Long before you were twelve and dominating Olympic lifts, before you sculpted yourself into a fourteen-year-old bodybuilder, the signs were there—you were already bitten by the iron bug. Every fiber of your being was obsessed with getting huge. You found strange inspiration in the unlikeliest of places: television commercials for dog food. Yes, dog food. Those ads were less about pets and more about performance enhancement in your impressionable, muscle-hungry brain.
Gaines-Burgers looked like prime cuts straight from Mount Olympus. Gravy Train’s magical transformation from dry nuggets to savory stew made your jaw drop. If this stuff could pump a German Shepherd into a jacked beast, what was stopping you from sampling the ambrosia yourself?
So you did what any logic-defying, delusional muscle aspirant would do: you marched up to your dad and declared—with all the conviction of a beagle spotting a squirrel—that you wanted to become a dog. Not metaphorically. Literally. That way, you could indulge in the canine cuisine of champions. Your father’s face went on a journey: confusion, horror, resignation. He’d seen a lot, but this—this was a new low.
In a desperate act of culinary intervention, he took you to a local bistro and ordered you a French Dip with au jus, hoping that real food might reroute your deranged protein fantasies. The sandwich arrived, dripping in savory decadence. Your dad leaned in, eyebrows raised, voice tense with hope: “So, how do you like your French Dip?”
You took a bite. Heaven. Your taste buds erupted like fireworks. And then—of course—you growled, dropped to all fours, and scratched at an imaginary flea with your hind leg, fully committing to the bit. Patrons stared. Your dad’s face turned a shade of red that Sherwin-Williams has yet to name. He looked like a man reevaluating every life decision he’d ever made.
But you didn’t stop there. No, your devotion to hypertrophy was a full-spectrum obsession. You judged cereals by their muscle-building mascots. Quisp and Quake tasted the same, but you knew who the real hero was: Quake, the barrel-chested, pickaxe-wielding coal miner with a neck like a bridge cable. Quisp? A pencil-neck Martian who probably couldn’t curl a paperclip.
So when those two faced off in the ultimate cereal showdown, you pledged allegiance to Team Quake. Those gear-shaped nuggets were more than breakfast—they were barbell fuel. Quisp’s saucer-shaped flakes turned to mush in milk faster than your patience at a shopping mall. Quake stood firm, stoic in the milky battlefield of your bowl.
But then, disaster. America chose the Martian. Quake vanished. It wasn’t just a marketing decision—it was a betrayal. When Quake was discontinued, a part of your soul died. The cereal aisle became a graveyard of broken promises. Eating Quisp felt like betrayal. Worse: it felt like surrender. You imagined Quake crying out from some cereal Valhalla, mourned like a fallen hero.
Still, the signs of your bodybuilding destiny didn’t end with cereal or dog food. They were everywhere. In your living room sat a ceramic ashtray the size of a manhole cover—your parents’ nicotine shrine. During The Incredible Hulk cartoons, you’d curl that ashtray like you were training for the Strongest Kid on Earth competition. It was your first dumbbell, your sacred relic of strength.
Family vacations? Gymless wastelands. But you adapted. You curled suitcases, hoisted skillets, deadlifted detergent bottles, and pressed soup cans with religious fervor. You squatted potato sacks and benched dictionaries. Hotel staff stared. Your family sighed. You called it training.
Eventually, you found a real gym. Barbells. Plates. Chalk. Grunts. It was everything you dreamed of. Your transformation from kitchen utensil lifter to iron disciple was complete. You weren’t just a bodybuilder in the making—you were a walking comic book origin story, forged in dog food commercials, French Dip delusions, and cereal-fueled vengeance.
Cinemorphosis 
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