Gym Jerks: People I Hate
I’m lucky enough to have access to a gym that is stocked with everything I need, nothing I don’t, few people, and fewer egos. But recently I revisited a local “hardcore” facility for a few days, and in doing so I was quickly reminded of why, over the years, I’ve come to fucking detest such places. To help the reader better understand where I’m coming from, I’ll discuss a few of the more vastly annoying gym personalities.
Match Sticks: This dickhead has the legs of a well-starved sparrow, and it has nothing to do with his genetic limitations. He’s lazy and soft and afraid of checking his ego at the door in preparation for the intense pain and suffering that comes with heavy lower body workouts. He does his best to conceal/deny his top-heavy condition via both wearing ridiculously baggy pants, never mind the season, and avoiding, at all costs, any eye contact with gym patrons who are damn near killing themselves on the squat rack, leg press, etc. He is an inherently sad fellow, and his carefully hidden bird-like legs are a
tangible metaphor for his fundamental character; weak, dishonest, monumentally insecure, and above all else, not to be trusted. I hate him.
Socialite: This annoying pussy never shuts the fuck up, never breaks a sweat, and somehow thinks that everyone focused on the weights is interested in delaying/ceasing their workouts long enough to hear about his “pro caliber” golf swing. At first, you want to smash him over the head with a cold 45 lb. plate. Then you begin to feel sorry for him, which is understandable, because his incessant need for conversation is a clear reflection of his lonely, inane existence. You might, out of sorrow, humor him for a moment. But this quickly leads back to a desire to smash his face, which will lead to termination of your membership and a possible prison term, which can really put a damper on a guy’s week. Best solution: Wear headphones, avoid close proximity, and, if he still makes a stab at conversation, give him a look that says: “I’ll eat your liver for the protein, asshole.”
Obnoxious bar body: This bitch-ass poser is quick to point out others’ poor form, but he, himself, has no fucking clue what he’s doing. HIS form on the only two movements he performs, curls and bench, is cringe-worthy, and while your first reaction is to say “Hey, bud, putting so much stress on your back will lead to herniation of a disc,” his extremely loud, beyond obnoxious grunts and roars begin to whittle away your conscience to such an extent that you find yourself thinking: “I really hope you fuck up your back, assclown.” His sole reason for lifting is to build up his arms and chest, so, at the local watering hole, he can get a nod of approval from the bouncers and intimidate drunken frat boys while simultaneously getting the attention of their bubbly sorority dates, which is fine if that’s your thing, but don’t try to act like you’re anything else but that, fucko.
Gym groupie: This far-beyond-her-prime, 50-something muffin top was once attractive enough to screw any egocentric muscle boy she happened to fancy, but time and being power fucked by 250 pound behemoths for 30 years has aged her like piss-infused vinegar, which is more than obvious to everyone but her. She flaunts her saddlebags in overly tight neon-colored spandex which hugs her non-existent curves in all the wrong ways, the horror of which is compounded by her sickeningly sweet French perfume coupled with enough make-up to repaint the locker room. Occasionally a gym regular, egged on by his buddies, will, with money on the line, humor her, take her to to some out-of-the-way all-you-can-eat buffet, then bang her silly while secretly videotaping it, share said flick with those same buddies over many beers, collect his bet money, and laugh about it. Unfortunately, this causes the gym groupie to believe that she “still has it,” which perpetuates this cycle to no end. Stay away.
Shit-talker: This morbidly obese hot air balloon spends most of his time toying with his IPod, drinking colorful creatine solutions out of over-sized sports bottles, adjusting his weight belt, and bragging about how unbelievably strong he is to anyone who’ll listen. Some of what you’ll hear: “I can bench 500 pounds when I feel like it.” “The leg press machine in this gym doesn’t hold enough weight for me to use it.” “I can curl as much as a pro bodybuilder.” “I was stronger than anyone on my high school football team.” Of course, under no circumstances do you actually see him do anything more than warm up with poundages associated with a girls’ cross-country team on their heavy day. If you should ask the Shit-talker to demonstrate a feat of strength, you’ll find that he has three standard responses: 1) “I can’t because I have a pulled muscle.” 2) “I don’t want to pull a muscle.” 3) “Today is a light day.” Sometimes there are subtle variations, but, in essence, shit-talkers are the same everywhere. Assume that he is a pathological liar, and be sure that he’s headed for politics.
Stay tuned for additional evaluations.
By Jon Neralich