of Donald Trump

I am Hubris the Great.

You, my disciples, my supplicants, my readers, should remember that Virago had bought me three personal training sessions at her gym, Eternal Fitness and Beyond – and that I surprised my dearest love by not only doing more than one push-up but also more than 30, the same number of fertilized eggs in the zygotic career of Nadya Suleman. I call Virago the apotheosis of womanhood because she can, with a straight face, do one thing and preach an opposite philosophy, quite a metaphysical feat. Two nights ago, she demonstrated such cerebral gymnastics by putting out her second cigarette within a ten-minute span and then turning to me, Hubris, to say that I needed to make an appointment for my second fitness session. How could I say no to such ethical virtuosity?

I met my trainer, the sexually ambiguous Petra, last night to honor my commitment but with a prevision.

“Petra,” I announced, “I want to dedicate this session to preparing me for a bare-knuckled ultimate-style fight bout with Donald Trump.”

Petra flashed her enamel-enriched smile, and asked, “Is that your fitness goal, Hubris?”

“Yes, my kick-boxing female fitness mentor. I want to, first, reconfigure Trump’s stupid head of hair into pigtails separated by a vast bald dome; second, to punch that stupid face while lecturing him on why filing for one bankruptcy after another is not the definition of success; and third, to drag his stupid excuse of a body to the Oval Office so to allow President Obama to roll up his birth certificate and shove up the ass of the Donald…So where do we start?”

I had to admire how fast Petra adapted to the demands of a client the likes of which she had never had the fortune to behold during all her cookie-cutter fitness career. She bounced a little from side to side in the tom-boy version of a professor biting on the ends of his spectacles while mulling over the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. Then she reassumed her authoritative role, and led me to a corner of the gym.

“Okay, Hubris, in order to hold Trump’s head in place while at the same time wrestling with the strength of what has to be hair-spray sprinkled with iron or steel or something…”

“I would venture a tungsten additive.”

“All right, tungsten it is. Either way, you will need  a lot of hand and forearm strength.”

Petra proceeded to show me various exercises meant to tighten my grip with the purpose of allowing me to break and bend a follicular arrangement made static via heavy metals. My thinking was that putting pigtails on Trump would be like revealing the man behind the curtain as just a sorry, pathetic soul, though I have always wondered why his crude philistine worldview has never been enough to convince the public that he is nothing more than a big chimp screeching from one of the many gilded properties bearing his name but that are in truth owned by the bankruptcy court.

Next Petra punched my upper arm, which felt like being struck a host of Visigoths employing a battering-ram on the door of mud hut.

“Did that hurt, Hubris?”

My arm had gone number than a logician confronted by a sentence from the mouth of Sarah Palin, and I conveyed this information to my trainer/assailant, to which she said:

“Now imagine your arm being Donald Trump’s face.”

I nodded at the success of Petra’s show-don’t-tell lessen. Thereafter she taught me that to deliver a devastating punch requires strong chest and triceps muscles, to say nothing of the smooth transition of force from the thighs to the gluteus maximus to the obliques. Petra went on to posit that if I was ever to truly cave in the smarmy face of that shit-head masquerading as a mogul, I would have to do the following exercises: bench presses, triceps pull-downs, leg-extensions, squats and lateral crunches.

“Petra, as for the last leg of Trump’s punishment, I was thinking that, as a good American citizen, I should do the President’s dirty work and be the one who rams the Executive birth certificate up the Trumpian chute, albeit with our Commander and Chief as the appreciative audience.”

“That’s fine,” chirped Petra. “Well then, first you should work on your cardio so you can drag that lifeless, doughy body across the White House lawn. Second, I would think that the actual shoving of the presidential birth document would involve a curling motion. Simple dumbbell curls would take care of that.”

I thanked my trainer for a fruitful and positive session, to which she issued her mandatory response of saying “Good job!” accompanied by a hearty round of hand-clapping.


About How I Trained a Celebrity

My name is James Johnson. I have a B.S. in Biology at UMass Boston. I am a writer satire/humor and live in Denver, Colorado. You can visit my website: Also, to browse my Amazon Author Page to check out my four published books, go to:
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