A while back, I was at the gym. (This place provides a lot of comedy, so if you don’t feel like actually working out, at least go to people watch.) One of the Personal Trainers was working out on the bench press, and judging by the way he was screaming with every repetition, you’d think he was bench pressing a house. If you guys read my Trainer Trickery post, then you already know how I feel about Personal Trainers.
So, I’m just ignoring the douchebag and continuing my own workout. I’m about to move to another machine, when I see him look around before getting up to walk in my direction. He takes his earphones out as he gets closer.
Please don’t ask me for a spot, please don’t ask me for a spot.
“Hey, you wanna give me a spot?”
My heart sinks when I hear this. I want to say, “No, I do not want to give you a spot. There are actually a million other things I want to do,” but I’m a nice guy, so I oblige. (For those of you who don’t know what a spot is, he basically wants me to stand over him and help get the weight up if he can’t press it himself.)
We walk over to the bench and this guy’s chest is puffed out so far he looks like a backwards “C”. He’s walking like he’s carrying two briefcases, with his elbows at nearly a 90 degree angle. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I refrain.
As we get to the bench press, I see this guy has a ridiculous amount of weight on the bar. Now, the dude isn’t small, but he’s not big either. I’m willing to bet the house he ain’t lifting this amount of weight. Knowing he will undoubtedly fail, I instantly become glad he asked me for a spot.
He sits down and I have to wait for him to flex a few times, slap his chest, and scream before laying back and gripping the weight. He tells me he will shout out to me if he needs any help, but that it probably won’t be needed. I’m trying to hold back laughter now. With one last yell, he lifts the weight off and begins to lower it. His face looks like it’s about to explode as the barbell touches his chest. I’m waiting for him start pushing it up, when I realize he can’t even get it an inch off his body. If anything, the weight is slowly crushing him, similar to what would happen if you held a stick horizontally and pushed it through a turd. The turd’s eyes are about to pop out of his head and I’m waiting for him to shout for help, but what comes out of his mouth makes me actually snort out loud.
“I got it, I got it, don’t help!”
So, I just shrug, sit back, and enjoy the excrement smashing. The weight still hasn’t moved an inch off his chest after about 10 full seconds, (and what a glorious 10 seconds it was) so I figure it’s time to pull the barbell off of him before he’s actually split in half.
We get the weight back up and he exhales loudly.
I’m just starting to say, “maybe next time, pal,” but he immediately goes,
“Why’d you help me? You came in way too early, bro. You can’t be touching the bar when I’m pit slammed like that.”
I’m astonished now. This dude was actually serious. And did he say pit slammed? What the shit? This guy was wacked. He was a turd that had been sitting in the sun too long. What does pit slammed even mean? I would imagine it as something similar to what had just happened, but instead of helping him lift the weight up, I take my shirt off and rub my armpit all over his face. In hindsight, that’s probably what I should’ve done.
Instead of arguing with this walking dookie, I just put my earphones back in and say,
“You’re just lucky I was wearing deodorant.”
He was pretty confused.