My original Gymtards post comes from way back in the Crapping Common Sense days. Things certainly haven’t improved since then, so what the fuck, here’s a little list of some of the unmitigated assholes that have been bothering me lately at the gym – besides these two and this bitch.
Toxic Cologne Guy A: The Purple African
This motherfucker. There’s body odor… and then there’s third-world feculence. That smell that can only be produced by those that, geostatistically, should be dead. It’s as if mother nature – knowing that this human should have years ago succumbed to malnutrition, malaria, human sacrifice, or some similar standard fate of Sub-Saharan life – has condemned his body to produce the same smell that would otherwise be emanating from his carcass had he died at his originally scheduled demise. Instead, he’s been swept up in a refugee net and brought to the West to remind gym patrons, via scent, just how bad life can be.
Just as there’s no better way to make human feces smell worse than spraying fruit flavored chemicals into the air thus transforming the bathroom into an Apple Shittamon gag locker, there’s no better way to not-quite-mask the smell of death than with the Dollar Store’s finest men’s fragrance. You know, for when you want to make a good impression on your new continent by smelling like a burning shitlog that’s being doused with buckets of cheap cologne. Somalia Spice: Let them know you’re here to lift… but also to burn the lining out of nostrils.
Not only does this dude make unbreathable any airspace within thirty feet of him, but he also doubles as “The Guy That Attempts To Use Every Piece Of Equipment In A Busy Gym Simultaneously, Leaving Others In Total Disbelief Of His Lack Of Etiquette, Wishing Silently To Themselves That He Was Back In The Motherland, Wearing A Super Bowl Championship T-Shirt With The Losing Team On It, Being Butchered By A Sudanese Warlord.”
Toxic Cologne Guy B: The Pot-Bellied “Trainer”
And then there’s Broni Spray – for the middle-aged, out of shape, Italian trainer that wants to emit the same chemicalized fruit scent worn by sixth grade girls everywhere. This guy got fucking hired? When your waist outmeasures your chest, no one’s interested in your fitness regime… even if you smell like cotton candy and magic. This guy fucking baffles me. He has that bizarro, full-sized midget structure, looks like he wants to fight, and smells like he’s trying to attract infants that have an insatiable sweet tooth. Whoever hired this clown must have a severe blood sugar imbalance and was simply intoxicated by his candylicious musk. It really is that overpowering. It’s like he’s distilled the essence of Sweet Tarts into liquid form and replaced all flowing water in his home with it. Why do you smell so retardedly delicious? Why do you take such short strides with your weird baby legs? Why does your pursed-in cupcake ass swallow up your track pants so severely? How long until you get fired and I no longer have to put up with a smell so overwhelmingly sweet that it makes me feel like I’m molesting children when I’m actually lifting weights?
Look How Big My Arms Aren’t Guy
This twenty-something asshole just looks like he has a name that unto itself would piss you off. Like Tadd. Hey. Sup Tadd? What are you doing, just like a total arm day? Cool. Apparently Tadd lost his entire t-shirt collection and, month after month, just hasn’t found the time to pick up any adult-sized shirts. That’s no worry, though, because Tadd’s kindergarten sister has an extensive collection of colorful v-neck tees that she’s outgrown and been kind enough to hand down to him. They’re simply perfect for Tadd. You see, whereas most guys come to the gym, lift, and trigger muscle growth, Tadd comes to the gym, rolls his shoulders forward, bows his arms out, occasionally twitches them, and mostly just stares at them as though his gaze alone will inspire their growth. So the way these technically short-sleeved shirts fail to extend beyond the rotator cuff allows for maximum bicep exposure.
Now, it would be slightly less offensive if such ridiculous attire accentuated his musculature, but it simply showcases his lack thereof. He does not have muscular arms. Of course, he doesn’t have to have muscular arms… but he does if he’s going to wear his newborn infant sister’s shirts. Of course, one thing that might help him build muscular arms would be working out. And what better place to work out than the gym? I mean, he’s at the gym already. The only problem is that he seems to think having a seventeen minute staring contest with his arms, getting a drink at the water fountain, and leaving is what constitutes a workout.
And the worst part is that he doesn’t know that he doesn’t hold the world’s record for largest biceps. You witness the disconnect when he looks directly down at his upper arms and twitches them as though the tremors induced by his underdeveloped bis could split the foundation the gym rests on. His complete lack of shame is almost admirable, but would be more impressive were the whole production some kind of Kaufman-goes-to-the-gym character he was doing for his hidden cam YouTube channel. He must find it endlessly frustrating not being able to masturbate exclusively through bi friction. But what a sight it must be when hunches over himself and delivers a facial on his own left bicep. He could try cleaning it up with one of his gym shirts but there won’t be enough material.
Predetermined Conversation Guy
a.k.a. Bacterial Pneumonia Guy
“Some of these people,” he says. What? Is he talking to me? I’m the only other person in this locker room so I suppose he must be talking to me.
“How’s that now?” I reply in a tone intended to indicate my disinterest to this guy that I regularly witness measuring people up for forced conversations but rarely witness lifting weights up for strength. Fuck taking my social cue to shut the fuck up, though – this hot bag of coffee-and-halitosis-breathed gas has a full conversation holstered on his tongue and it will be spat with or without consent from the receiving party.
“Some of these people, man. There was just a guy in here that took a piss and didn’t wash his hands!”
Why is this creep reporting this to me like it’s a newsworthy scandal? Why do so many men believe their dicks are receptacles for filth and that their hands must be cleansed in the immediate aftermath of the slightest shaft contamination, as though their dong is made of poison oak leaves and the disease-laden feces of the Purple African kid? I don’t know about you, but if the cleanliness of all my body parts were ranked, the Little Hulkamaniac In My Pants would place a Spic and Span number one.
“Eh, that don’t effect my day,” I tell him.
“Nah, man. The people here… oh man. And they don’t wipe down the machines! When they’re out there, lifting, and they finish with a machine, nobody wipes them down! I got bacterial pneumonia from this place because nobody wipes down the machines!”
And we’ve quickly reached the point where I walk away without responding. Apparently Sweaty McMicrobiology over here has done due scientific diligence and, despite all odds and interference in a wildly uncontrollable environment, concluded without doubt that he fell ill to bacterial pneumonia “from this place” due precisely to the cause of “nobody wiping down the machines.” This is all outside of the fact that everyone wipes down the machines because they are all germophobic dolt-bots.
Do I actually have to mock this? Am I seriously going to sit here and illustrate the intricacies of this locker room scientist’s absurdity? No. But I will point out that this was the first time I’d ever wished I had AIDS, because if I did, I would have dragged Bill Nye the Bacterial Pneumonia Guy into the showers and transmitted it to him by force. Bacterial fucking pneumonia…
Forearm Workout Guy
Why? What are you doing? Where did you learn this? It’s not like you’re a competitive body builder where some excruciating detail is going to make or break you in the eyes of someone whose life has gone so far off course that they’ve ended up judging a bodybuilding competition. You appear to be a normal dude. I should say – you would appear to be a normal dude – if it weren’t for the fact that you’re on your knees with your arm slung across a bench, dumbbell in hand, curling at the wrist, allowing yourself to be seen in public, volitionally engaged in a motherfucking forearm workout. I ask again: Why? Your forearms don’t strike me as needing this particularly intense training regimen that you’ve engaged them in. A good portion of weight-bearing exercise will naturally engage your forearms, thereby freeing you of this self-imposed burden of forearm isolation work. I promise.
Okay, you’ve gotta stop. You’re actually distracting me from my workout because I can’t believe you’ve been on forearms for 45 fucking minutes. I lost count of my own reps because I was staring at the 100th set of this insane masturbation rehabilitation ceremony you call fucking forearm day. No, on second thought, fuck it. Keep going. I was starting to gas out but the hatred you’ve inspired in me is going to fuel me through the back half of this workout. You and Big Brother/Little T-Shirt Guy should put a program together on how to most effectively avoid positive results at the gym. Have the Pot-Bellied Trainer implement it with his clients.
90 Degree Inclined Treadmill People
Before we even deal with the incline part, let me say that unless the weather outside is genuinely frightful, get off of the motherfucking treadmill and go outside. Holy repetitious fuck. What a beautiful day it is. Sunny, 75 degrees, just perfect! What better time to lace up my Asics, get into my car, drive it to the gym with the windows up and the air conditioning on, and hit the ol’ treadmill!? What could possibly compel a human being to voluntarily walk, run, or lurch on a stationary machine indoors? Is it the bank of televisions hanging from the ceiling? Can you just not bear to miss whatever program E! is running for 90th time today? Is it the earth-shattering thud of the cinderblock feet of strangers on either side of you as they pound yet another day of the lifespan of their knees away with horrific running form and contorted faces? Or is it the chance to bask in the undigested fast food musk pouring forth from their open pores and open mouths that you just can’t live without? GO. OUT. SIDE. No matter how many miles you put in on the human hamster wheel, you’re never going to outrun your vitamin D deficiency so shed your overpriced Under Armour “I wish I was an athlete” Halloween costume and go move around in the fucking sun.
Setting aside the absurdity of using a treadmill in the absence of a life threatening weather system, the single most absurd act executable by man on Earth is walking on the treadmill, ramping up the incline until the front of the machine is aimed at the ceiling, and then holding on to the top of the console so that the body is still perfectly straight, thereby negating the purpose of inclining the machine in the first place – which would be to simulate a motherfucking incline so as to increase the degree of difficulty/output for the human. But hey, at least you look bitchin’ as you take one effortless stride after another, ascending the 90 degree path to uninspired fitness heaven. You hopeless, hapless, meticulously-outfitted jackass.
What are you doing here in the first place? Trying to lose weight? Of course. And in classic assclown fashion, you’ve come to waddle at the gym rather than fix your diet. Well, today’s your lucky day. Because I’m such a selfless fucking giver – and a way better trainer than that retard with the Pixie Sticks-powdered balls – I’m going to give you free advice guaranteed to start taking pounds off now. First – get off of the fucking treadmill. Now, do you see the power chord running to the outlet? Unplug it, wrap it around your neck, and tie it off as tightly as you can – no, that’s okay, you’re not supposed to be able to breath. Now run in place and count to 100 or until you die – whichever comes first.