NOW I SMELL DELICIOUS AND POWERFUL

Lifting today, bro.

Gotta get supplies. So first thing I do is run GNC. I don't run to or run by the GNC. It is understood that any establishment I enter, be it Baja Fresh, Gymboree, or Mailboxes Etc - is where I then proceed to run my game.

I need to pick up a gallon of agua, aerosolized protein, and raid the peel-away cologne ads.

First, the magazine rack...

Obsession For Men to ma nutz. Cool Water to my ass nape. Drakkair Noir dabbed to my do-rag. Obsession For Men to my nethers because the ad features Kate Moss, and the look on her face says,"I just made myself throw up so hard", and that's hot; and the other ads feature dudes and I'm not a gay homosexual. Though I do admire the bodies of attractive men in bodybuilding magazines and like to groom and dress myself just-so.

The Cool Water ad is Tom Brady wearing a scarf, throwing a snowball at a sleigh. The Drakkair Noir ad shows a tuxedoed secret agent opening a safe while a leggy Ukrainian blonde holds her cheek because he just slapped some information out of her. Holiday themes.

Now I smell delicious and powerful.

I carry my own personal water supply at all times because dehydration is the silent killer. I waterboard my thirst until it complies with my wishes. Water can't be from the tap. You might as well drink from a Hep B hobo corpse anus after the creek floods. And water fountains are basically the biological containers in Prometheus.

I choose a bottle of Pure Valkyrie Ice Explosion. Source: Municipal Water Supply of Tarrant County. This is the very purest of water sources because the picture on the container depicts a birch-skinned Scandinavian woman - scientifically proven one of the cleanest ethnicities - stabbing a glacial waterfall with an ice spear. And - no transfats!

Protein aerosol infuses my organism with vital amino acids without the wasteful process of digestion. I am a student of Nature. Herbivores are weak and passive. Because of digestion. Powerful, ripped animals do not digest. They savage their foods. See: jaguars, fire ants, zombies. They beast on their prey, extracting only the most masculine nutrients. Then they poop a human hand. The aerosol is administered directly into my eye socket for rapid uptake.

Let's do this. Gym.

I park my ride in the middle line of two spaces and put my alpaca car cover on. 71 more months of payments and she's M-I-N-E. Weak that this gym doesn't valet.

I walk in the front door laughing to show everyone that I'm having a good time. A real good time.

Every head turns. As uuuusghe.

I don't scan my membership ID. I just make a six shooter with my index finger and thumb and shoot Front Desk Dylan with an imaginary bullet in his blonde tips. I never even break stride as Courtnii With Two i's drapes a towel over my shoulder. Love the front desk crew. Though I miss Big Ken. He'd do squats until he had diarrhea. The government is weird about child art and how it's defined. Miss ya, Big Ken.

Walking past the mat room, I see a fit dude circuit training his core, focusing on every angle and fiber of his entire body, moving from functional exercise to exercise with precision utilizing kettle bells, medicine balls, and battle ropes. Gay.

Let's bench!

I attack the bench press like a pack of Oaxacans in a Wal-Mart parking lot who've spotted a Ford F-150 with three lawnmowers in the bed turning in off of the access road.

I put three plates on each side. 25s. Some people use 45s. It's a personal choice. I space each plate out slightly so that they'll clank more when I bounce the bar off of my chest.

I lay down. I scream like a gladiator to build my chi and force my pudenda to aggressively saturate my triceps with testosterone.

"COMBAT! TODAY! TODAY IS YOUR DAY, MATTHEW!"

I have not seen actual combat per se as I have never been in the military. I Googled the fitness requirements for the military once and it was all basically jogging and pull-ups. And we wonder why we can't conquer Canada?

I spend fourteen minutes getting my grip right and breathing like I'm in a Lemaze class. I find my grip, letting the bar meld to my calfskin fingerless weight gloves, pull myself up to the bar and back down in preparation for exploding and...I break it off each time.

"NO LIFT," I shout, swatting at my face and torso like a bear raiding a bee hive. "NO LIFT!"

Then I stand up and repeat the process.

You must have your shit mentally flawless for the physics of the lift to explosively congeal with mind-body synergy. Otherwise, the neurons in your brain will direct hostile energies to rip your pecs, even if you have used the sensible prophylaxis of Ripped Fuel to coat all of your muscle fibers. Fact.

I mouth a quiet prayer to Lee Labrada.

No.

NO!

My mind isn't right. Gonna scout trim.

I bring my water source. Dehydration is out there, waiting. I fashion my gym towel into a beautiful absorbent swan, the way they do on your bed at fancy hotels, and leave it to mark my territory. Don't even think about it, bro.

Nod at Bailey and Kerri Lynn. They pretend to ignore me. Haters gonna hate.

There's my reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror. Amazing. When I suck my cheekbones in, people say I look like a cross between not really Rob Lowe and Danny Bonaduce.

Oh, what's this? A hot girl and her ugly friend doing seated rows. I walk over and grab the pull down bar across from them. Lightly. Back and Bis is Monday/Thursday, guy. But it's enough to spread my lats open like a flying squirrel and gives my 'pits the proper sanction to seduce the pores of their faces with my musk.

"Splendid females make me feel strong, when they're fine as hell," I quip.

They both look up. I shake my head at the ugly one. Not you, yeti. This isn't a charity walk. You don't get a t-shirt and a ribbon.

I jet before they can respond. I'm toying with them.

But I forget my jug.

Can't double back for the jug. I lose power and credibility.

I remark casually over my shoulder,"That vessel is...my gift to you. Drink its potent waters."

I'll close that deal later. Always planting seeds.

Time to bench.

What the...

Where is my towel bird? And who is this jack-off? And why does he wish to die on this day?

"Yo, did I say you could work in, jabroni?"

He's in the middle of his set, so I stand over him with my balls draped near his chin like a billy goat beard.

My Kate Moss groin fumes dominate his grill. He starts to cough. "Hey, I didn't know. It was empty for ten minutes."

I looked at him in silent disdain. Yeah, you know now, bro. You know now. You saw the swan marker, guy. Do you think it was just resting there on migration to the Spinning studio? That's not how towels behave.

Forget it, man. I got my hour and a half in. Time to hit the showers. Come back tonight and blast calves.