The bogan clamps its jaws around a thrice-pattied Angusmaxxx burger and masticates fervently, savouring what it knows to be the finest cuisine available outside of the Masterchef kitchen. The bogan is feeling righteously decadent. It has earned the right to be ‘a little bit fancy’, and charge its digestive tract with the task of processing 60 grams of animal fat. It has earned this right by attending a one-hour Fitness Boot Camp this morning, for the first and possibly only time ever.
It is no secret that the bogan’s attention flickers like an incorrectly-installed fluorescent globe. Two weeks ago, the bogan’s intermittent gaze was transfixed on the lithe fitness phantasm of Zumba. Now, it has switched to Boot Camp, and the appeal comes as no surprise to your resident Boganographers. The bogan is keen to find elaborate yet improbable shortcuts to things that require other people years of dedicated work to attain. The bogan sees Fitness Boot Camp as the five-session, after hours pottery course of elite fitness. The bogan has also often talked fondly about joining the army, but has never done it. Instead, the bogan has carried out its aggressive urges on the flouro-splattered field of paintball war, or in exacting glass-shattering revenge on its rivals outside the local glassing barn. The opportunity for the bogan to purchase a well-branded fitness service that allows it to briefly indulge its insincere military aspirations is an appealing opportunity indeed.
But in the war against the consequences of its own slovenliness, the bogan is constantly outgunned by the heavy artillery of the fast food industry. Always keen to find a devious route around genuine hard work, the bogan feels that Fitness Boot Camp represents its secret weapon in this war. But the bogan is dismayed to learn that, like most fitness crazes, Fitness Bootcamp involves heart-pumping, strenuous exercise, and is only going to be of marginal efficacy if not coupled with a sensible diet. To add insult to injury, the bogan has to withstand being shouted at by the fitness industry’s equivalent to Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket. The bogan customarily reacts to this sort of treatment with violence and/or going to ACA or Today Tonight, but after maxtreme bodily exertion, the enfeebled bogan can only mutter under its breath and swear never to return. As it turns out, the idea of building guns at bootcamp is far less appealing than shooting guns, but this realisation is far more likely to make the bogan desist than enlist.
Weeks pass after the solitary Boot Camp session, and the bogan’s fleeting feeling of righteousness has been suffocated under the crushing weight of umpteen thousand oil-saturated, salt-encrusted snacks. The guilt has become too much, and the bogan has begun scanning the horizon for a new way to attain Jason Statham’s physique in twenty minutes or less. Meanwhile, a maniacal cackle rings out from the offices of a marketing company, as some young go-getter pitches the latest fitness craze: Xelebrity Prada Pump Angusise.