Do you even lift?
Oct. 7th, 2013 10:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonDown at the East Lake Y the Agnes Scott Weight Lifting Society is anything but impressed at my humble feats of strength. The two of them hover over me akimbo, Helga Von Wittgenstein and her partner Scrappy Don't, waiting for me to finish my last set so they can requisition the bench. As I struggle under the gravity of iron and pride, they snicker their asides to one another without offer one to spot me despite the fact that I'm clearly on the verge of a double hernia here. From my prone position I have an unabashed view of my tormentors. Von Wittgenstein wears a purple shirt with the word HATE written in bright yellow letters. Scrappy Don't wears a yellow shirt with the word YOU written in purple letters. Both sport heavily tattooed arms and identical glasses.
"Christ, he looks like a fat cockroach wiggling on his back like that." Scrappy Don't stage whispers to her partner.
"You think this is what guys would look like if they could give birth." Wittgenstein postulates with a theatric rubbing of her chin.
"Even if he could," Scrappy Don't wrinkles her pug nose at me, "Who'd knock him up."
"A little help." I grunt soprano.
"Okay," Wittgenstein sighs crouching down so her face floats directly over mine, "you should consider cutting back on the whiskey, red meat and cigarettes."
"It really fucks with the endurance." Scrappy Don't adds authoritatively.
"Plus have you considered radical portion control?" Wittgenstein asks as the bar lowers inch by agonizing inch towards my throat. "Or the Neolithic Diet?"
"Probiotic and Ebola infused tofu?" Scrappy Don't banters back.
"Hot flax oil enema?"
"Guerrilla Pilates?"
"Deconstructionist Parkour?"
"Soul Kegels?"
"That's. Not. Helping." I gasp moments away from being truncated by 250 pounds of more than I can chew.
"Bitch," Scrappy Don't steps up to plate and grabs the bar one handed before yanking it effortlessly from my throat before setting it back on the bench's arms with a rattle of jiggling solid steel. "Do you even lift?"
At this last remark not only do the ladies laugh, but all the denizens of the free-weight zone as well, guffawing actually with fingers pointed as if a non-pod person had just been spotted by Kiefer Southerland's dad.
The sound of an old galleon creaking on the shipwreck winds moans from my belabored attempts at sitting back up on the bench. Panting, gulping juice boxes of coconut water and snorting powdered ginseng straight out of the capsule I manage to compose myself with a modicum of dignity.
"You know, ladies I've had a really long day. I started a new job this morning and my nerves didn't give me wink one of sleep last night despite masturbating three times before sunrise. I spent five hours commuting for four hours of work and one of those hours commuting was spent sitting next to an ex con on the Gold Line who kept apologizing for having just shit his britches. Not that that was any deterrent to his requesting whatever form of disposable income I had on my persons. When I told him that all I had was plastic, he said that was alright and produced from his shit stained rags a phone better than mine with an attachment for swiping credit cards. When I did though my card was declined and Stinky the Ex Con just about went ballistic on me, threatening me with all manner of ass whoopings in the hopes it would teach me to watch my account balance more thoroughly. When I finally managed to hammer my phone against the window enough times to turn on I called my bank. After a series of prompts had me dial in my card number, social security number and a series of Leonard Nimoy poems translated into the numerological codes of Gematria I was given the option of hitting "1" to go fuck myself and "2" to do so along with any domesticated animal I may have been riding. So, with all due respect, do either of you want to maybe ride up someone else's ass for a minute or at the very least offer to buy me a drink before you continue riding up mine?"
Wittgenstein and Scrappy Don't swap stares of open revulsion.
"Typical."
"Not even a thank you."
"Not a kind word."
"Should of let the prick strangle himself."
"Then the paramedics would come and we'd never get to use the bench."
"Hey... one's just opened up."
"Sweet!" And with that the Agnes Scott Weight Lifting Society left me to my own devices to throttle myself on. Around me the crowd cast stares of mockery and shame my way before slipping back into their sets, reps and dead lifts. It didn't matter. I put a cigarette in my mouth with no intention of lighting it, glug back some coconut water and slap on an additional twenty pounds to my next set.
"Christ, he looks like a fat cockroach wiggling on his back like that." Scrappy Don't stage whispers to her partner.
"You think this is what guys would look like if they could give birth." Wittgenstein postulates with a theatric rubbing of her chin.
"Even if he could," Scrappy Don't wrinkles her pug nose at me, "Who'd knock him up."
"A little help." I grunt soprano.
"Okay," Wittgenstein sighs crouching down so her face floats directly over mine, "you should consider cutting back on the whiskey, red meat and cigarettes."
"It really fucks with the endurance." Scrappy Don't adds authoritatively.
"Plus have you considered radical portion control?" Wittgenstein asks as the bar lowers inch by agonizing inch towards my throat. "Or the Neolithic Diet?"
"Probiotic and Ebola infused tofu?" Scrappy Don't banters back.
"Hot flax oil enema?"
"Guerrilla Pilates?"
"Deconstructionist Parkour?"
"Soul Kegels?"
"That's. Not. Helping." I gasp moments away from being truncated by 250 pounds of more than I can chew.
"Bitch," Scrappy Don't steps up to plate and grabs the bar one handed before yanking it effortlessly from my throat before setting it back on the bench's arms with a rattle of jiggling solid steel. "Do you even lift?"
At this last remark not only do the ladies laugh, but all the denizens of the free-weight zone as well, guffawing actually with fingers pointed as if a non-pod person had just been spotted by Kiefer Southerland's dad.
The sound of an old galleon creaking on the shipwreck winds moans from my belabored attempts at sitting back up on the bench. Panting, gulping juice boxes of coconut water and snorting powdered ginseng straight out of the capsule I manage to compose myself with a modicum of dignity.
"You know, ladies I've had a really long day. I started a new job this morning and my nerves didn't give me wink one of sleep last night despite masturbating three times before sunrise. I spent five hours commuting for four hours of work and one of those hours commuting was spent sitting next to an ex con on the Gold Line who kept apologizing for having just shit his britches. Not that that was any deterrent to his requesting whatever form of disposable income I had on my persons. When I told him that all I had was plastic, he said that was alright and produced from his shit stained rags a phone better than mine with an attachment for swiping credit cards. When I did though my card was declined and Stinky the Ex Con just about went ballistic on me, threatening me with all manner of ass whoopings in the hopes it would teach me to watch my account balance more thoroughly. When I finally managed to hammer my phone against the window enough times to turn on I called my bank. After a series of prompts had me dial in my card number, social security number and a series of Leonard Nimoy poems translated into the numerological codes of Gematria I was given the option of hitting "1" to go fuck myself and "2" to do so along with any domesticated animal I may have been riding. So, with all due respect, do either of you want to maybe ride up someone else's ass for a minute or at the very least offer to buy me a drink before you continue riding up mine?"
Wittgenstein and Scrappy Don't swap stares of open revulsion.
"Typical."
"Not even a thank you."
"Not a kind word."
"Should of let the prick strangle himself."
"Then the paramedics would come and we'd never get to use the bench."
"Hey... one's just opened up."
"Sweet!" And with that the Agnes Scott Weight Lifting Society left me to my own devices to throttle myself on. Around me the crowd cast stares of mockery and shame my way before slipping back into their sets, reps and dead lifts. It didn't matter. I put a cigarette in my mouth with no intention of lighting it, glug back some coconut water and slap on an additional twenty pounds to my next set.