Zeus Blinked

If there’s one thing I can’t stand about going to the gym it’s those damn meathead personal trainers who do nothing but workout.  They’re all named Sir-Lift-A-Lot or Vinny or something Cro-Magnon like that, and they know about every friggin’ muscle in the body -- and nothing else.  Well…cars too, I guess.  They usually know about cars.  Engines and stuff.  Muscle groups and cars -- that’s about it.  Regular Renaissance men.      

After I moved to D.C., I joined a new gym. But before they’d let you use the equipment, the trainer had to show you every piece of machinery and the proper way to use it.  They’re all proud of the equipment too, like it’s their baby or something for crying out loud.  So anyway, the dude’s showing me all the stuff and I was like, “I think I can figure it out, Copernicus.”  I guess they think you’re gonna try to do cartwheels on the treadmill or something because you have no idea how to use it properly and you’ll just freak out at the sight of it.  Then he wanted to help me create my own personal weightlifting regiment -- like I was training for Mr. Universe or something.  The guy was like, “Okay, Aaron. Whaddaya wanna focus on? Your quads? Your pecks? Your delts? Whaddaya wanna focus on?”

 I was like, “I wanna focus on getting laid over the summer. Which machine does that?”

Sir-Lift-A-Lot didn’t think that was very funny. As a matter of fact, he seemed pissed.  That’s the thing about these meatheads: they don’t have much of a sense of humor and they always look like they wanna fight you. They’re also always talking about the time 15 years ago in high school when they rushed for 200 yards and four touchdowns to single-handedly beat Central High in the homecoming game.  Give one a couple of beers at the local watering hole and, whether you’re interested or not, he’ll tell you about EVERY touchdown he ever scored and how he probably could have gone pro if he hadn’t got hurt.

People like that should all be burned at the stake. They really should. And that’s kinda what I wanna talk about, because it’s the reason I got in all this damn trouble in the first place. 

I guess it all started last year when I was a senior in college.  All these “experts” that keep coming in tell me it goes way back -- like into my early infancy and everything.  But I’m pretty sure they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about because I can kinda remember having a real Norman Rockwell childhood. That guy sure could paint.  I tried painting, but I absolutely stunk at it. I would always watch that Bob Ross on PBS and get all fired up.  I even went out and bought an easel and ordered “The Joy of Painting.”  But was I ever lousy.  I still watch the show, though.  That guy’s so damn soothing.  Listening to him is like smoking about 87 joints -- you don’t have a care in the whole world.  Unless you’re painting.  What I mean is that his voice is nice if you’re just watching the show, but it gets on your nerves to hear him when you’re actually trying to paint and you stink at it.  Then each word is a dagger, and each slash exposes more of your suckitude, if that’s even a word.  I thought about opening up a gallery and displaying my work and calling my exhibition “Sucktastic: A Vision of Things That Suck.”  But I lost the patience.  If I had to hear Bob rave one more time about Vandyke brown mixed with yellow ochre on the fan brush and see that magnificent bastard turn one more blank canvas into a beautiful landscape while looking at my crappy “looks-like-a-kindergartner-made-this-in-finger-painting-class-piece-of-horseshit,” I thought I’d smash my TV with my sand wedge.  And that’s exactly what I did.  Actually it was my pitching wedge.  I don’t know why in hell I just said it was a sand wedge.  I’ll tell you one thing though: I’d sure like to hit a golf ball off old man Ross’ head.  What a ’fro he had!  Anyway, the point is that the doctors here think I was probably molested as a tyke or something for God’s sake.  Utter nonsense.  I’ve always hated people, I’ll admit that, but it didn’t really become an issue until much later.  People suck.  The masses, I mean.  Some individuals are alright, but get enough of them together and look out!  I can’t remember his name, but there’s a comedian who does a joke that goes: “Know who I hate?  Others!” I’d like to buy that guy a beer.  He’s okay by me.  And even if the seeds were planted when I was young, they didn’t come to fruition until right around college graduation because that’s when I sorta lost it and did all this not-so-nice stuff.

At least that’s where I’m gonna start.  Everything before that’s pretty much a giant borefest anyway.  You’d probably suck on a shotgun or two if I told you about that stuff.  Actually, that’d be pretty cool because then they’d put you here with me and I’d finally have someone worthwhi