Gym-rats

I got trapped behind a car the other day that had one of those stupid personalized license plates I love so very much. GYM-RAT. Yep, that's what it said. GYM-RAT. Like, why in the name of fuck would a person feel the need to advertise that? Am I supposed to admire you from where I sit in the driver's seat of my sedan? Does it make you feel better to know that I am now aware that you're a douchebag?

I can't think of a more appropriate moniker for these assholes that swarm to the gym in their every spare and pathetic moments of life than "gym-rat". Because like actual rats, these people give me a shiver of unease and an overwhelming feeling of skeeved-out dread whenever I even just think about them decked out in their stupid ass workout "gear" and those wrist contraptions that measure every fucking step their specialty sneakered foot takes. I went to buy sneakers once and I could not believe all the fucking kinds that were on the wall. There was running shoes, trail-running shoes, cross-training shoes, and even walking shoes. Like, what the fuck is the difference? They all looked the same. I just wanted a pair of fucking sneakers. Why does life have to be so hard? And if you're sitting there thinking, "Well Gwen, a cross-training shoe has a...." Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Seriously. Stop your brain from thinking for one second. I can't handle the energy that your brain is putting forth into the innocent universe about the attributes of a god-damned sneaker.

That's what is really gross about these people. The Energy. They're always like revved up about shit. They're always a-doing. It's like flit here, flit there. And they have their own diets. They eat weird things like energy drinks and protein bars and powdered shit they bought at GNC for like $100. Like why can't they eat normal food? And they're always talking about how "they have to get to the gym." They always say that shit out loud. Like they can't just keep it to themselves in their own brains. They have to let the world know that they are going to go to the gym. And I particularly hate it when they say, "Oh my God, I haven't been to the gym in two days! I'm so lazy." It's like, "Hey! Way to make the rest of us feel like shit about ourselves."

I'm not saying that running will automatically qualify you as an asshole. I run sometimes. But I can freely and readily admit that it sucks. The whole time I'm running there are three words going through my head. Goddamnit, Fuck, and Donuts. Seriously, I need to take a couple of painkillers before I can even think about going for a run. As I told Dirty Pirate Hooker on her blog last week, No Pain, No Gain - my ass. The only time pain is good for us is when it's followed by a cataclysmic, earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm. When was the last time you went for a run and had an orgasm after you were done? I'm going to guess never.

Rats are insidious creatures. They are sneaky, disease carrying rodents. Yet some people actually keep them as pets. I have a friend Brandy who swears they are cutest, most precious animals and that they make the snuggliest of pets. Well, Brandy used to live in the apartment next to my sister. Her snuggly little rats showed their gratitude towards her kind ownership by escaping through the walls and making a new nest in my sister's bed. Seriously, my sister woke up with a rat trying to snuggle up beside her. So she did what any sane, normal person would do. She went out immediately and bought some rat poison and fed it to those fuckers as a bed-time snack. By the time Brandy came around trying to find her precious rats it was already too late.

What's the moral of that story? I'm not entirely sure. I'm thinking that if you're married to a gym-rat keep a good eye on him and his whereabouts. Because somebody might just get fed up with his fucking antics and put some cyanide in his energy drink. I mean, not me, but somebody.

P.S. If you figured out that my lazy-ass is just largely jealous of this population, well then aren't you a psycho-analytical smarty-pants.