Ahhh, the gym. The place that is wholeheartedly meant for getting in shape, but instead serves more as a local douche-mecca. I usually enjoy attending my gym, as it provides lots of comedy. Even if my workout is crappy, I can usually leave with something to laugh about. A few days ago was perfect evidence of this.

Some guy was working out on the bench press near me, and judging by the way he was grunting and screaming with every repetition, you’d think he was lifting a house. He was mean-mugging anyone who looked at him, and doing a double-bicep flex between each one of his sets. The barbwire tattoo around his arm essentially screamed, “None of my shirts have sleeves and I punch walls when I get insecure about my small penis!”

So, I’m just ignoring the assclown and continuing my own workout. I’m about to move to another machine, when I see him look around before getting up to walk in my direction. He takes his earphones out as he gets closer. I look down, trying to avoid eye contact at all costs.

He begins to lower the weight. His face looks like it’s about to explode as the barbell touches his chest.

Please don’t ask me for a spot, please don’t ask me for a spot. 

“Hey, you tryna give me a spot?”

My heart sinks when I hear this. I want to say, “No, dildo, I’m not ‘tryna’ give you a spot. I’m actually ‘tryna’ work out here. I’d rather drag my balls through broken glass.”

But, I’m a nice guy, so I oblige.

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We walk over to the bench and this guy’s chest is puffed out so far he looks like a backwards “C.” He’s walking like he’s carrying two briefcases, with his elbows at nearly a 90 degree angle. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I refrain.

As we get to the bench press, I see this guy has a ridiculous amount of weight on the bar. Now, the dude isn’t small, but he’s not big either. I’m willing to bet the house he ain’t lifting this amount of weight. Knowing he will undoubtedly fail, I instantly become glad he asked me for a spot.

He sits down and I have to wait for him to flex a few times, slap his chest, and scream before laying back and gripping the weight. He tells me he will shout out to me if he needs any help, but that it probably won’t be needed. I’m trying to hold back laughter now.

With one last yell, he lifts the weight off and begins to lower it. His face looks like it’s about to explode as the barbell touches his chest.

I’m waiting for him start pushing it up, when I realize he can’t even get it to move an inch off his body. If anything, the weight is slowly crushing him, similar to what would happen if you held a stick horizontally and pushed it through a turd.

The turd’s eyes are about to pop out of his head and I’m waiting for him to shout for help, but what comes out of his mouth makes me actually snort out loud.

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“I got it, I got it, don’t help!”

So, I just shrug, sit back, and enjoy the excrement smashing. The weight still hasn’t moved an inch off his chest after about 10 full seconds (and what a glorious 10 seconds it was), so I figure it’s time to pull the barbell off of him before he’s actually split in half.

We get the weight back up and he exhales loudly.

I’m just starting to say, “Maybe next time, pal,” when he immediately says, “Why’d you help me? You came in way too early, bro. You can’t be touching the bar when I’m pit-slammed like that.”

I’m astonished now. The dickhead was actually serious. And did he say “pit-slammed”? What the shit?

This guy was wacked. He was a turd that had been sitting in the sun too long. What does pit-slammed even mean? I would imagine it as something similar to what had just happened, but instead of helping him lift the weight up, I take my shirt off and rub my armpit all over his face. In hindsight, that’s probably what I should’ve done.

Instead of arguing with this walking dookie, I just put my earphones back in and say, “You’re just lucky I was wearing deodorant.”

He was pretty confused.

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