The shirt reads: “WORKING ON MY CELLS.”
Underneath, a spreadsheet with a face — lettered columns, numbered rows, a sweatband of sorts — lying on a striped beach towel lifting a small dumbbell, with a protein shaker and a palm tree beside it.
Two jokes at once: the gym kind of cells and the Excel kind. For the accountant with a squat rack, the analyst who tracks their lifts in a pivot table, and anyone whose two personalities are the office and the weight room. It is the rare pun that both audiences get instantly.
