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Lately, I’ve noticed that I've been filled with rage.  And it's not just my ordinary,
run-of-the-mill, "why-can't-Edgerrin-hold-on-to-the-football?" rage.  Rather, it's more
of a deeper, unhealthy, "get-me-atop-the-nearest-bell-tower" rage.  Why, you ask?  Because I've started working out in the mornings before work.  That's why.

But there's more.  As an added intensifier, because coffee in the morning cleans me out like a Skyline 5-Way, to drink it is to risk a Harry-Dunn-style bathroom blowup in a facility that is neither terribly clean nor remotely private.  And when it comes right down to it, that's just not a risk I'm willing to take.  So I’m forced to go to the gym in the mornings caffeine-free.  This is problematic in that—like the bounty hunter in Raising Arizona—I find myself moody and edgy and wanting to blow up every living thing that comes within a 200-foot radius of me. 

So every morning of every week, I'm forced to share the exact same confined space with the exact same moronic people, and I'm continuously doing it with the shortest of fuses.  Obviously, something had to give. 

Well, "something" just did: my restraint.

In an act of vengeful catharsis, I'm going all Neil-Page-on-Dell-Griffith and calling
out each and every one of these sorry SOB's that I'm forced to look at every morning.  Call it overdue, call it mean-spirited, call it whatever the hell you want. 
I don't give a s---.  That's what websites are for: venting rage.

Below are the eight etched-in-stone categories of MOST gym-going people, and it is 100% fact.  To argue against it is to argue against reality...it can't be done.      _________________________________________________________________

1) The Prototypical Narcissistic Meathead
My newfound rage most likely begins and ends with this a--hole.  Even before I started working out, he and his tribal tattoos were the reason I avoided the following: tanning booths; the Dick's Sporting Goods "Under Armour" section; "Hatworld" kiosks; Chatard functions in general; "Creed" concerts; "Have a Nice Day Cafe"; Kawasaki dealerships; organized flag football tournaments; and Trenton, New Jersey.  Now, though, I'm forced to spend every f---ing morning with this Chachi while watching him ritualistically perform his Tri-County trifecta of pure meatheaded-ness.  Without fail and without deviation, he will: (1) do no less than 150 rapid-fire chin-ups while admiring himself in the mirror; (2) rattle off about 900 consecutive dumb-bell tricep thrusts while kneeling on the bench and admiring himself in the mirror; and, (3) drink Sosa-riffic amounts of "Tropical Fruit Flavored Andro" from his MetRx water jug while flexing in the mirror.  Then he repeats the process 28 more times or until he barfs...whichever comes first. 

Keep it up, "O-Town."  Our city is depending on you to check ID's at  "Mineshaft" and make game-winning field goals for the Colts.


2) The Late 20’s/Early 30’s Non-Attractive Female
Strangely, she has the body of Jessica Alba and the face of F. Murray Abraham.  Therefore, because all of her appearence-related eggs are in one basket, in order to get herself a man, she needs that basket to to be phenomenal...she needs to be able to bounce a quarter off that basket.  So she works out much like how I imagine Ray Lewis works out.  And it's just too early in the goddamn morning for that. 

Let's take it down a notch, alright Darlene?  So what if you gain an extra 40 pounds?  All will not be lost.  Black guys and rednecks dig women that look exactly like a young John Goodman.       


3)  The Senior Citizen
Listen...the last thing I want to do is piss off the Greatest Generation.  So I'll keep it respectable and just say this: the gym should be reserved for those of us who have some idea of what they came to do.  Walking around confused, wondering which excercises have the least chance of breaking your hip just isn't getting it done.  And besides, lifting weights will not in any way strengthen tendons and/or cartiledge. 
 
You're in my world now, Grandma...and it's not a world where you can just meander around aimlessly and call it "exercise."  It's a gym...not a mall. 


4) The Morbidly Obese Middle-Aged Caucasian Male
For whatever reason, the "International Brotherhood of Quadruple Bypass Survivors" has mandated that all active constituents don the official, non-negotiable
uniform when at the gym: a faded out "Boom-Baby!" sweatshirt with a towel tucked in neatly behind the neck, white high-top Avia walking shoes, and a 40-pound Willie-Roaf-approved titanium knee brace.  (A "man-ziere" or "bro" is supposedly required as well, but I'm yet to peak under one of the hoods to confirm compliance.)

Hey, Hot Plate...nobody ever unclogged their arteries by just standing on the eliptical machine toweling off their brow.  Get moving, or get off of it.      


5) The Overly Serious Racquetball Player
The normal racquetball player is easy enough to spot: he's the accountant in the
Rambis-like "Rec Specs," the double wristbands, and the way-too-small polyester shorts (which are most often seen on high school offensive-line coaches after you've traveled back in time to the year 1983).  But how do you distinguish him from the overly serious variety?  It's simple...Ektelon racquetball shoes ("Separating the die-hards from the people who actually have lives since 1938!"   ).

Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum...why is it that you spend more time warming up for your game than you do actually playing it?  And while we're at, jogging in place doesn't really warm you up for anything.


6) The Overly Serious Runner
Every gym has one: the socially awkward type whose sole satisfaction in life comes from outlasting everyone on the treadmills.  He's decked out in the entire Spring collection from the Asics catalogue, including the hyper-gay brightly colored running socks.  It's all apart of his most disturbing characteristic: his unabashed "look-at-me" mentality.  See, he thrives on impressing those of us who can only run a mere
8-minute-mile (aka, "humans"); he's the most annoying cyborg since that creepy robot-daughter from "Small Wonder."  To top it off, he's constantly monitoring his pulse for dramatic effect.     

You want "dramatic effect," d---head?  How 'bout I monitor your pulse with a two-by-four?


7) The "Boys Club of America" Field Trip Participant
For reasons that are simply beyond my cognitive abilities, no matter what fitness center you go to, there will always—ALWAYS!—be a handful of random, unruly, orphan-looking-kids running around who were brought there by some guy fulfilling his community-service requirements.  It's a mystery that is taking on cult-status in this country.  Just last week, I watched in quiet awe as some second-grade
special-ed student with a rat-tail (and no left shoe) was stoically and repeatedly striking the bench-press with a dumb-bell.  And two weeks ago, I had to get the gym authorities involved when some Rocky-Ripple-looking kid wearing a wife-beater and pajama bottoms got ahold of the TV remote and kept rifling through the channels at the speed of A.D.D.  Seriously...am I the only one noticing this?  Am I out of line here?  You tell me.  Should we not be talking about this?  Well I don't care...I'm fed up.  Whatever baffling exercise in political correctness this is must stop.  Now. 

Listen up, Montez...I'm about THIS close to taking over for your recently sentenced mother and going all "Wal-Mart-checkout-line" on your ass. 


8) The Normal Guy
During all the time I’ve been working out, I’ve actually seen only one.  He just wants to get in, get the heart-rate up, get some resemblance of muscle-tone, and get the hell out.  He wears some beat-up running shoes and a shirt that most definitely has sleeves.  No work-out belt.  No weight-lifting gloves.  And he never asks "for a spot." He hates being there, but due to his Jack-Sikma-arms and Paul-Mokeski-gut, he feels he must.  Where's the most likely place to find him?  In my basement—once I get that Bowflex I've been pining for. 

I’m done dealing with these f---ing jerk-asses.
Eight Reasons to Buy a Bowflex
Roy Hobbson argues that most gym-going people can be classified into one of eight etched-in-stone categories.
Flipside Sports—Writing Sports Satire the Old Fashioned Way: Drunkenly