I'm trying to figure out the exact reason why I'm fat. It might have something to do with that pizza I just ate, and those chicken wings, and that cheesy bread. And that other pizza. I guess the science behind the increasing mass of my behind is that when you consume more energy than you burn, none of my pants fit anymore. But I would gladly exercise if it weren't for my burning hatred of physical activity, compounded by the wretchedness of the fitness club environment.

People today need constant entertainment. What ever happened to blankly gazing at a concrete wall while thinking about how good cake tastes? I call it the "fitness club" because "the gym" doesn't really exist anymore. It doesn't qualify as a gym if there are leather couches, big screen TVs, and a fucking waterfall in the lobby. A gym is a bare bones room full of heavy things plus a jump rope, usually located down a poorly lit alley in a bad part of town. I, for one, do not feel comfortable traveling through such areas at night if I am not committing sexual assaults.

Becoming a member at my current fitness club has only served to make me feel like a piece of shit. From the moment I walk through the doors I am greeted with smiles from the extremely fit and cheerful staff, only to see their expressions turn to utter disgust when I call for the elevator. Fuck you. Who are you to judge me? I didn't make the four minute drive from my house, then circle the parking lot for ten minutes looking for the closest space, only to walk up a flight of stairs before I begin my warm-up.

When I finally hit the workout floor I once again feel unaccepting eyes staring disappointingly at me. My eighth grade gym shorts and a t-shirt I got out of a case of beer are apparently not the height of fashion in the exercise community. I will return tomorrow with my Under Armour shirt and Lululemon shorts, but for now I shall exercise!

Fitness club fancy gym with treadmills

Fifteen minutes into my exhausting routine I come to a startling conclusion: most people around me aren't exercising at all. Some of them are standing by pieces of equipment talking to each other. Some people spend an hour walking around, casually trying to see if anyone is looking at them. Others just narcissistically flex in front of the mirrors. One cunt is even on his cell phone. 

After finishing my phone call, I decide to engage in some cardiovascular conditioning. I used to run six miles, five days a week, so naturally, after a hiatus of one year, I chose the same distance as a starting point. My first problem was the "cardio theater." People today need constant stimulation and entertainment, so all of the cardio equipment faces a wall with 15 televisions. What ever happened to blankly gazing at a concrete wall while thinking about how good cake tastes?

So I indiscriminately choose a treadmill, not paying any attention to the broadcast located in my immediate line of sight, and start running. After a few minutes I am reminded of how excruciatingly boring running is, and I start to watch the television in a vain attempt to seek distraction. God must have been frowning on my fat ass because I had the best seat in the house to view a documentary on Terry Fox.

I had to keep running. Watching a man who lost a leg to cancer attempt to run across the country in an effort to raise money, awareness, and hope was heartbreaking. I would be such a piece of shit to quit running at any point in the show just because I was "tired and sore and didn't want to do it anymore." So I waited for a commercial break.

Except no break came. The commercial-free two-hour long special was agonizing to endure. My legs were shutting down and I couldn't breathe. Finally, at mile nine I started screaming, "Fucking die already!"

I'm not allowed back there.

See new Points in Case posts via Twitter or Facebook.

Take comedy writing classes at The Second City - 10% off with code PIC.