This Is Why I Hate You, Gold's Gym

Trying to cancel a gym membership is about as hard as holding yourself to eating only one serving of your Mom’s homemade raspberry-pomegranate Jell-O on Thanksgiving.

For full effect, download “I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I suddenly feel the frustrations pent up in Chandler Bing’s weak appendages when he goes to cancel a membership at the local club and ends up signing a three-year deal with a bench-pressing Satan. And no, I do not care about the legal liabilities I am putting at risk by slamming one of the most meathead-infested potholes to have ever been created. I am just here to speak the truth.

Gold’s Gym is of the devil. The Devil I tell ya!!!

You can go ahead and delete the last 97½ minutes of my life that has been spent both on hold listening to a repeated cycle of inflated bimbos telling me that going to Gold’s is the best resolution out there, feathered with a grunt worker with single-digit brain cells trying to ramp up my internal motivation to lose the muffintop I’m holding hostage in my belly, and on the phone with a 35-year old stock voiceover that tried to use as many multi-syllabic filler words possible, thinking that I was just another one of the dipstick projects that flexes when flossing.

V.O.: “Well sir, just looking at the corporate documentation that we have on file and on record, I can see that there must have been some confusion as to the whereabouts of your understanding of the figurative obligation and the literal obligation that exists between the clientele and the party who is offering the mandated structured assignment.”

Me: “Lady, you just said a paragraph’s worth of bull crap assuming that I am your typical ignoramus who cares only about the size of my biceps and has a hard time spelling out the acronym, G.P.A., would you please stop with your arrogant stereotyping and get to the curse-wording point?”

Seriously Gold’s, why do you have a monopoly on fat people and rope them into life-long pursuits of unfulfilled resolutions? Why must you put every single flaming hoop, brick wall, pool of acid, shotgun-loaded booby trap possible in the way when your own clients call the customer service reps in hope of negotiating some sort of compromise? WHY IS IT SO FREAKING HARD TO JUST STOP GOING TO YOUR GYM?!

It’s almost as if you are Big Brother who is always watching, and there is no possible way I will ever be free from your imperial domination. And yes, if you just happen to be a supervisor or manager or Debbie from Human Resources reading this blogpost, I did in fact just make reference to a classic George Orwell novel that you more than likely have never heard of, simply to prove a point that you are impossible to be unchained from. You are slowly trying to take over our lives, one frumpy fellow at a time.

V.O.: “Sir, are you sure this is something you want to do? Do you realize the risks you will be putting your physical body through by stopping a regular schedule of physical exercise?”

Me: “Again, why do you think I’m some sucker who dropped out of Elementary School because I failed Show-and-Tell? Just because I don’t go to YOUR actual gym does not mean I don’t understand the concept of healthy diets, cross training, and the law of calorie balancing. And let’s be honest, is it a safe bet to make that less than 10% of people who have passes at your Mothership actually go to the gym on a consistent weekly basis?”

V.O.: “I uh…I don’t have those kind of statistics sir.”

Me: “Sure you don’t, but good job on pronouncing the word statistics correctly.”

This is a travesty. A scam. A roid-loaded monstrosity that propagandizes to the world about becoming a better person physically, but secretly is trying to suck the soul out of their bodies with five-year contracts behind their back. Gold’s Gym is a cult. It’s a brainwashing vacuum that monopolizes on low self-esteems and bellykegs just to rope people into $25 a month deals for the rest of eternity. I use to think they were nutcases, but I can now see why the trending world is becoming converted to Crossfit.  

V.O.: “I’m sorry sir, there’s really nothing I can do to cancel this. From what our documentation says, you are under contract until January 2015.”

Me: “And from what my documentation says, you are just a robot engineered with regurgitated responses that took you three years to learn how to read. I’ll call you back in 11 months.”

And so there it stands. 97½ minutes of my life gone, wasted, down the drain. And all I have to show for it is an 11-month deal with tank tops, dirty towels, and protein shakes aplenty. #firstworldmeatheadproblems for sure. I may be stuck for the moment, but just you wait. I’m taking you down Gold’s Gym, you hear me? Mark my words and remember this blogpost. Because one day, I will take you down.

Pregnancy vs. The Big Spoon

Women have the children, men be the big spoon. Those are the sacrifices each side makes when it comes to relationships. 

For full effect, download "The Compromise" by The Fray and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

You may think I'm joking, but this post is 100% sober-serious. This is not some figurative way of speaking on how a relationship is going to work out by using a metaphorical reference to two people spooning. Nay, this is a verbatim/actual reference to what it will take to make two people stay together for the long haul. And I mean this in the most literal sense. Because when push comes to shove, I think that a true man needs to realize that he is never, ever going to be the big spoon.

Plain and simple. 

Now women, you may throw a fit reading this and say that carrying a six-pound human being in your belly for nine months, plus the 36-hour marathon saga of delivering a home-cooked live action meal to a Lithuanian obstetrician is not even in the same ballpark of difficulty as someone playing the role of an attractive turtle shell, but hold on just a second, there is more pain than meets the eye when it comes to being the big spoon. 

Being the big spoon is one clusterfest of agony for eight plus hours where you're dealing with mouthfuls of hair, numb appendages, and uncomfortable contortions to your adjusted spinal column that makes any chiropractor shake his head in disgust. Being the big spoon in the C-Word is about as fun as watching a marathon of the Golden Girls without taking shots of Nyquil. And yes, I did just refer to what we’re talking about here as the C-word, not for implied dirty thoughts, but according to the Bro Code, a Bro vows to never ever say that six-digit word that rhymes with shuttle.

True story.

As men, the big spoon is the role we are destined to play. From a practical sense, we are the providers, we are the shelter, we are the ones who will have to receive arthroscopic shoulder surgery in the future after years of having our biceps used as a pillow. Sure, being the big spoon does not involve breathing exercises, dill pickle and ice cream cravings, and a contracting uterus for three days, but hey, in comparison with all of the little pains us big spoons have to endure, it’s safe to say that things even out in the end, right? I mean, we both have to sacrifice somewhere to make this work, don’t we?

Ladies, I know you’re plotting your response. You’re grinding your teeth and rolling your eyes, but let me ask you this, how many times have you been woken up by a mouthful of a man’s hair at 3:17 in the morning? How many times has your right arm lost its supply of blood for a few hours, making you feel like you’re James Franco’s character in 127 Hours? How many times have you ever been the big spoon? Unless you’re taller than six feet five inches, I say none of you have ever played that role before.

The big spoon is torture, it is agony, it is a nightlong punishment posing as physical affection. Being the big spoon is pure hell just to show that you care for someone. Ladies, the second you roll over and turn us into a human backpack, is the moment we realize there will not be any sweet dreams at all. It is the backdoor blockade of any good night’s rest. It is the ultimatum. But you know what, we will keep being the big spoon just to let you know we care that much about you.

Over the last week or so there have been a flood of blogposts trending on the Web about what it takes for a man and woman to have a successful relationship. There are women pointing out what they learned over their first 10 years, divorced men discussing things they wished they would have known in their now-dissolved marriage, all sorts of stay-at-home potential writers blogging about what they feel are the most important factors to keep a couple happy.

But if you’re going to ask this punk kid what it takes to have a successful relationship with another person, what are the guidelines to making a marriage work, and what is the ultimate rule that two people who fell in L-word need to follow to stay together, the bottom line is this.

Women be the child-bearers, men be the big spoons.

You Thinking About Dying Anytime Soon?

Who died and said I have to answer to you when it comes to the progress of my life?

For full effect, download “Yakety Yak” by The Coasters and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

“So are you dating anyone these days? How’s the love life?” says every single jerkoff wearing a wedding ring that I have a conversation with.

Me: “Oh it’s great. You know, just dating here and there, things are going pretty well.”

Married Jerkoff: “Well if I were you I would really look to start settling down sometime soon.”

If I were you? What kind of a phrase is that? Are you implying that I’m a failure at life because we didn’t make the exact same decisions in college? I’ll tell you what, if we switched places I would go ahead and pull the telephone pole right out of my own anus that makes me be such a condescending prick to every one of my single friends and judges them for not being strapped down like the rest of the married world. That is what I would do “if I were you”.

In your eyes life is a competition. It’s a grudge match where we are pinned against each other vying for the honor of best human being. Since when do any of us have to compare our accomplishments? Just because you settled down with the first pair of legs that walked your way the second you got home from some foreign land like Millwaukee, does not mean that you are a better individual than I am.

This world thinks we are all in some race pushing for the same endgame of having a ridiculously large family with a never ending number of stick figure stickers on the back of our minivans. Now I understand the importance of setting goals and striving for accomplishments especially when it comes to the concept of having a family, but I do think that saying my life is a failure thus far just because I haven’t met my mate is a little bit douchey.

And yes, I did just say douchey. Go ahead, call me immature.  

How would you feel if every single person you knew turned the tables and threw your own judgmental medicine right back at you when you asked how close we were to getting married? Tying the knot does not give you a free pass at never doing anything productive in your life again. Just because you settled down does not mean you shouldn’t try to improve your life in other aspects.

“Hey Married Pete, how’s life? You given up watching porn yet? You know you really should. Life is so much better without disgusting habits like that.”

Yes, that’s how awkward it feels every single time one of you asks why we are losers without a spouse. It’s the equivalent to us poking fun in public at your secret dirty addictions.

Why is my life gauged by how soon I am going to find a spouse? Why can’t the caliber of who I am as an individual be graded by other influences like education, high-class friendships, and overall quality of life? For some reason the world thinks that every 28-year old man who doesn’t have a ring on his finger is living the most barren, most empty, most unproductive existence imaginable.

In your eyes I’m a prisoner, without the ball and chain.

Can’t you all just take a break? Just relax for a few short seconds, and not make this giant world we live in a conglomerate competition? When I go home for family reunions and I begin small talking with my 93-year old Great Grandma, I’m not asking her how soon she’s going to kick the bucket. After all, when you’ve been on this Earth for almost a century, that’s pretty much the next/last attainable goal possible. Last I checked it’s not a race to see how soon she’s going to be dying.

I guess the bottom line, and I say this on behalf of every member of the Single People’s Union, is to stop asking us when we’re going to get married. Life isn’t a freaking race. So what if you’ve been hitched for almost a decade and just found out you’re having your 8^th kid. You don’t see me asking you when you’re going to get your tubes tied do you? I don’t ask because the status of your life, and your goals are really none of my business.

That, and the fact conversations about your ovaries never really end on a good note. 

Goin' Back To Cali

I don’t think I could survive if I was forced to live in the state of California.

For full effect, download “Highway Five” by American Music Club and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Might I also add if your name is Brett Schwartz, stop reading this blogpsot immediately and do something else that is boring in your married life. Don’t tell me when I can and cannot blog. Go back to your drug-induced nap coma and shut your face.

When I say I don’t think I could survive in California, it’s not that I have an inner-sissy lodged inside that quivers at the idea of living in places that have more than one stoplight. I say I don’t think I could survive because soon enough the ignorant behavior you all exhibit would trigger my rage face and I would ultimately be carted off to the nearest asylum.

I don’t get you California people. And I only say “you” California people because I know there are probably a handful of people who read this blog who probably want to punch me in the temple for me mocking their home territory.

Yes Mike and Mazie, I’m referring to you. I don’t need to receive a text message telling me to have an open mind.

You Californians are a unique batch of people. You’re so liberal, you’re so free-spirited. You create restaurants like True Food Kitchen where the marquee meal is a tofu steak garnished with shredded wood chippings. You pass laws that allow children to enter a bathroom not based off the physical characteristics they were genetically engineered to have, but based off whether or not they like the team they are playing for.

And you wonder why the rest of the world makes fun of the Kardashians.

California sure is a tough environment to stomach I’m not going to lie. A place where none of you have been taught the concept of the fast lane on freeways. A place where if you voice your opinion on gun laws or planned parenthood you will be shot on sight. A place where the Terminator is your most hallowed public politician.

Yeah, this place is nuts.   

Death To Meat Heads

Yes, we can all see the blood-pumping veins protruding from your biceps in between your seventh and eighth inverted curl, please stop having a staring contest with yourself in the mirror. We all know how large your own ego is. 

            

For full effect, download “Let The Bodies Hit The Floor” by Drowning Pool, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

            

May I ask, has anything changed in that reflective plate from the last time you stopped to admire yourself less than 40 seconds earlier? Did your shoulders spring an extra three inches? Did the line in your quads become just a little more defined than before? Go ahead, check yourself one more time. We’ll all just sit back in between your second and third set to make sure you do look as physically appealing as ever.    

Cue golf clap from the 18^th at St. Andrews from a crowd overcome with awe at the physical specimen that they just witnessed. 

    

Cue right middle finger being inserted down the back of my throat to instigate vomiting session on the decline bench where I am seated.    

           

You sir, are a reason why I feel the need to take a 20-minute shower in semi-boiling water to rid myself from your egotistical vibrations. You make me want to not look at my own self in the mirror and see a pudgy putz with overly large love handles staring back.      

            

In my own eyes, I am an ogre. 

            

I am a fat bastard.

            

I am out of shape.

            

In your eyes I may appear to be someone that could be the middle class of an Ironman triathlon. That’s what I may appear to you, but to me, when I look in the mirror, I’m a slab of undercooked meat. 

            

I am a missed protein shake away from a corroded artery. 

            

I am a repugnant slob who needs to shave another 8 seconds off my 10k before the diabetes decides to set in.

           

I am not however, a pretentious, shallow numbnut who parades around in a cutoff Gold’s t-shirt, flexing my latissimus dorsi, and clavicular pectoralis majora for the ladies to fawn over. I am not a 27-point I.Q. offensive lineman who has to grunt after every rep of my seated row, just so everyone in the gym can see how HARD I AM WORKING! YEAH!!!

            

I am not an annoying stickler who stands next to the hottest of all hotties on the elliptical, recounting the amazing one-handed catch I had in an intramural football game last week. I am not a fake-n-baker.

            

I am not a 5'4" skimpy tattoo-adorned stick figure wearing merely a Q-tip, a pink satin ribbon, and a rubber band to show off my "hot bod".

             

Where I go, as I have begun the reconstruction process of my physical appearance, goes to show that this world has problems. Big ones. When people dedicate their lives solely for the purpose of stretching their musculus deltoideus in front of the mirror just so everyone else can see how toned they are. We as a society have issues.

            

That’s not why you should be shaping those muscles into place you idiot, you should be doing it for the betterment of your overall physical condition, not so that you can catch her ogling you from the treadmill three rows back.  

            

“You mind givin’ me a spot?” A muttonhead asks without making eye contact.  

            

Common courtesy in a gym is not something I remember being mentioned in “The Bro Code”.

            

He pumps, spraying out the reps to me, to the surrounding patrons, to the entire gym, assuming that for some reason I decided to take a nap every single morning in my kindergarten counting drills.     

            

One. Two. Three. 

            

He lifts for the physical gratification of knowing that his butt will match his pecs, and that his body fat will be less than four percent.   

            

Four. Five. Six.

            

He lifts so when she rips his shirt off at the club, a flash pause of carnal craving will catch her off guard while she admires his solid, toned, bronze-tanned abdominal muscles that she could sharpen her entire set of cutlery on. 

            

Seven. Eight.

            

He lifts for not feeling nauseous while looking at himself in the mirror when he steps out of the shower.  

            

Nine. 

            

I lift because I don’t want to end up like the 387-pound Twinkie I saw last night on “Hoarders”.     

            

Ten. 

            

He steam engines the last blast so bold his spit hits my forehead while I’m re-racking the weight. Thank you for deciding to spray your saliva on my brow without asking for my consent. Favors for meatheads are not recognized by Karma whatsoever.

            

“Hey, you done here?” He wipes his face without looking up from a towel that he probably hasn’t washed since the day he decided to hit puberty. 

            

“Yeah, I’m out.” I say. 

            

I am your vacated New Year’s resolution, surrounded by filth in a box full of junkies.  

This Is What Drunk Brock Looks Like

Don't be confused by the title, this is not actual drunk Brock. He hasn't really ever existed. This drunk Brock is someone who is heavily intoxicated with Sudafedrin, Nyquil, and Carbemazepine after battling a severe flu outbreak last week. And when drunk Brock hears one of the all-time greatest songs by Queen and gets handed a microphone at a karaoke party, entertaining moments in time will happen. 

For the record, non-intoxicated Brock does not really remember any of this actually happening. However, thanks to modern technology and a dear friend with a camera, these five minutes of glory will forever be remembered. 

Enjoy.  

Bulimic Girls Should Not Give Public Speeches

Part of me thinks I should ride off into the sunset, fade away into nothing, wash my hands and close the final chapter on a blogging career that has been a little over mediocre thus far. However, after what happened Sunday night with the fandemonium over my public groping in a Mexican restaurant, I don’t think there is any way to top my accidental sexual slide into second base.  

Maybe it was the humor of the story, or maybe the Internet is just infested with pornographic-driven searches that direct people to targeted websites that have the word “boob” in the title. At this point I can’t be certain, but I will say that stories about me feeling up a woman in public sure put a smile on your face. And after all is said and done, I really don’t think there is any way I can top Sunday’s post.

Unless I tell you yet another embarrassing moment from my life.

For some reason you all love to hear about the stories of my life. Stories that range from awkward break up text messages sent to former girlfriends, or stories when I took Charles Manson’s niece out to dinner. Whatever it is, you love to hear the stories of my life. And so with that being said, and the fact that God gave me a high enough self-esteem to be able to publically embarrass myself on the Internet, I thought I would share with you yet another brief moment of complete and total shame.

Now don’t raise your expectations by any means. This is not a one-upper post that will make you laugh uncontrollably over my humiliation and for some reason has something to do with my inexperience in human sexual functions. There is absolutely no way this embarrassment can top my public groping in Mexican restaurants in any way possible. But, this might be a pretty good story to giggle over for a few minutes and could perhaps inspire a few likes and shares on the Internet here and there.

You be the judge.

For full effect, download “I Live For The Applause” by Lady Gaga and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Cut to the fall of 2007 where a more ignorant, more disrespectful, more plump version of my sarcastic self was seated on the front row of my Integrated Oral Presentations class, listening to a stick figure in earrings begin the opening line to her overly dramatic speech on a particular issue that she was dealing with in her life.

Stick Figure: “Honestly, out of all of the trials and disabilities that I have had to overcome, something that I have had the hardest time handling is coming to the realization that I…am…bulimic.”

Cue awkward silence with cricket chirps for a good solid three seconds of class time while we as an audience digested her opening line. (And yes, pun intended)

Jerkoff Me Trying To Lighten The Mood: “You can read minds?”

For the record, if you have not seen the film Zoolander at this point in your life, please do not think that I am:

A. Some complete and total prick

B. Ignorant of eating disorders

or C. Breaking the Cardinal sin of poking fun at a woman’s weight. After all, I was raised in a home with 11 women and a Father who cried at Nike commercials, I know what is right and wrong in a female’s mind. I was simply replaying one of the best all-time scenes in the history of movies based off of male models, and trying to lighten the mood for a stick figure looking for comfort as she exposed her deepest, darkest secrets to her classmates.

Cue the extended silence as the toothpick with long brown locks gave me a death stare that would have melted a hole through Kanye West’s ego.

Douchebag Me: “Zoolander…? Anyone…?” I looked around for any sign of approval as the rest of the class and my Professor Eric Young reigned down hellfire upon my soul with their scowls of disapproval. 

Stick Figure: “No. Bulimia is not funny at all. What kind of jerk are you? GEEZ!!”

She continued on with her speech meanwhile I folded my arms and bowed my head like a disfigured runt puppy showing any sliver of respect that I could to a toothpick in a blouse who from that point on had the legal rights to give me a full-on castration without anesthesia whenever and wherever she would like.

Once those vile words were spit from my mouth I was the Devil’s child to my classmates, the spawn of Satan, a despicable creature who thought poking fun at eating disorders was a civilized form of humor. Granted, none of the old farts in my class had ever seen the glorious spoof on male modeling known as Zoolander, but regardless, I was a dead man to them.

Maybe I shouldn’t have blurted out that movie quote with the hopes of getting a few chuckles. Or maybe I shouldn’t have attempted to lighten the mood on a serious issue that millions of people struggle with every day. Heck, maybe I shouldn’t have even gotten out of bed that morning. Regardless, there is one thing I did learn that day from my imitation of Ben Stiller that in my mind is still as clear as crystal.

Never use Bulimia in a punchline. 

Is This What Boobs Feel Like?

Based on the title, you might be thinking this is going to be some risky slam on the insecurities our culture has with basic human sexuality.

It’s not. 

Instead, this is going to be where I tell you how I got to second base over a steak burrito. 

For full effect, download “Brick House” by The Commodores and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Boobs are interesting creatures. And yes, I did just call them creatures for lack of a better word simply due to the fact that those beautiful lumps of fat create more controversy, more emotional rushes, and more uncomfortable addictions than cheap wine and “Duck Dynasty” combined. Let’s just face the facts. Boobs rule the world.

On behalf of the male gender, boobs are also the third leading cause of embarrassing moments of total dishonor, only behind getting caught lip-syncing to Justin Beiber at a stoplight, and coming to the sad realization that some of us are required to wear a t-shirt while swimming.

The following instance proves how boobs made me be a fine example of complete shame. 

This past week a trio of fine young chaps wrapped up an engaging lunch visit to Durango’s where we talked of memories past, discussed our personal lives, and reveled in the company of one another. I know that last sentence makes me sound like an honorable cast member from Downton Abbey, but I’m just trying to save any shrivel of dignity that I can as I pour open my guts to you in 700 words or less.

As the meal came to a close we began to head out the door back to our daily routines, when out of nowhere another close acquaintance called out a humorous remark my way causing my attention to be shifted from the door I was about to push open over to his laughing bearded face across the room.

“Yeah, next time you’re in town lets catch up.” I tossed his way as I reached again for the exit, my attention still trying to lip-read the words he was mumbling back at me. Still concentrating on his face I pushed the glass door open, suddenly causing a slight confusion to derail my conversation when I realized that this giant door no longer felt like a 2-inch plate of glass, but instead felt like a B-sized lump of fat with a slightly lace texture.

“That’s my boob.” the glass door said.

I turned my head to see a small mid-40’s woman in scrubs standing in the doorway, with my hand cupping her right breast like an overinflated water balloon.   

“Thanks for the goosage!” she said.

“I…I…uh…I…uh…I just…”

“It’s fine honey, I haven’t had action like that in months.”

I stood in the doorway like a petrified criminal as she walked past me. I was dumbfounded, I was stunned. I was a stupefied zit in puberty coming to grips that I had just felt up a woman in a Mexican restaurant and didn’t even ask for her phone number. I had gotten to second base faster than Barney Stinson, and I did not have the testosterone to appreciate it. Instead, I tucked my tail between my legs and scurried out the door like a poodle after a vasectomy.

Part of me wondered if these same awkward feelings exist on the night of a honeymoon. The other part of me wondered if I needed to be booked as a sex offender by the Washington County Police Department. Either way, it was one of the most embarrassing, most uncomfortable, most anti-manly moments of my young adult life.

Thank you boobs, for once again bringing me to my knees in complete and total humiliation.