As you probably are aware, burpees are quite popular among obstacle course racers. Whether we do them for training, do them for penalties, create internet memes about them, teach our pets how to perform them, compose burpee symphonies, plant burpee seeds, or found burpee museums of natural history, we love them, hate them, love to hate them, hate to love them, and occasionally get caught in compromising positions with them that will eventually prevent us from holding elected office.
Perhaps we’ll look back on those days fondly, because they are coming to an end. Who can you thank/curse for that? Well… me. In a brilliant and shameful effort to exploit the fitness community for cash, I’ve decided to trademark burpees.
Reluctantly, that means that I have to inform you that any time you perform any variety of burpee, or mention burpees in print or online, or even think about burpees, you will owe me a royalty.
I ain’t talkin’ Hans-Adam II, the prince of Liechtenstein, here. I mean coin—cold, hard cash.
Let’s start at a dime a burpee and go from there. And don’t worry about enforcement: I am legion, and I am everywhere. I’m like the RIAA. Only nice, and fluffy, and if you don’t obey me I will eat your babies. Not metaphorically, like the RIAA does. Literally, like the RIAA does in its office cafeteria.
“Furpees!” I can already hear you scream. “Who needs burpees? We can buck furpees until the cows come home, relishing the linguistic loophole we’ve spotted to deny you your ill-gotten gains!”
Oh, that’s a good thought, but unfortunately I already had it. That’s why I’ve also trademarked furpees. Also squirpees, lurpees, murpees, churpees, zurpies, plurpees, twurpees, durpees, and lutefisk. If you try any of these, you’ll owe me cash as well. Except for lutefisk—I only trademarked that as a joke to play on visitors to Minnesota who want to sample a local delicacy. But I’m stone-cold serious about the rest!
Overreaction? Perhaps. But I’ve never believed in half measures. If I did, I wouldn’t be an obstacle course racer. I’d play cello for a regional symphony, or maybe I’d go into business making fake styrofoam wedding cakes that can be rented so people who get married have something dramatic on display and then they take it into the kitchen where “it could be cut” but really it would be replaced by pieces of actual cake. I’ve heard that’s a thing now, which is a great way to solve the earth-shaking problem of how to decorate a bit of flour and sugar and butter in such a way as to show that a specific couple’s love is eternal and perfect, all while spending less than $7,599.
Look, I’m not trying to be unreasonable. I mean, a failed Spartan obstacle’s worth of burpees is still way less expensive than a wedding cake, and it’s way less likely to lead to divorce. So just accept it: Burpees are mine now. Pay up, and I won’t have to get angry.