Shit That Needs to Stop : The Gym

At one time or another, we’ve all been there.  Some of us still go often.  Yet more of us go once each quarter but put “3x per week” on our dating profiles.

It’s The Gym.  Whether you patronize fancy-schmancy places like LA Fitness or that budget shithole Planet Fitness (like I do), the experience is largely the same – only the sartorial quality of the front desk staff, bathroom fixtures, and monthly payments vary significantly.

Unfortunately, the majority of that common experience is a frustrating one.  There’s almost zero upside to The Gym, actually… maybe a communal sense of progress and a synergy of motivation?  Yeah, that’s pushing it.  It mostly sucks.

Exercise Bike Seats

I’m limited in my choices for cardio exercise, thanks to a knee that has been summarily stripped of cartilage throughout my adult years.  There’s more bone-on-bone contact in there than a skeleton orgy.

Consequently, I’m relegated to the monotony of the exercise bike most days.  I don’t mind it, and I could put in an hour of sweat equity in each visit, if it wasn’t for one thing.

Every exercise bike seat ever made is as comfortable as a flaming enema.

Remember that Mohs scale of hardness you learned about in 8th grade Earth Science class?  The one where your teacher busted out samples of talc, quartz, seven other things you never heard of, and an empty spot where the diamond should be?  Yeah, here’s the unabridged version they never taught you:


Honestly.  How hard would it be to design a seat that didn’t push my prostate into my throat after thirty minutes of spirited cycling?  Isn’t that the least expensive and difficult portion of the bike to engineer?  Fuck it, I’m bringing a throw pillow tomorrow.

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The Re-Arranger

The gym I frequent, like most, is separated into discrete areas to do different things.  There’s the cardio area, the free weight area, the weight machines area, and a stretching area.  A posted policy politely asks patrons to NOT move equipment from one area to another.  In other words, Captain Crossfit, don’t move benches out of the weights area and don’t take the jump rope to the cardio area.  Do what you gotta do where you gotta do it.

Oh no.  Here comes The Re-Arranger with some high-tech workout requirements that us plebeians just wouldn’t understand.

Whatever it is they are doing, it requires moving a weight bench into the stretching area, securing some kettle bells, performing a Navajo rain dance, folding a stretching mat in half, and having a friend with a stop watch and radar gun monitor the activity.

Look, asshole, I know you’re super stoked that you just got this month’s copy of Muscle & Fitness in the mail today, and you can’t wait to follow that “Seven Simple Steps to Shredded” routine in the centerfold.  But you need to realize you are sitting at about 26% body fat, you look like an idiot, you’re pissing everyone else off, and you need to take your badly overestimated sense of fitness acumen to the treadmill for about four months before you even think about a need for any one exercise to be this elaborate.

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The Caveman (Peacock)

I like to lift weights.  Not only does it make me straight diesel, brah, I’ve found it to be quite beneficial to my mental well-being.  It’s almost meditative, lifting heavy shit and zoning out for a little while.  Just like our friend The Re-Arranger up there, I’m about 10 points of body fat away from doing anything at the gym for show.  The weights, they’re for relaxation; for me anyway.

It’s hard to relax, though, when the guy next to me doing hammer curls is audibly grunting like he’s climaxing into a wild rhinoceros.  Yeah, I know, there’s really no such thing as a domesticated rhinoceros.

Okay.  One, two, breathe, three, four, fi-


When he’s finished sexually assaulting the ears of any other patron within twenty yards, The Caveman heads over to the rack to put his free weights back in the assigned location.  I’m sure he’ll just gently and carefully place them where they’re sup-


And now, yes, it’s time for the victory parade.  Now that dozens of eyes are trained on his string-tank-top clad person, it’s time for The Caveman to become The Peacock.  He dips his beak into that one-gallon jug of water spiked with Winstrol and struts betwixt every weight bench in sight, panting and fist-pumping to let us know that he knows he totally killed it.

I think I’ll just have salad for dinner.