I’m in the gym again as my inability to put on socks without a run up is getting on my tits.
My man tits.
So, anyway, there’s a notice in here warning against swearing. We have to ‘be mindful and considerate to others’.
Of all the places to ban swearing, you’d think the last place would be a gym full of big ‘manly’ men and women.
Fuck me, what a pussy whipped bunch of cunts.
Yesterday I went to the gym after work, despite being tired after a long…fucking…day.
I walked up to the reception desk and handed over my membership card to the girl standing behind it (the desk, not my card).
Me: “Here you go“.
She took my card, looked at it for a second.
Girl: “Thank you Daniel“.
Bit weird, but OK.
Me: “Can I have a towel please?”
Girl: “Sure“.
She handed me a towel.
Me: “Thanks“.
Girl: “I love your energy! Have a great workout”
My energy?
All I did was ask for a towel and then thanked her for handing me that towel. It’s not like I bounded in, frisbee’d my membership card at her and bellowed: “Well hello there my good woman! May I have a towel for today’s exertions!!???”
Still, I mustered enough energy for an eye roll.
She deserved it.
I hate my days off.
Up until a month ago my wife and I had the same days off work; Tuesdays and Wednesdays. However, her shift changed and now she has the traditional Saturday and Sunday off.
To many, the thought of having time off work without their significant other is a dream come true, but there’s only so much I enjoy doing alone…and it’s getting really sore.
Now, I hate to be sickly sweet here, but my wife and I have an awesome marriage. Spending time without her is like watching anything with the Kardashians in it; a pointless waste of time. In addition, Tuesday is the day I Skype my family back in England so my wife is missing out on that too.
I would love to say something hilariously sarcastic and biting about in-laws and how she’s dodged a bullet, but alas…she really does love my family and vice versa.
I’m telling you, anyone looking in on our marriage from the outside is usually reaching for a bucket.
So, today is Tuesday, my wife left early for work, and I Skyped my family at the normal prearranged times. Due to the eight hour time difference, the Skype calls are very early in the morning so, historically (well, for the last month at least), I go back to sleep afterwards. However, instead of having a nap for a couple of hours, I usually end up sleeping for ages and missing most of the day.
Either that or I end up down a YouTube rabbit hole and still end up doing none of the things I had planned to do.
Yet I always seem to end up sore.
This is all made worse by a fuzzy head usually brought on by oversleeping or concentrating on a screen without blinking.
Well, today was going to be different. Today I was going to do some washing [laundry], tidy up, go to the gym and get my hair cut. So today I set myself an alarm to only sleep for an hour.
Genius, right?
Wrong.
Instead of only sleeping for an hour, I decided to snooze button my way through four hours of sleep.
It’s become another typical Tuesday…or, should I say ‘Snoozeday’? Huh? Get it? Snoozeday? Anyone?
(holds up hand for a high five he will never get, and all that can be heard is the sound of crickets as a lone tumbleweed rolls by)
I don’t even have the time or the energy to get my hair cut. This is an activity that involves me sitting down on the way to the Barber, sitting down while they do all the work, and then sitting down all the way home…and I still can’t be bothered.
Instead I’m slouched in bed, looking at the clock and justifying to myself that I simply don’t have the time to do anything.
Well, except write this post.
Priorities.
Now, where’s that box of tissues?
At the gym today I saw a man working out with a t-shirt that said:
KNOW GUNS, KNOW PEACE.
You’ll notice that some of it is in bold. It was an attempt at clever word play that, frankly, didn’t suit the wearer. He probably thought the colours were “Real purty”.
I don’t think he realised how oxymoronic that statement is.
Anyway, on the machine next to him was a man with the word ‘Jesus’ emblazoned on the front of his t-shirt in huge colourful letters.
It got worse.
The back of the t-shirt read:
‘John 3:3. Jesus Is coming. Are You Ready? Ask me about it.’
Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to SO much…but I didn’t think it was fair fight.
Only in America would those t-shirts exist, or be seen in public….let alone be seen side by side! What I found fascinating was that no one one batted an eyelid, no one stopped to gawp and no one pointed and giggled.
The closest I saw back in England was a t-shirt that had this on the front:
“Jesus loves you…”
And on the back it read:
“…but everyone else thinks you’re a cunt”
I wonder how that would go down over here?
I would probably ‘know peace’ very quickly.
Just coasting on the back of my last post; the woman on the exercise bike next to me is having a full blown, animated conversation on her phone. She’s panting heavily which I suppose is… sexy?
Unlike me, she’s pedalling very fast and sweating lots.
Also unlike me – who is able to compose this post whilst pedalling – she’s lacking the appropriate concentration necessary to multitask and has missed the pedals twice, nearly giving herself some complimentary handlebar dentistry.
Heavy breathing? Sexy.
Heavy bleeding? Not as much.
Period.
Gather ’round, gather ’round; I have a tale to tell……..the tale of FuckMonkey.
Now, before I tell this tale I need to get some stuff off my chest. At first it will feel like I am never getting to the story of FuckMonkey, but believe me…I am.
All will become clear.
So, to begin, I would like to talk about the gym, again. The last time I shared observations about the gym I hadn’t been in the country very long so my exposure was as limited as the brain power of…of…well, FuckMonkey actually.
More of that later.
I’ve noticed some behaviours in the gym here in Vegas that just need to be shared. This isn’t including the weirdos who pay a yearly gym subscription just to stretch and do mat exercises on the floor.
Just do that shit at home.
(shrugs)
Anyway, here are 5 baffling and annoying behaviours and practices I’ve seen at the gym, in between gawping at unnecessarily muscular girls’ bums.
1 – Massive Water Bottles.
I don’t really get this one. These things are mini (but not THAT mini) versions of office water coolers.
Compensating for something?
Considering the gym has drinking fountains and bottle filling stations everywhere offering nice cool filtered water, why do you need to bring such a huge bottle and carry it around with you? It’s like having a huge plate at an all-you-can eat buffet. Yes you can put more food on your plate all at once (you greedy fuck), but the food will not be far from the preferred temperature long before you finish the plate.
Mmm, warm water. Refreshing.
At first I thought it was for those crazy people who do cardio for what seems like hours – putting the rest of us to shame – but these bottles don’t fit through most doorways, let alone the cup-holders on the machines.
Maybe it’s because people don’t want to make the long walk to any of the various drink fountains, but surely that’s just counterproductive…like the dickheads from the car park [parking lot].
This need to carry around enough water to drown a small Hippo still amuses me, and I just want to point and laugh…but I don’t; some of these people are BIG!
Me so THIRSTY!
And, speaking of water….
2 – Water Fountain Etiquette
This one is just plain hilarious. To start, here is an actual photo of one of the water fountains in my gym.
You’ll notice they’re at slightly different heights; the reason for which is a mystery. I have seen a dude with dwarfism[1] in there, so is it for him? I don’t know.
Now I think about it, I’ve never actually seen him take a drink from one of these fountains. He carries around a sensibly sized water bottle because a) he’s not an idiot and b) he has a clear grasp of basic physics.
But there’s something about the varying heights of these fountains that has people gravitating to the one on the left. I have lost count the amount of times I’ve walked past 2 or 3 people waiting in line for the fountain on the left and quenched my thirst with the one on the right.
If anything, the act of bending down a little further is an extra workout for your abs.
Also, people have no idea how to drink from them. I once saw a mouth breather sucking on the nozzle like it was his mum’s tit. There’s no way I was getting anywhere near that after him.
Plus, I’ve seen his mum.
(shudder)
Then there are those people who strut to the fountain – overly panting and wheezing (for attention) from lifting heavy things in the air and then putting them down again – only to lean on the fountain with both hands, pausing for effect (and more attention), before drinking.
They can see there are people waiting behind them (at the left fountain, naturally) and yet they stand there all important, entitled and ‘roided up.
Then they take the smallest of sips because the peak of their baseball hat gets in the way.
Speaking of which…
3 – Unnecessary attire
I’m not talking about those string thin muscle tops that are less ‘clothing, and more ‘shoelace’, no…I’m talking about hats and sunglasses.
Indoors.
Unless you’re Jake or Elwood Blues, I will always have issues with you wearing sunglasses indoors…you fucking twat. But I’ve lost track of the number of heavily ‘roided bubble people I’ve seen wearing them in the gym.
“I’m forever made of bubbles….”
Maybe they think it makes them look cool, but they’d be wrong. I think I’ve got them sussed; they do all that shouting, grunting and slamming down of weights only to secretly look around afterwards to see if anyone is watching.
We’re not.
We don’t care.
And when these bizarre bumpy behemoths stand around high fiving each other and talking at a DECIBEL LEVEL LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD FROM SPACE, we simply don’t give a shit.
Shut up, bubble people.
But they’re not the worst offenders of unnecessary attire; not by a long shot. No, the award goes to the mopey teenagers with slouch beanies. These fuckers really grit my shit. You know slouch beanies right? They’re what the smurfs used to wear before they become popular (the beanies, not the Smurfs)
I would normally insert a picture here of a mopey, slouch beanie’d bell-end, but it would fill me with so much rage I might not finish this post.
(breathe…breathe…)
I have lost count the number of fantasies I’ve had of pulling their hat down over their face and garotting them with their headphones. I find it weird that people wear a hat in the gym anyway, but a big, flaccid woolly bag?
This coming from a man who has a cold head
The reason these skinny (and they’re always skinny), slow blinking, perma-texting Biebers are cold is because the only things that get a work out are their thumbs. They just move from machine to machine doing half a lacklustre set – on the lowest weight – followed by sitting on the machine with their face in their phones.
Which leads me to….
4 – Hogging the machine
If you’re sat on a machine and can see someone waiting, either let the person know how many sets you have left, alternate sets with them, or fuck off.
No reading texts. No checking Facebook. Just fuck off.
That is all.
5 – Being on the phone
I understand that you may get a call when you’re at the gym; that’s fair. I also appreciate that sometimes you need to make a call. But some of these fuckers talk on the phone during their entire workout.
There is nothing more annoying that the person next to you talking constantly, and hands-free on their phones at a volume that is not loud enough to be overheard, but loud enough to piss you off. Honestly. what is so important that you simply HAVE to have this conversation right now?
Now, the assumption you’re probably having is that all these social butterflies are talking hands-free; not so. I saw one dude sat on an ab-crunch machine talking into his phone in that walkie-talkie style I despise so much.
Talking like this makes you look like a twat.
Fact.
For clarity, the ab-crunch machine had overhead handles that you pull down as you crunch, raising your knees and grunting like a porn star. It was both angering and hilarious to watch this utter penis struggle to maintain a conversation whilst crunching with one hand on his phone and the other holding one of the handles.
It was awkward and embarrassing, all at once.
So, how does all this relate to FuckMonkey? Well, I’m glad you asked.
A few weeks ago I was in the gym and I was working my back. Of all the pec-fly machines in the gym, only three of them double as a back-fly machine.
For the uninformed, these machines look something little like this:
Note – that is not Superman
On this day, two out of the three machines were out of service.
I had almost completed my routine and only had the back-fly machine left to use, so I walked towards the one working machine and was headed off by this guy who placed his towel on it and then went to grab some water.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with FuckMonkey.
FuckMonkey hit all 5 on the list.
After standing in line behind someone using the left fountain, he came back, looked at me blankly, put down his oversized water bottle, then adjusted the weight he needed and began doing chest exercises. I couldn’t believe it, he could’ve chosen ANY of the other pec-fly machines that didn’t double as a back-fly machine, but no…he had to use this one.
‘Oh well‘, I thought, ‘he shouldn’t be that long‘.
I’ll wait.
He was on the phone (hands-free), mumbling some inaudible shit while he sorted out the height of his seat and began his first set.
I waited.
He finished his set – still mumbling – adjusted his stupid fucking hat and sat there on his phone for what felt like an eternity.
I waited a bit longer.
He pulled himself away from his phone for a moment to pout and flex his puny chest muscles in the mirror before looking up at me blankly and adjusting the weight on the machine.
He started his 2nd set.
I waited some more.
After his 2nd set – still mumbling some bollocks into his phone – he went back to texting and pouting and flexing in the mirror.
Again, he looked at me blankly, then adjusted the weight on the machine and began his 3rd set.
After 15 minutes (yes, FIFTEEN minutes) and numerous sets, I caught the eye of a fellow gym member (let’s call him Larry) who gave me a ‘Sheesh! How long is that guy going to take?‘ look.
I nodded back with my best ‘I know, right?‘ look.
After a minute or so Larry walked over to FuckMonkey and did what any Brit would never do; he asked Fuckmonkey how long is is going to be.
“Are you going to be long? That guy behind you is waiting for the machine“.
FuckMonkey muttered something and Larry looked at me, shrugged and went back to his workout.
Now, usually I wouldn’t wait around, but this was the LAST machine in my routine for the day, and the completionist in me just wanted to get it done.
I waited another 10 minutes and FuckMonkey carried on pouting, flexing, mumbling and doing sets…all the time knowing I was stood there shifting from foot to foot and huffing loudly.
Us Brits might not have the balls to confront a stranger, but we sure know how to huff.
At one point, another gym goer asked me if I was using the machine I was leaning against. I replied with “No, I’m waiting for that machine, right there” and pointed full on and passive aggressively at the one FuckMonkey was on.
FuckMonkey saw me. FuckMonkey didn’t change his routine.
After a full 25 minutes had passed, enough was enough. I walked over to FuckMonkey and interrupted his current pouting session.
“Excuse me…” (I’m English after all, I don’t want to appear rude), “…how much longer are you going to be?“.
He mumbled something like “M gon’ do, li’, a som’ mo’ set’, li’, 20 o’ wha’ev”
I looked at him for a moment, resisting the urge to garotte his weedy little neck, and said sarcastically (and a little aggressively), “So, what are you saying, 20 more minutes?“.
He nodded and said “Yeah“.
And that’s how he got his name.
1 This is nothing derogatory about his size, or some cheap shot. I don’t mock or berate people based on their appearance, but rather their level of sheer Dumbfuckery. If you’re stupid enough for me to write about you, you’re fair game. Plus, two of my friends have a beautiful baby boy with dwarfism. (Shout out to J and M!)
My local gym has a multitude of TV screens scattered all over the place. At face value you would think they’re for entertainment purposes, but it appears they’re just another way to push products down our throats between crappy music videos and advertising for tattoo removal and a boutique that will trim your minge.
They make me angry (commercials, not minges), which actually fuels my workout, so no complaints there.
Anyway, this morning one of the screens had something I just had to write about. The screen read:
‘Latest news: Studies have shown that Americans consume too much sugar, a majority of which is found in sugary drinks.’
I literally stopped working out, mid set, mouth agape. Was I really seeing this? Is this really latest news?
Mind you, I was drinking Coke Zero at a party recently and a friend of mine asked what it was.
I took a moment to compose myself and told him that it was sugar free (and full of chemicals that will probably give you cancer, but hey….thin is good, right?) and has no calories. He couldn’t believe it. He had a sip and said “where has this been all my life!?”.
On a shelf in the supermarket mate, next to the full fat shit that you and everyone else buys.
(Don’t even get me started on the elusive nature of diet drinks in the US. That’s a post for another time).
Anyway, the ‘Latest News‘ continued:
‘Some experts have said that too much sugar can lead to cases of obesity and diabetes”
Can lead? CAN lead?? WILL lead, you fat twats! And how come it’s ‘some‘ experts saying this? What about the other experts who think sugar is OK?
But who am I to judge? Maybe these experts are right and sugar ISN’T responsible for America having the largest (pun intended) population of obese people in the world and the highest cases of diabetes.
Chances are president Obama is to blame, or Al-Queda; they seem to be the scapegoats of choice nowadays.
Ooh, political!
Before this gets all serious and preachy, here’s a palette cleanser.
A car in front of me on the freeway this morning had ‘We are currently hiring excellent drivers‘ advertised across the back of it, just as it drifted across three lanes and left the freeway without indicating.
Ah, Americans. I seriously fucking love ’em!
This morning, as I drove up to the gym, I noticed several cars circling the car park (parking lot) like sharks.
I soon realised they were looking for spaces that were as close to the gym entrance as possible.
These people were actually trying to avoid having to walk too far. Now, I could understand this behaviour if it was raining or the zombie apocalypse was upon us, but this is Las Vegas; it’s nothing but sunshine and blue skies.
It’s a hard life.
What makes it more ridiculous is the fact that I saw these pillocks 20 minutes later clocking up miles on the treadmill.
Still, at least these cretins didn’t get my space right by the entrance.
Result.
This morning at the gym I saw something I have not seen in all the time I’ve lived in America.
Two friends saw each other, said “Hi” and….(gulp)….shook hands!
That’s right! No fist bump, no high five, no “Dylan, you son of a bitch!”[1], no hand slap and hug, no weird and convoluted series of hand gestures like the lovemaking of two horny teenagers; just a simple, honest to goodness hand shake.
Wow. Just wow.
[1] If you don’t know what this means, shame on you. Shame, shame, shame.
But to give you some context, it looks like this:
“Dylan, you son of a bitch!”
There are phrases out there in the world that people have tattooed on bodies, printed on clothing and plastered all over social media profiles to make them appear somehow more profound.
I’m talking about the sort of drivel designed to be inspirational or empowering, but actually results in me despising them more than a complete stranger should.
These are words of encouragement to let you know you’re special…a unique little snowflake.
Here are a couple of examples:
“Only God can judge me”
Hmm, I’m not sure I – and groups of people all over the world known as ‘Juries’ – fully agree with that one.
“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”
What about arthritis?
Anyway, yesterday at the gym I saw a guy wearing a t shirt with this slogan emblazoned across the back of it.
“No weapon formed against me shall prosper”
So I shot him.
There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.
He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.
Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.
Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.
So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.
He walked[1] to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.
At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.
Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.
Yeah right. Don’t flatter yourself mate.
I’ve heard the stories about steroids.
[1] It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.
Today is my wife’s birthday so – in the face of all the visits to the gym over the last month – we decided to treat ourselves to breakfast at IHOP.
For those who don’t know IHOP, it’s an acronym for ‘International House Of Pancakes’.
It’s not international.
Anyway, on my way to the toilet I passed a woman sat having breakfast with her family.
She was huge. I mean BIG!
This isn’t unusual in this fine country, but I have to say that her ‘Planet Fitness’ T-shirt was a bit of a stretch (or a lot of a stretch if you know what I mean).
Fitness indeed.
“Fitness whole stack of pancakes in my mouth” more like.
It’s been a little over two weeks since the move to Las Vegas from sunny (ha!) Crawley in the UK. In that time I have compiled notes on a million[1] things I want to write about but I have to resist otherwise i’ll be posting two or three times a day, and that’s a bit too much to deal with; like the Kardashians.
As an update on the important things over here, I secured a job on Tuesday[2] with a small, unassuming multi-million dollar company[3] AND obtained my full 8 year driving licence [license]. I may write separate posts about those, but for now I use those memories to aid in masturbation.
On this post I want to share my observations of the gym here in Las Vegas.
I’ve been to gyms all across the country in the UK and now that i’ve moved to the USA I’ve noticed a difference in the calibre [caliber] of people that go.
In the UK the average person in the gym looks a little something like this:
Which is fair enough, right?
But in the USA, they’re like this:
Or this.
Seriously this is a thing here.
It all makes me feel a bit….
[1] Not literally. Maybe six; possibly five.
[2] Today is Thursday, not that you care.
[3] Woo hoo!! Yeah!! (does a little dance)
I’ve noticed that people who wear headphones fall into two very distinct camps; those who just sit there listening to the music, and those who dance. Now, when I say dance, I don’t mean literally strutting their funky stuff in the street or outside public toilets (those people are in a completely different camp of their own, complete with high gates and heavy medication).
No, I’m referring to those who move ever so slightly to the music; either slaloming their head from side to side for R&B, or nodding along to rock like they’re sucking off an ant. If you look closely enough it’s often possible to see them mouthing the words. I don’t mean full on singing; just mouthing. The ones who sing are mentally unhinged and need avoiding at all costs.
I had one of these singing idiots in a gym once; just him and me. He was lifting these heavy weights and grunting (as you do), and then in between sets he was singing tonelessly along to something in a high drawn out wailing voice. It was like working out with Moby fucking Dick.
The last two words there were intentional.
But back to the dancing…
Being a headphone user myself I fall into the ‘dancer’ category. I often find myself moving my head to the ‘riddim’ and occasionally mouthing the words. I’m even guilty of walking along the pavement in time to the music like some obnoxious musical, half expecting those around to suddenly fall in behind me for a big dance number.
Why do I do this? What do I think I look like?
Actually, I think I look cool.
People look at me and I can see they’re thinking “Wow, that guy really knows his music, and he’s got rhythm. Look, he even knows the words. He’s SO cool”. I’m cultured, hip and simply awesome.
However, when other people do it they look like total pricks.
Weird.
Head In A Blender 