20th
DUMBbells
Hello reader (it’s always a bad sign when the singular of the term covers my entire legion of fans). Do you have a “Jim” in your life? Is he a friend, lover, acquaintance, stalker? If the answer is yes, you should count yourself lucky (well, perhaps apart from the stalker part), because I don’t have a Jim in my life but have, instead, been burdened with the similar sounding but completely fucking different in every way word - GYM! What a fucking curse this is. Standing there, for hours on end, sweating your brains out…but enough about date night! Joking aside (if, at this point you are saying to yourself “There were jokes!”, I think it’s best you leave now, as this isn’t going to get any better), gyms can be great places to go if you enjoy people watching, and you know I do! While I have spent more time in my gyms ventilation system than John McClane in the search for a bird’s eye view of the women’s shower area, I do from time to time hit the gym floor to look at my fellow sweaty messes.
Once there, what really helps me pass the time on the treadmill (sometimes I even turn it on) are those that use the free weights. While all are quite capable of “taking it to the max”, no doubt through their consumption of the wondrous power sauce bar, they seem compelled to make as much weight-related noise as possible once complete. Confused? Well shut the fuck up and let me enlighten you.
After doing 500 sets of 500 reps without a bother they, for some reason, find it impossible to gently place the weights on the floor at the end like good little gym monkeys. Instead they are overcome by the burning desire (I have a cream for that) to drop them from as high a height as possible, the louder the thud the better. In their own little steroid ravaged brains I can only imagine what they are thinking:
“Yeah bitches! Did you wimps hear that unmerciful clatter I just made? Well I’ve been lifting that shit for the last 10 minutes. I am the big dawg!”
At this point they usually start frantically looking around for someone to high 5, trying their best to snap the other poor fuckers arm clean off in a further show of strength. Am I about to fall prey to this? Fuck no; I’m back in John McClane mode, furiously writing women’s names in black marker on the inside of my arm. Now how do you spell “Hans Shandy”!
Fin
