I decided about year ago to kick my ass into shape.
About six months ago, I actually started going to the gym.
I was initially quite perplexed by the whole thing- namely the smell and how the fuck people managed to squeeze themselves into shorts 5 sizes too small.
For all of our benefits, I’m going to steer away from talking about the eldersnatch I’ve had the misfortune of witnessing on a far-too-frequent basis. Just know that it’s a very real phenomenon, sweeping women’s changerooms nationwide. If I wanted to know what a white-bearded crotchpocket looked like, I’d use the internet. Privately. In shame.
Old lady bits aside, the gym is a fascinating place. On your left, you have the girl that has negative 65% body fat, weighing herself relentlessly as she struggles to lift her stick-figure arms above the gaping holes where her titties should be. And on your right, you have the man who lost his balls to steroids, and has made up the difference by letting out audible, disheartening grunts and emitting offensive body odors. Thanks, bro. Appreciate it.
Itching to be able to kick some serious ass, I decided to take on the “no pain, no gain” mentality and signed up for Boot Camp. I don’t know about you, but when I think of Boot Camp, my first thought is this guy:
Oh, hell to the no, motherfucker.
Yell at me like that, and I’ll turn your P into a V. If you know what I mean.
To my surprise, not only was the instructor nothing like that dude, he was old, Spanish and pretty fucking small. My first thought was I could take him.
Turns out: he’s a shitstorm of freaking crazeballs.
This Spaniard has clearly encountered one too many fucking bulls in his day and has decided to stop taking shit from anyone. He also apparently ate a dog at some point, because the barks that come out of his mouth are both alarming, and shockingly authentic. He mutters to himself, promises a cookie* if you ‘shut your freaking mouth’ and declares that he’s a monkey, ‘unlike you bunch of fucking slackers.’ I guess being a monkey is a good thing...?
*The cookie thing is a lie. There are never any goddamn cookies.
While he may be slowly kicking my ass into shape, I still don’t feel prepared to fight a Matador and I constantly have cravings for enchiladas. I may not be as tough as your ‘grandmami’, José, but I’m pretty sure you’re 70, and if that bitch is still alive, she’s a goddamn champion. And also, probably a zombie. Jussayin’.