Had to steal this:
From TC Luoma, who “is an edgy humorist and advocate, defender, and reveler in all things Testosterone. He’s also a motivational guru for people who hate pansy-assed motivational gurus.
He’s an expert in manipulating human physiology so that you can increase your sexual vitality, your energy, your athletic and muscular capabilities, your looks, and your joy of life in general.
He can also whip your ass in Jeopardy.”
I can’t fucking believe it.
There are only two power racks in the whole damn gym and both of them are occupied.
Ordinarily, I could deal with that, but one of them’s being used by some doughy meatball who thinks it’s some kind of sensory deprivation tank.
I mean he’s just lying on the floor in the middle of the rack! He’s passively stretching his right leg on one of the uprights and his eyes are covered with a towel.
Several minutes go by and he hasn’t moved.
And it’s not like he collapsed after a hard set of squats because the bar doesn’t have any plates on it! He just saw the rack and thought it looked like a nice place to nest in; reminiscent of the empty refrigerator boxes he used to crawl into and probably light his farts when he was a kid; reminiscent of his mother’s womb where he probably used to light his farts when he was an embryo!
And I can’t even cough or hrummph mightily to give him a hint because he’s got headphones on!
I just know the motherfucker is listening to lute music, or maybe Enya’s greatest hits. So even if Deepak could see me standing over him, glowering, he wouldn’t be able to hear me emulate James Gandolfini from In the Loop:
You know what you look like? A squeezed dick. You got a big blue vein running up your head all the way to your temple. See, that’s where I’d put the bullet. Only I’d have to stand back ‘cause you look like a squirter.
I feel like taking one of the two business ends of an Olympic bar, chalking it up and ramming it up Siddhartha’s ass, but he probably wouldn’t even flinch because he probably spent the night with a horse cock up there and the bar would feel achingly familiar.
Besides, it hasn’t been that long since some guy in the gym started a petition to have my membership revoked and I’m thinking it might be in my best interest to behave.
Anyhow, meditation boy finally gets up, folds up his towel, smooths out his somewhat ironic Under Armour shirt that makes him look like one of the members of the original starship Enterprise, and vacates the power rack, taking little tiny steps that remind me of the stuffed bear in the Snuggle fabric softener commercials.
It turned out that Deepak had, in a way, done me a favor. His lack of awareness fired me up for my dead lifts and rack pulls, allowing me to chalk up an awesome, ball-wracking workout.
But even in the smack-dab middle of my blood fever, an imaginary dialog kept running through my head, a futile but satisfying discourse aimed at Deepak—or people like him—to help him understand a little something about this thing we call weightlifting.
Why We Lift
“Hey, testicularly challenged one, I know you think lifting weights is a sensible way to achieve a modicum of flexibility, strength, and health, and that nine out of ten doctors, as well as Obviousshit.com, recommends it, but what you do is as dramatically different from what I do, as what an air guitarist does is to what Hendrix does, or did.
“Scratch that. At least the air guitarist emulates passion, whereas you’re as devoid of it as my cousin, Lewis “Charcoal Briquettes” Luoma, who accidentally and tragically set his scrotum on fire when a bottle rocket got loose in his pants at an unfortunate 4th of July celebration.
“Likewise, you believe that Dancercize or, I don’t know, freaking Tap Kwan Doe where you learn to immobilize potential opponents with an enchanting but ultimately mesmerizing combination of martial arts moves and tap dancing, are healthful aerobic activities that will add years to your life and life to your years (oh puke).
“Sure, I get it. And likewise you think that us weightlifter types are a misguided bunch, lifting only for vanity and trying to achieve a look that’s more suited to comic books and yes, yes, the last animals who let their bodies get really big and their brains really small are now fueling up your gas tank at three bucks a gallon.
“Perversely, the only ‘lifters’ you have respect for are those poseurs on TV who put the porcine through their paces for the grim, rubber-necking delight of the TV audience who, male and female alike, is picking ‘tater chip and Oreos crumbs out of their chest hair while watching the fleshy spectacle unfold—or unflab— before them.
“And maybe most pathetic of all is that you somehow think just going to the gym—just showing up—is equivalent to doing a hard workout that leaves you physically tired but mentally charged.
“Well Deepak, at best you’re sadly uniformed. At worst, you’re a smug, weak, inconsiderate, clueless dick.
“It’s true that most of us started out lifting when our pee-pees were as smooth, innocent, and as timid as newborn fawns, tip-toeing and nuzzling around the vast, surrounding, female pubic hair forest, and that our main motivation for lifting might have been some acid brew of power and vanity, but that changed over the years.
“It morphed into a quest for some sort of control over our lives; we were tired of being confronted by the insidious numbers of modern life that afflict us: how much money we make, our rank in our class, our SAT numbers, our cholesterol, our blood pressure, our freakin’ PSA. The weights gave us numbers that we controlled a helluva lot more easily than modern life’s numbers. Two hundred twenty five was not immutable. With a little dedication and a little sweat, it could be turned into 315, 405, 495, or more.
“Now those were numbers that correlated with health and vitality; those were numbers that correlated with your asskickedness; your very superiority over weaker life forms.
“So don’t blame us if we’re occasionally a little smug about it. The person who doesn’t work out is committing slow suicide. He isn’t doing jack-shit to forestall his decrepitude and impending death.
“And we know that people who participate in other sports or physical activities don’t proselytize. Sure, badminton players or goddam handballers don’t go around telling you that you need to bat a few shuttlecocks or slap a bouncy, hairless sheep testicle around. Yeah, we’re kind of evangelical when it comes to our passion, but you would be too, Deepak, if you knew just a little of what we know.
“We won’t deny that there’s a strong esthetic component and that the confidence we get from our endeavors give us a leg up—hopefully two legs up, breasts heaving and pussy juice flowing—over the soft boys who are marinated with Axe Body Wash and suffer from vagina envy.
“Sure, sure, you’re in the gym and what you’re doing can loosely be called working out, but it’s half-hearted. There’s nothing courageous about it. Can you even comprehend going in the gym and actually being a little afraid about the weight you’re going to lift because it might crush you? I doubt it.
“The most fear you’ll likely experience is that you’re accidentally going to cut wind in aerobics class when you’re doing your little shake-your-tush, do-si-do, Rockettes number to the soundtrack of Glee.
“Our ‘aerobics’ consist of either going out for a pass or power boinking around our apartments, hips thrusting like a hardware store paint mixer while a tiny naked Asian woman—or Amanda Bynes, take your pick—has her legs wrapped around us and is screaming the names of the Holy Triumvirate.
“And yeah, I know we’re sometimes a little full of bravado and bluster, but a lot of us are larger than life, Deepak. The drum we march to is a huge motherfuckin’ Japanese taiko drum and it’s being thumped on by a huge sumbitch that looks like Chong Li from the old Bloodsport movie and it’s all we can do to keep from mooning the world or giving it any one of a number of obscene gestures.
“We’re full of animus, or the life force, so forgive us if we don’t sit down with you and discuss our favorite lunchmeats, Lady Gaga’s new hat, or whether our socks should match the shoes or the trousers.
“Ultimately, though, lifting weights has taught us that there’s not much in life that comes without discipline, hard work, and some pain. It doesn’t matter if, for any one of us who lifts seriously, there are guys walking around who are probably two or three times stronger that us.
“Our individual genetic limitations aren’t our fault, but rather than getting weepy eyed over them, we max them out, take them as far as they’ll go, and then use supplements, evolved methodologies, or in some cases, drugs, to take them beyond that which nature intended, which is a far sight better than most people do, regardless of what specific human endeavor we’re talking about.
“No Deepak, unlike you, we’re given these bodies and we explore their possibilities to the fullest and the lessons we learn in doing so help us approach other deficits, physical or mental, in the same way. The result is often a well-rounded, actualized human being.
“So in the future, please stay the fuck away from my power rack unless you’re going to actually slap some plates on the bar. In return, I promise not to take a dump on your meditation mat.”