Because let me tell you what’s gonna happen when you purchase DOMINEX, BY DOC and that carboard box full of shit arrives at your doorstep. Let me tell you what’s gonna happen when you strap those adjustable six-foot-eight stilts onto your legs, when you put on that extra-long pair of pants and you attach those turbo-loaded compound springs to the bottom of your shoes. Let me tell you what’s gonna happen when you buckle your fat ass into your Mirdle—and honestly, even if you’re skinny, I highly recommend it, it’s just that comfortable—and you zip yourself into your Advanced Prototype Foam-Rubber Muscleman Bodysuit.

First, you’re gonna trip and fall on your face. Because honestly, getting the hang of stilts is harder than it looks.

But then, after you pick yourself up and wipe the blood off your lip, you’re gonna walk out that door and for the very first time in your pathetic, pudgy and/or skinny life, you’re gonna know what it feels like to be physically, athletically dominant over everyone else.

You’re gonna stride down that sidewalk staring down at every man, woman, and child who passes by, and you’re gonna think, “Hahaha, I’m taller than you.” You’ll marvel at how much smaller they seem from your tall-person’s vantage point—like ants, really. Or losers.

You’ll blink your eyes at the clouds swirling around your head at such a high altitude, you’ll gaze at the mountaintops and catch your breath in the thinner air, and you’ll think, “So this is what it means to transcend the pathetic limitations of short people.”

You’ll stare at these humans who are so much smaller than you, and you’ll realize that they’re not just little—they’re also flabby and out of shape. With your stunning, molded physique, things you never even noticed before will suddenly really fucking piss you off.

The obvious love handles bubbling beneath some doofus’s pink polo shirt. The subtle rounded slope of a coward’s shoulders. The two-inch tribal tattoo encircling a weakling’s pathetic arm. All of it will feel like an offense to nature, to perfection, and most important, to yourself.

You’ll squeeze your firm foam-rubber biceps, you’ll thump your fists against your carbon-reinforced artificial pecs, you’ll caress the grooves of your square, plastic abdominal muscles, and you’ll say to yourself, “Thank God I’m not those people.”

And then, just when you think you can’t feel more satisfied, just when you think you can’t feel more like a winner, more like a champion, you’ll see something in the distance.

Maybe it’ll be a light post. Maybe it’ll be a basketball hoop or a tall, rusty old sign at an abandoned gas station. Maybe it’ll be a shiny red apple at the tippity-top of a tree.