The only two minutes Dale ever forced exercise upon himself was directly after he popped his delicious Pizza Pops in the microwave. Otherwise, he would spend his time swindling out of as much physical labour that he could manage.
Anyway, with Dale's Pops in the heater-upper-oven-thing (what the fuck are those called again?), he commenced his hourly stretch routine, reaching to his toes, leaning from side to side, andd laying on the ground, attempting as many half-assed sit-ups as his lumpy, corpulent stomach would allow. Usually, he would be pouring himself a magnanimous glass of rum by this point in his regime, but today was a special day. Dale continued his sit-ups until the nuke started its vexatious beeping, his stomach red and irritated from the chafing of his potato-sack blouse-styled shirt. The Pops were scalding, their soft, doughy exterior hiding the fact that Dale's tongue was likely to be uncontrollably red and puffy for the rest of the evening.
Whatever the consequences were, he still bit into his Pizza Pop, its saucy, cheesy filling squirting into his mouth. He felt sort of bad eating all of this, he meant to lose all of this gained weight.
Perhaps Vriska thought that an obese human was sexy. Dale wasn't sure. He intended to lose some weight, though. Maybe.
That may have been absolutely no writing whatsoever but omg dalevris is the best