do work son

I am not the hardest-working person in my family.

Neither is Ryan.

And although Chicken lives his life at an operational tempo that makes The Flight of the Bumblebee feel like the Ave Maria, it's not him either.

No, the hardest-working person in our family award goes to the little guy.
Every time.

But he takes 3 naps a day.

You would too, if you spent your every waking second doing push-ups, pull-ups, squats, sit-ups, and the boat pose to end all boat poses.

Pretend I just told you that you couldn't walk anymore, that you had to learn how to walk on your hands.
Also, you can still pick things up, but you have to do it while wearing ski gloves.
Also, we'll be strapping a weighted helmet on you, so that your head is going to be like a third of your body weight.
All the time.
Starting now.

That's work.

The rest of us lazy fucks learned how to walk and pretty much clocked out.

Sure, I work hard, and many of my days feel like an interminable march along an endless, steep road. But that road is well-worn, a wide boulevard made smooth by years of wear. 

Buster? He's bush whacking.
He scraps, scrambles, fights through the weeds and slogs through the mud. 

If I am tired of walking this road, how much more tired must he be?
He is building his road - today, right this second. 

Look at those toes. Those toes are working hard.
Way harder than I am, folding laundry, making toast.

Respect, B. Respect.


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