The life and death of innocence after watching myself dance in front of the mirror with my shirt off listening to Queen.

It wasn’t like I’d never seen myself without my shirt on before. I mean, sometimes when I take a shower, I even flex in front of the mirror before I step into the tub and make my man boobs hard like they’re made of magma formed rock, or, if not rock, then at least some sort of flan like Jell-O that’s been frozen in the freezer for about half an hour. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared my eyes for the assault on my soul when I danced to “Don’t Stop Me Now,” by Queen, and took off my shirt and spun it around over my head like a helicopter propeller as I rocked out to Freddy Mercury and his wailing libido.
Now, my soul has been crushed before—when they took off the Waynes’ Brothers for no apparent reason, when I faced Sagat in Street Fighter 2 and all he did was “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!” over and over again until I threw my Super Nintendo out the window—but seeing myself, in all my glutinous glory, kicking my legs up in the air doing the can can and watching the fourteen rolls in my gut make washer machine noises and overlap each other while I shook about, made me realize that my life would never be the same again.
So I turned it off, but the sight wouldn’t leave my mind. Whenever I heard a Queen song on the radio, Pavlov dog style, I would start to drool at the sight of bosoms, but then I realized that they were MINE! So I decided I had to get help since every station preordained in my car is designated to classic rock, and while I could just change the stations, I can’t miss the opportunity to hear Boston’s “More than a Feeling,” I just can’t!
So I decided hypnotism was the best and most logical step, outside of liposuction or losing weight, of course. The doctor looked at me severely. I don’t think he thought a change was possible. I lifted my shirt and he dug his middle finger into my belly button and tickled it, I didn’t feel anything.
When I asked why he did it, he told me that it made him happy and that I shouldn’t ask any more questions. He then crammed a lollipop into my mouth and told me to suck it rhythmically to him thrusting his pelvis while he put his hands behind his head and danced to Madonna. He told me that this was crucial to me getting better.
Afterwards, in a strange turn of events that had both of our shirts off and his pants, he began with the hypnosis. He told me I was getting sleepy, and I was, his breath was part turkey sandwich, and part halitosis, it created a scent that was an instant drowse medicine. While I was in my daze, I began to hear the roster of greatest hits play on a speaker in the corner by the fichus tree—“We are the Champions,” “You’re My Best Friend,” “Bohemian Rhapsody”—they were all there, dammit. I began to feel a bit nauseous when the hypnotist finally put on “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and I knew I was going to vomit at any moment. But then he said, when I snap my fingers, whenever you hear Queen from now on, you will now only see scenes of Lou Diamond Phillips in the movie Bats.
And when he snapped my fingers, like magic, I was back at home. But after hearing Queen once again, I’ve realized two things: 1. I kind of miss having daydreams about my man boobs, and 2. if anything in this world sucks, it’s Lou Diamond Phillips.