A few Thursday’s ago, I shrieked in pain, face even more grimacing than usual, a muscle-stallion in utter defeat as pain throbbed through my left deltoid. I’m not a stranger to pain, it remains a constant unwelcome neighbor visiting at the most inconvenient of times. I’ve experienced penile phimosis as my membrane engorged with blood and couldn’t piss as I had to be rushed to the E.R. as the curious doctor squeezed the head of my mutated cock with a bag of ice, as interns watched, gasping in horror. I’ve felt a lit cigarette pierce the middle of my chest; I’ve dislocated my left patella on three different occasions; I’ve broken both clavicles; I’ve been konked in the head with a sturdy antique vase at a party and felt the joy of a perforated tympanic membrane. Of these tribulations, nothing compared to the hellish ordeal on that Thursday.
I hopped into my sanctuary, my automobile, not even having the ummph to put ‘Diesel Boy’s’ masterpiece ‘Cock Rock’ into my CD player. Driving in silence, through my ghetto-ass neighborhood, with one arm on the steering wheel and the other immobile and yelling “FUUUUCK”, I managed to reach Walgreens on Chester Avenue. My left arm immobile, and unable to lift above my belly button I staggered in, to purchase some ibuprofen, and a heat pad. The world’s oldest woman stood in my way staring for an eternity at foot cream as I struggled to find inner peace and wait patiently to grab the ridiculously over-priced heat pad. I snatched the sucker up, and as I walked to the next isle to get some ibuprofen I could hear the rumbling voice of a fat, shrew of a woman. So fat, I could literally hear it in her voice before witnessing the hideous gorgon as she said ‘I know he’s on steroids’ to her equally fat cohort. Usually, I would let such matters slide—but previously in the week I had watched the classic 1993 vigilante thriller, man-pushed-to-the-motherfucking-edge masterpiece starring Michael Douglas—‘Falling Down’. This coupled with the excruciating pain, I turned around, scowl on my face as I looked at my newfound nemesis, sitting at the custom photo machine.
There she sat, weighing as much as a baby manatee, pale as a ghost with ‘OILDALE’ tattooed on her arm. Oildale is a charming location known for white-supremacist tweaker gangs, and home to Jonathon Davis, of KORN fame; notorious Nu-Metal band of the 90’s which helped lead to the death of modern mainstream rock music. I looked my foe straight in the eyes and said ‘You know… That’s some rude ass shit. I’ve been doing this for 12 years.’ Not knowing what to say she said ‘Oh you are a bodybuilder?’, and I said ‘Yes, I am’. I walked off (lats not even flared, yet still triumphant) and I heard her say to her fat scotch-irish (or whatever the fuck she was) friend ‘I still think he’s on steroids’. At this point it was fucking on. Do you think I gave a fuck? As bodybuilders we face so much scorn on a daily basis, and many of us just let shit slide on by, not this time. I scrunched my eyebrows and said “I bet you are on welfare—I bet you sit on your cottage cheese ass all day and eat Xtreme-Doritos”. She made her assumption, I made mine, after seeing her ‘OILDALE’ brand on her arm. I know full well that a large majority of Oildalians are on Welfare, as they sit comfortably and talk about ‘coons’ and ‘bama’ all day. Her jaw dropped, and her little miscreant child puffed out his chest in some primitive fashion. I seized the opportunity and said “And you know what? That little shit is going to grow up just like you! No fucking manners, and a complete waste of space’. The gorgon, her progeny, and her friend sat speechless as I waltzed to the cashier to purchase my items.
Briefly, for about three minutes, my pain subsided as I felt the surge of adrenaline in my body. I reflected back to the scene in Falling Down where Michael Douglas’s character encountered the bourgeoisie douchebag golfer in a silly hat and gives him a heart attack as he blasts his stupid fucking golf cart into the pond. My triumph was not as great, yet it was still a victory. Not just a victory for me, but a victory for all of us, comrades. People need to learn some manners and keep their opinions to their self. I do not get my ‘jollies off’ by loudly commentating on people’s physiques, no matter how obtuse, sickly, ugly, or whatever they might be. Yes, as bodybuilders we ‘stand out’, but no one deserves verbal abuse, especially from a bitter shrew.