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The Gym: Porky Pig Strong Man

Alright, I went to the gym last night and, of course, was made immediately irritated at first sight of a cancer that has been plaguing gyms since their inception. Over zealous trainers? No. Poorly maintained equipment? No. Nasty locker rooms? Again, no. The real cancer of gyms is the consummate fat guy wearing a tank top with excessively stretched arm openings revealing the excessive girth within. I don’t need to see that. Nobody needs to see that. The specific clown to whom I refer was tan. Excessively tan. Ridiculously tan. As a matter of fact, any tan at all right now is an absurd notion. It’s the beginning of May in St. Louis coming off long string of cold, rainy days that offered no opportunity to get any significant sun. The notion that anyone has a tan right now is more than implausible, it’s laughable. This clown looks like the brown leather couch in Sigmund Freud’s office. Please. It really is borderline visually offensive. Actually, to me it is visually offensive, but admittedly, I’m overly sensitive to abject stupidity. But I’m straying from the point somewhat. Fake bakes really deserve their own blog entry, so I digress.

Though you probably have a good idea of the type of clown I’m talking about, I still need to give additional specifics. In addition to his overly bronzed, corpulent physique and bad gym attire, when walking this oversized burnt donut hole did so with his arms held far away from his torso. Picture it; imagine it in your mind’s eye. We’ve all seen it. His muscles are so excessively large that his arms cannot even come to rest along his sides? I think not. But that’s the image that he’s trying to convey.

And of course he walks at a brisk pace, all the while lumbering from side to side. This is the stride of the hard ass whose self-gay physical perfection is impervious to pain, threat, or damage from one of the insignificant wimps wasting time—and getting in the way—in the weight room. Without blinking an eye, he’d walk through a brick wall if one stood between him and the Smith machine. He means business; he owns that gym. There are many colorful, descriptive terms that come to mind right now to characterize him, but I believe “buffoon” to be the most applicable.

Another disturbing and ridiculous characteristic of these clowns is that they inevitably start slamming the weights around in an obvious attempt to draw attention to themselves. Failing miserably in their wasted efforts to effect praise and adulation from admiring onlookers, they default to Plan B: grunt or even yell as loud as they can when lifting daunting amounts of weight. Guess what Porky, you’re still fat.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the quintessential barbed-wire tatoo encircling the thick mound of wobbly flesh posing as a bicep. Oh, I see, so this is a remnant of the years you spent in Iraq and each barb represents an insurgent you killed? Of course not. No, this was nothing more than just another fat gym guy lifting his courage through his umteenth Busch beer and running to the tatoo parlor so the illustrated man with a needle could create yet another barbed-wire tatoo, presumably with his eyes closed at this point. Just another self-gay, look at me inspired moment from a guy who couldn’t get a three-legged goat to look at him much less a woman.

Fat gym guys (those who migrate straight to the free weight room) have bought into the self-perpetuated myth of the following erroneous formula:

Fat = Muscle

Sadly for “Ox,” the porky gym guy, this is not the case. Moreover, if it were true then the necessity for a gym in the first place would be nonexistent. Sure, you’re big, but your musculature is about as developed as the Pillsbury Doughboy’s. So, lay off the doughnuts, beer, and Zagnut bars, and get on a treadmill instead of taking up (too much) space in the weight room. And please, give us all a break and leave the attitude at home because like your massive chest, it’s fat, bloated, and full of hot air. I speak for everyone when I say “you are a huge, gaping hole.”