If I had a gun and just one bullet, and I could use it to kill any one person I chose, I would pick the inventor of step aerobics.

I don’t care if Osama bin Laden lives to bomb us again. Trust me, I’m doing the world a much bigger favor this way.

To be perfectly honest, I should have known better. I mean, I don’t even walk to class if I can possibly avoid it. Most of the shuttle drivers know me by name. No one as lazy as I clearly am has any business in a class with the word “”step”” in its title, let alone “”aerobics.””

But I went to the class. And I should have walked out in the first five seconds. There was way too much Spandex in that room for me.

And it’s not even like everyone looked good in their Spandex. That would have been bad enough. I mean, no one enjoys looking like they’re the only person in a room wearing soccer shorts and a T-shirt that looks more like a tent because the California Cellulite Statute doesn’t legally allow you to be in public wearing less than that.

No, most of these people looked downright bad in that Spandex of theirs.

What made it even worse: The entire room — wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling — was composed of mirrors. So what was really only 20 women stretching before class appeared to the naked eye to be 400 water buffaloes.

Not a pretty sight.

But fine. I could take a little spandex. No big deal. I would stick it out. I ignored warning sign number one.

Warning sign number two came when the instructor arrived. No, “”arrived”” is the wrong word: She bounced. This was a woman who had clearly been injecting caffeine directly into her blood stream, along with speed and diet pills. The only thing I couldn’t decide was if she’d pumped herself full of drugs before or after she pumped her breasts full of silicone.

And much like the Spandex, the presence of the instructor only got worse.

The peppiest, breastiest stick of a woman started to talk. And lo, she sounded exactly like Minnie Mouse. The warning bells were ringing in my head.

I really, really should have walked out. And I would have, but I was afraid of getting pummeled by a fake boob on my way to the door. So I stayed.

That was when class started, and when I wished I had my gun.

Minnie (way too happy to be bouncing around): “”OK guys, let’s get pumped!””

Hell no. Do I look like I want to get pumped?

Minnie (clearly expecting me to be pumping): “”One foot, two feet, up, down, up, down — don’t stop now, guys! And don’t forget the arms! Yeah!””

Not only could I not follow whatever that Mouseketeer was doing, I was exhausted. I looked like a retarded schizophrenic having a seizure, and I was having serious couch withdrawal.

Minnie (probably not caring about my fatigue because hey, she’s got big boobs): “”OK, who feels warmed up?””

Warm? Try ready to faint.

Minnie (I am very proud that I haven’t slapped that smile off her face by now): “”OK then, let’s start the class!””

Um, come again?

Apparently all that work I just did was what we in the professional aerobics world like to call walking in place.

And yes, I am totally screwed.

Besides walking in place, I was expected to kick my legs in random places — putting everyone around me at risk — and I also had to occasionally step up onto a big block of plastic. Hence the term step aerobics.

Of course, the next day I felt as if someone had run me over with a car, slammed me into a brick wall, and then shot me in the ass. I didn’t even know I had that many muscles in my butt capable of getting that sore.

So basically, I have decided that because I hardly ever get up off my ass anyway, no one can see it, and therefore it doesn’t matter if I never do step aerobics again.

Furthermore, if I ever see that Minnie Mouse chick again, I will step on her face (but not her boobs, because I might get catapulted to the moon). Besides, don’t guys like big butts?