The Gym... a collection of Short comical Stories

T  The Little Bitty Punjabi It has been almost two weeks since I last graced the gym with my wonderful presence. After experiencing the same nonsense daily at the gym, I decided that for my own mental stability, it was time for a break. Oh how I loved waking up each morning and not having to compete with myself on how long I can hold my own breathe, (because of course, of the repulsive aromas at the gym that I was beginning to smell in my sleep.) It was a lovely vacation, I went to Texas, and there began my journey to discovering all southern food. Chicken fried chicken? What is that? I don't know but it's good as hell! Now If I wasn't of the Italian decent, and didn't have the tendency to gather myself quite a bit of weight when i indulge in food such as this fried fried-ness, I wouldn't make it such a necessary point to make it to the gym on a regular basis. This doesn't mean however, that I won't take a break as needed, and enjoy myself fully, or till i'm full, or whichever comes first. I woke up this morning with a cloud of doom hovering over me as I realized I was to make my way to the awful and dreaded gym, a.k.a Fat Farm, a.k.a Foreign Fitness Embassy, a.k.a Rancho Penasquitos Retirement Facility... I moved quite a bit slower than I normally do, considering I was all too aware of the inevitable irritation that was about to be bestowed upon me. Even still, I managed to make it to the gym on time as I was anxious to get it over with. I had not missed my fellow adversaries much, minus the occasional laugh I get at their expense, and I was sure I had covered in previous writings, all that needed to be exploited. I looked around in utter dismay as I realized that I had indeed, left out many subjects that needed to be targeted. Hence; yet another friendly gym blog for your enjoyment and mine. Let me introduce you to my new characters.  Little Bitty Punjabi- One of my least favorite members of society, this awkward little man looks as if he if he cannot speak a lick of English. He smells of curry and garlic cloves. He finds it necessary to wear khaki shorts with the same white polo shirt lined with blue or black stripes. I refuse to go close enough to tell the difference. He wears his white socks pulled up halfway to his knees, a crime in itself, and pairs them with crusty looking, used to be white, Velcro shoes. Hmmm, I seem to remember this sort of tradition taking place some time around kindergarten. Perhaps he wasn't informed that it went out of style about 20 years ago? As his appearance is absolutely annoying in itself, he somehow manages to surpass this level of irritation, creating one in its own from his beastly actions. He stares at me persistently while I am attempting to burn off some fried "whatever it may have been". As he is staring at me with his beady little creepy eyes, his non-existent lips attempt to purse themselves up at me in the most disturbing manner, and he reveals his odd little yellow teeth to me. As if this isn't enough, they way he works out is almost indescribable, though I shall attempt to describe it anyways. After a good 7-10 minutes of staring time, I roll my eyes and mutter a little louder than quiet, "stop f*cking staring at me, GOSH!" He pretends he doesn't hear me though he probably just doesn't understand the primary language in the country he INSISTS on taking residence in. He then takes the handles to the machine, and as if he is a jack-hammer on speed, pumps these handles back and forth about 1/16 of the way he should be, at a very fast pace, while clenching said "yellow teeth". Obviously he is not working out to get buff, but good God man, control your body convulsions. You make me want to cry, please go away.  The Dolphin shorts club- Popularized by Richard Simmons, defined as short shorts made of thin material that should not be worn by men, they come in assorted bright and obnoxious colors, also which should not be worn by men. They tend to rise up on the sides mimicking the shape of a dolphin tail. They have elastic bands which tend to squeeze out muffin tops, and Mainly, they should just not be worn by men. 24hr Fatness, PQ has not been informed that this late trend has since gone way WAY out of fashion. The new requirements to wear these shorts seem to be as follows: Men ages 65-98, overweight, must wear one size at least smaller then fits you, and must be accompanied by a matching or un-matching sweat band, worn on the head. Yes, like a tennis player in the 80's. Must have overly white pasty flabby legs, and must bend over in an atrocious manner so the whole gym can see the built in netted- underwear attached to the inside of these inexcusable shorts. I want to remove my eyeballs from my head when I encounter such a vision as these shorts provide me at the gym. So far I have seen the following colors unnecessarily being worn at the gym: Canary Yellow-extra bright version, Minty green, watermelon pink, and construction worker orange. Several Arabic curse words come to my mind as I remember my encounters with these shorts, however I shall refrain from sharing them as I'm sure you get the point.  The man and the Pedophile Van- Everyone has seen these vans at one point or another. Normally either seen to be cargo vans or pretend ice cream vans that are either windowless or have the ever so shady "curtains" preventing unsuspecting children from peering in. I have seen such a van parked outside the gym on several occasions. The driver looking ever more creepy then his vehicle. He is a small (of course) white man, perhaps early 40's, the top of his head is balding and shines in the horrible lighting of the gym. He wears the same blue cotton, way to big for him, shows his man b***s when he moves, looks like he's washed it a billion times and still smells- tank top, every freakin' day. As his flarms try and master the "assisted" pull up machine, his way too short for him, thin grey cotton pajama shorts wedge their way higher and higher up his flat a*s, exposing the shape of "himself" to the world. He almost humps this machine, as it is the only one he uses so it must be his favorite. After much too long of doing not much, he makes his way back out to his pedophile van, and as he climbs back in this rusty old bucket, I watch him drive away, curtains flailing in the wind. Did I see a child back there? Someone should check. Not it! As I do have much more I could talk about, I think I'll save it for another day, I would hate to run out of subjects for exploitation, though I highly doubt the world could ever run out of retards for me to talk about. Sincerely,   -Life