Monday, April 21, 2014

Gym

Rock Lobster awakens me from my slumber. It is 6 AM, or 0600 if you're an asshole. I briefly contemplate hitting the snooze, then less briefly wonder who invented the snooze button in the first place. I mean the point of an alarm is to wake you up, right? Well why would you add something that prevents an alarm from doing the only fucking thing it was created to do? That's like if every gun had one of those slapsticky BANG flags pop out before actually firing. I digress, for temporal assistance devices are not my concern at the moment; today is a weight training day, thus today is good.
 
It is now 6:30 AM, as the snooze button is an alluring temptress. I go through my regular pre-workout routine of eating waffles and crying in the shower for 10 minutes then depart for the gym. On my way I go over my lifting routine in my head. Visualizing each exercise, each rep, each awkward shuffle around a bunch of inappropriately dressed Middle Easterners (jeans and polos, c'mon dude) standing directly in front of the water fountain, all to prepare my mind for the onslaught I will subject my totes shredded muscles to. I then go over the virtue of modesty, and if I even need it. Continuing, I review what little I know of prepositions, and whether or not it's okay to end sentences with them. Finally, I conclude that I do not know how to think sentences in my head make nice pretty.
  
"Good morning! How are you doing today?" the swipe card lady asks.

"Lift heavy things," I reply. Visibly aroused by my laser-like focus she quickly hands me back my card and averts further eye contact.

"Fucking creep," she says, a ploy cover for her baser carnal desires. Such is the burden of a bro as jacked as I am, bro. Constant female attention at the most inopportune of times.

Steeling my nerve I walk past a plethora of cardio machines towards the weight room proper. Ellipticals, cardio bikes, treadmills, flunnels, sneedles, jibboos, gluppity-glupps, and other whimsical machines invented by Dr. Seuss take up a good majority of available gym floor. Every last one of them useless, every last one of them an affront to god. Many of my fellow gym patrons, these masters of time and money management, decided to get in their respective car, drive 10+ minutes to a gym and pay some douchetool wearing a shirt he bought from Baby GAP $30/month so they can walk. And we wonder how China is beating us in the arms (guns [biceps]) race. That's like bringing food to Chipotle and paying to cook there. If you just want to walk fucking go outside! Get some fresh air! But please, I implore you, do not waste precious gym space that could be used for literally anything else so you can leisurely stroll whilst digesting the latest episode of whatever drivel VH1 is shoving down the country's mouth this month.

Leaving the cardio machines behind I enter the locker room and run into an old friend. "Greetings, Old Naked Man."

"Greetings, Dominic. Shall I bend over in front of your face now or wait until you are tying your shoes?"

"No need today, Old Naked Man, I'm just here to use the weight scale."

"Ah, very well then. I'll just stand awkwardly near the exit so random passers-by may be subject to the abject horror that is my genitalia."

"Charming as always, Old Naked Man. I bid you good day."

I stow my things into the nearest locker and make my way towards the squat racks. What I see there shocks me, disappoints me, saddens me. And I know I'm the only man who can stop it from ever happening again.

WHAT DID OUR HERO SEE? WILL HE SURVIVE HIS LATEST GYM SESSION? WHERE WILL HIS ADVENTURES TAKE HIM NEXT? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR THE CONCLUSION TO DOMINIC COATS AND THE TEMPLE OF DUDEBROS!! SAME COATS TIME, SAME COATS CHANNEL!!

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