There was a lady swimming around the pool at my gym with a snorkel today. What are you doing, looking for sunken treasure? Checking out the diverse ecosystem? I didn’t think going to the gym was very high on a crazy person’s to-do list; I would have thought all the yelling at strangers and claiming to be from the future would eat up most of their day. I’m trying to do laps and you’re swimming around like a fucking weirdo, as if you’re at a Caribbean resort. One of these things does not belong.
The Not-So Nudist
“What do you mean put some clothes on? Can’t you see that I have a towel draped over my shoulder so that it hangs precariously in front of my dick?”
“Don’t be a fag, it’s called a change room for a reason”
The problem with these guys is that they can’t just join the rest of their nude brethren, they have to be different. The Naked Guy is commonplace, and thus easy to ignore, but you’re some sort of rare hybrid that catches everyone off guard. You could have just worn your towel like a normal person but you chose not to. Now I’m thinking that you’re trying to show me your junk, all while maintaining a facade of false modesty, which is weird. And you’re absolutely right, this is a change room, but you’ve neglected arguably the most important part of getting changed: the part where you put clothes back on.
“Whoo, that last set made me feel so fucking jacked! I’m gonna go inexplicably punch and kick that heavy bag for a minute or two, just so everyone here knows how hardcore I am when I work out. Whoo!”
“Hey guys, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but it looks badass right?”
Thanks to the UFC, and their standard-issued bravado, every male under 25 now thinks that he is the next welterweight champion of the world. I hate the be the one to tell you this, but randomly striking a punching bag between sets will neither make you a better fighter nor will it provide you with much exercise. What it will do for you, in spades, is make you look like a fucking dumbass. If you were, in the least bit serious about making that sweet chin music, you’d be training at an actual boxing or MMA gym; not next to a 70 year old man who’s just trying to stave off the osteoporosis.
The Theoretical Bodybuilder
“Did you guys see that article in this month’s Men’s Health? It really got me thinking about how I’ve been neglecting my lats.”
“No, go ahead, I’m not using that. I’m just stretching; I don’t want to pull my vagina.”
Hearing someone talk about this kind of shit is pretty unavoidable at most gyms, everyone thinks they have a doctorate in Kinesiology because they read an article in a magazine. It should be noted too, that the Theoretical Bodybuilder isn’t the guy who looks like he’s benefited from all of his knowledge. He’s the guy who weighs 130 pounds and looks like he should be in his friend’s basement trying to conjure a dragon. He knows everything there is to know about working out and weight lifting, except how to actually do it. His feeble attempt at “shop talk” is about as convincing as Lindsay Lohan’s sobriety. If these guys worked out half as much as they talk about it, they’d be shoo-ins for next year’s Mr. Universe.