I have decided to pursue my goal to become a Russian gymnast.

No longer will I stumble through life with no direction or self-control. No longer will self-indulgence and excess rule my life. No, steely concentration will be my mantra as I focus single-mindedly on this pursuit.

Together with my brother Dmitri, we will become a team that will turn the gymnastics world upside-down. We will perform routines the likes of which no one has ever seen, blithely contorting ourselves into death-defying positions that make ordinary gymnasts run screaming to their mommies.

Of course, it won't be easy. Our typical day will consist of four hours of weight training, three hours of flexibility lessons, and six hours of gymnastics. After all that grueling work, when our bulging muscles are exhausted to the point of collapse, we will retire to a local bar where we will knock back vodka like it's water and girls will blush in our testosterone-drenched presence. They'll search for every excuse to touch our rock-hard biceps, but we'll push them away. There's no place for females in the rough-and-tumble gymnastics world.

Audiences will gasp in disbelief as we strip off our warm-up suits and show off bodies that look like anatomical charts. Women will swoon with desire and men will sob with jealousy. My arms will be like steel cables: flexible, yet strong. My shoulders will be broad and muscular. My abdomen will look like it's sculpted from marble. My legs will be like tree trunks, unyielding sinew that will support my brother in our signature Chinese Pagoda move. Every fiber of our beings will burn with fury as we take positions no other duo has even dreamed of and, indeed, do things that God Himself never meant the human body to do.

We will work relentlessly to perfect each new position, and there will be no place for either shame or privacy to distract us from our goals. My trembling fingers may rest mere centimeters from my brother Dmitri's groin, but with our cold-hearted focus neither of us will care. With ropy veins bulging I will support Dmitri solely by the buttocks as he attempts the death-defying Iron Cross. Audiences might chuckle uneasily, unaccustomed to the blasé way we macho men handle each other's rock-hard bodies, but the titters will die in their throats when through sheer force of will and muscular power we contort our bodies into positions that'd make Michelangelo weep with joy.

And pretty soon we'll be rich and famous and our names will be on everyone's lips.

So c'mon, Dmitri -- just put on the tights, okay?