What Kind Of Perfect Body Am I Supposed To Be Jealous Of Now?

The jacked “This is Sparta!” bod is out; svelte is in. Here’s a breakdown of the new body goal (#goals?) for narcissistic men everywhere

- Clay Skipper

My problems, as they often do, started with Zac Efron. There he was, running around on-screen in Baywatch, a more evolved version of my species, with veins the size of fibre-optic cables and D’Angelo bones that looked like a pair of beachfront cliffs you could build your Malibu dream house on. Next to him flexed The Rock, whose literal Rock-hardness improbably grows with every billion-dollar-grossing flick. I could ignore Dwayne Johnson as a genetic aberration, a six-foot-four mountain of superior genes. But Efron? Outside of his ability to sing, act and charm his way through awards shows without a shirt on, we were basically the same guy. He was 28 while filming Baywatch. I was 28 while watching it. I was also alarmed. Efron looked like one of those preserved human torsos on display in Bodies… The Exhibition. He looked like Tyler Durden if Tyler Durden had put on a trash bag and trudged across the Sahara for a week. Was this what I was supposed to look like? I have fibrous muscle tissue, too, you know.