David Barton Gym, Los Angeles, California, Monday, June 6, 2016, 7:00 am
The following is an account of a personal training session with Morrissey. The client has chosen to remain anonymous, but I was allowed access to document it for Morrissey’s next book entitled, “Why You’re Garbage”
Morrissey: Before we start, have you eaten anything containing meat, milk, eggs, or been in a house that has any of these products, or has people who listen to dance music, have bad hair, or poor interior design within the last 78 hours per our agreement? All of these things are abhorrent and could kill me.
Morrissey: Good. What are your (makes air quotes) fitness goals?
Client: I’d like to be leaner, a little smaller-
Morrissey: Listen to me, some girls are bigger than others, some girls are bigger than others and some girl’s mothers are bigger than other girl’s mothers.
Client: Well, yeah, that’s true. I often find that when I’m beating myself up for not being thin enough, I-
Morrissey: Shh, you’re fat you’re mom was fat.
Morrissey: Full disclosure, I’m in a bit of a mood. I haven’t kicked someone in the eye today and I’m feeling itchy.
Client: I will take that under consideration. Thank you for choosing me to train, by the way. I’m honored.
Morrissey: Don’t be. I pulled your name out of a jar that my Italian lover, Gelato, usually uses to collect my hurtful comments and set them on fire at the end of the month. Do a plank, bitch.
Client: OK, it’s been a while, but (struggles to keep form, falls) I think I need to work up to this. Maybe some stretching to start with?
Morrissey: Ugh. Listen, when they bury me in a church and chuck earth on my grave, I’d like the words ‘Well, at least he tried’ engraved on my tombstone. How about you? What’s going to be on your grave: I like cake?
Morrissey: Well, well, I’ve always assumed there’s a dark river flowing beneath my fans’ desires. And in your case, it’s a river of cake, darling.
Client: I guess there’s some truth to that. Hey, wait…didn’t I once read that you said, “I’m just happy being dumpy. Dumpy, fat and middle-aged.”
Morrissey: That’s Ok for me, but not for you. You are a woman, I am a man. I personally possess as much mystical sexual allure as an all-purpose dishcloth. But still, look at every TV show, film, paintings…men can be fat and dumpy, but women have to be thin and gorgeous. Sexist? Yes. But I didn’t make the rules, sorry.
Client: America has done bad things to you. Maybe I should have entered the Robert Smith as a personal trainer contest.
Morrissey: Robert Smith is a fat, sad whingebag. He just complains and complains and complains. I hate people who complain.
Morrissey: GOD I’M BORED…BORING, BORED, BORED. (bangs his head repeatedly on elliptical machine) I honestly don’t know how personal trainers do this. How!? Know what I mean? It’s been like 5 minutes and already want to shoot myself in the face. It’s awful. (lights joint) Fuck this. I’m outta here-
Client: Wait, where are you going?
Morrissey: To write about the pain and injustice of speaking with you in my second autobiography. You’ll be in the chapter called, “Americans, I Hate Your Fat Face”
Client: But, what should I do to get in shape?
Morrissey: Honestly? We hate it when our friends become successful. And although we are not friends, I have no desire to help you get in shape. Let me leave you with this piece of advice:
‘Make no mistake, my friend, your pointless life will end; but before you go, can you look at the truth…la la la la la la laaahhhh…’
Client: You’re an excellent trainer. I’m too depressed to workout now. Or eat. Or do anything.
Morrissey: Perfect. What I’m saying is, lose weight, or don’t. Who cares if you’re fat or thin? Who cares if you live or die? Nothing matters. And go ahead and stay fetal. That’s an excellent yoga pose.