Observations in Miniature: People in the gym 10?

If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your gym habits.

Not So Bright Guy – One. Two. Three. Five. Hold on hotshot you just skipped a digit there. If you skip every third rep like that you’re going to be working out for three days straight. What you need is a something like a seeing eye dog. What you need is a smart guy to lead you around the gym. He’s called a trainer. The coffee machine? I think we’d better hold back on the java until we’ve taken a week course on how to pour that shit. I don’t want you walking by me while I’m benching and for you to spill that on my crotch. I think it’s great you’re trying to do the whole body mind thing but you may want to work a little harder on the mind part. Here’s a clue. It doesn’t matter how much you can bench press if you’re out on a date and you don’t know how to tip on a forty dollar dinner bill. No puffing your pecs out like a pit viper isn’t going to get the job done. Maybe you should have paid attention more in school. What? School is for dummies. I think we’re done here. One. Two. Seven. Eight. Carry on…

The Jammer – Enough with the fucking air guitar. This isn’t a fucking Journey concert it’s a fucking gym. I realize you work here and have the remote control to the stereo tethered around your neck but if I here I’m a Material Girl one more fucking time I’m going to throw a 45 pound plate through the CD player. What you are playing is not workout music. It is gay dance club music…I think. Why do you think I wear my headphones all the fucking time? It’s so I can drowned your lousy music out and yes, I am going deaf thank-you very little. At any rate from now on keep your fucking lost in the eighties hands off the fucking stereo. I can’t workout to A Flock of Seagulls one more time before I go seriously ape and do something you’ll regret. Turn up the fucking Killers NOW!

Red Guy – No I’m not talking about Native Americans here, they’re not actually red. You my friend are fucking as red as a fire truck. You have the oddest fucking tone to your skin I’ve ever witnessed. You look like you’ve been dry humping a nuclear reactor. That can’t be the result of tanning. Is that bottled tanning? Are you on the juice? Were you crossbred with a strawberry? Are you fucking staring at me? Word to the wise you full body birthmark I’ve killed tomatoes tougher than you. Why you come in here with a shiny tank top and shorts that are made out of as much material as the collar of Dick Vital’s turtleneck and glare at me is beyond any reason. But seriously I want to help. Come out to my car. In the back I have a gallon of brown stain. What I’ll do so you don’t like a drunk’s nose is paint you from head to toe and while I’m at it I’ll tell you the facts of life which are that I can kick your fucking ass so if you ever glare at me again your worst problem won’t be trying to get that stain out of your hair. Get it? Got it? Good.

Cardio Guru (the triathalon master) - (for my buddy Jay up in Maine) – Sweet mother of Mary are you running on that treadmill in a Speedo? You might need a shoe horn to tuck in your unmentionables somethings hanging out on the left. No your other left. And you don’t have a problem with chaffing? Sure and butter is a good sexual lubricant. What the Hell is the purpose of a triathalon? Swim, ride bike, run. The end you say? That’s the same goal I have with a bottle of beer. I have an idea I’ll race you from my easy chair. I can carb load watching Scooby Doo while your joints are rubbed down into cartilage filings. When we’re done with our “race” I’ll pull you in a wagon to the nearest bar. Sometimes the laziest does win the race.

Sally workout slut – You might want to pull that swatch of nylon out of your crotch that you call shorts, right now its looking like a tiny life raft sinking in a pond of hair. Did I just here a sucking sound when you got up off that bench? Two words: Baby Powder. Here’s a clue. Uh, yeah, please, no more splits. You aren’t fucking tantalizing, you’re gross. You look like a cross dressing rooster. Quit hitting on the twenty year old guys. The only thing you’re going to pick up in here is athletes foot on your ass because 90% of that tugboat is touching the surface of the machines that I unfortunately want to use. If you want to hook up put on some clothes and go to a BAR! I’m sure you will be able to find a guy drunk enough there to think your deflated hot water bottle teets and the mole the size of a donut hole on your chin is alluring.

Father Son combo - Spending “quality time” with the son are we? Good for you Goober. How old is that toothpick of a kid? Seven? Do you see how is arms are hyper extending under the weight of that bar? That’s not exercise that is child abuse. You do know that with the Gomer Pile genetics you’re sporting that his odds of becoming the next QB for the Packers is about as likely Jim Morrison showing up for a Doors reunion. Stop yelling at him this isn’t boot camp! How would you like me to come up with a bull horn and yell at you while you’re doing your five pound leg extensions? Let me guess, you were never more than third string on any little league or high school team. I know I’m right you didn’t need to tell me that. So, how do we remedy this situation before junior here goes whacko and clubs the opposing pitcher over the head with an aluminum bat because he strikes out? Let me tell you how. Lay the fuck off. The world isn’t run by star athletes. George W. Bush was a cheerleader for God’s sake. Sure the star athletes get the chicks and I know you married a woman that looks like Bea Arthur and you want more for your seed but the fame is only a flash in the pan of life. So take your kid fishing or introduce him to the classics. No you moron the classics aren’t a type of aerobics class. They’re…forget it.

To my #1 fan. I still internet love your smile.