Bob Couch, the love child of Ned Flanders and Arnold Schwarzenegger, has become my favorite recording artist of all time. Not because of his music, or his muscles. Not even because of his dedication to his workout. I love his sweet sense of style. The hair, the porn stache, the short-shorts; he’s got the look down. Every day I get out of bed and I try to live my life as Bob Couch would. I pump iron, I push out another set, and I work up a sweat.

Except I don’t actually work out — or get out of bed for that matter. It’s the thought that counts. I may not be making Bob proud, but I’m getting his sweet style down. I can almost grow a moustache, and I think I own a pair of jorts. Maybe when I grow up I can be just like Bob, but until then I’ll just relax my mind and think about pumping iron.

[Many thanks to Gerard at American Digest who doesn’t need to pump iron to get attention from the opposite sex. He just shows them his massive collection of Bob Couch records.]