Dear Callan Pinckney,
I just wanted to say a few words to let you know how I'm doing with your workout tape.
If you're dead, that's too bad. I hope I'm not disturbing your long rot in hell with this note. If you're not dead, you're probably busy seducing young boys in scrunch socks and matching outfits back to your lair to probe your perfect peach. In any case, we need to have words about your "health regimen," which can also be considered a "fact extraction technique." (I hear that's what Homeland Security is calling torture these days.)
After doing two days of Callanetics, I need to tell you something: You're a total fucking bitch. I would call you a sadist, but you do the "gentle movements" too, so I guess that makes you a masochist and me stupid. Also, I cannot stand your voice (or your face, or your really ridiculous leotard and wacked out hair).
And another thing: how did shots like this one make it into the final video:
Do we need to see that much vagina being suffocated by hideous shades of spandex? No, we do not.
And another crotch shot?
You really should've run a background check on that camera man.
Anyway, my ass is sore and I hate you.
P.S. I wasn't joking about the "peach" thing.