Sometimes I worry about running out of “fitness-related” stories to write, then I go to the gym and all my concerns are alleviated.

There is nothing amusing about spousal abuse, which is why this tale has nothing to do with actual violence against one’s significant other. It does contain a wife beater though.

A wife beater, according to www.urbandictionary.com, is a: “form fitting white ribbed tank top worn by men.” At first, one might ask if anyone living north of the 36^th parallel and not employed in roadkill removal and sporting a mullet actually wears such apparel. Well, yes, I know at least one guy who does, although I don’t know if his chosen profession involves the scraping of rodent guts from highway surfaces.

Every time I’m at the gym, I see him. Every time I see him, he wears the same white, ribbed, snug-fitting, grease-stained wife beater. Every. Single. Time.

What’s not most disturbing about his visage is the fact that the wife beater is too small and he has a flabby midsection. Sure, he’s got a sizeable gut, but there’s no law against that. Perhaps he’s like me and really likes beer, but he hasn’t been as successful at resisting the sweet, succulent, delicious, wonderful malt, barley and hops nectar of the gods.

What’s also not most disturbing regarding his visage is the numerous stretch marks that the scanty material reveals on his torso. The purple-infused blotches stain his skin like pestilent night crawlers, leaving little doubt that his ample muscle was achieved via illegitimate methods. I provide as further evidence the fact that not long ago one of the gym staff asked him to not leave weights lying around – a perfectly reasonable request – and wife-beater boy freaked out on the unsuspecting staff member. This display of ‘roid rage left little question in my mind as to what he injects into his body.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the bacne. In case you didn’t know, that’s a contraction for “back acne;” another symptom of anabolic steroid use.

Then there is the metaphorical pole that is shoved into the depths of his rectal cavity. At least I’m pretty sure something is shoved up there, because the dude sure walks funny.

All of this makes for quite a character study in an annoying gym patron, but it wasn’t what prompted me to write this story. If I’m going to call someone out for their faults, they’ve got to really have it coming. In my opinion, this guy has it coming.

You’re about to learn why.

The guy was pumping the bejeebus out of his biceps, doing curl after curl after curl. I’ll admit to doing some curls now and then, but I’m not obsessed with them the way so many men are. Anyway, juice boy finished his curls and rushed out of the gym. Finished with my workout, I left a short time after him and decided to hit the bathroom before walking back to the office.

Juice boy was in the bathroom. He was in front of the mirror. He had a tape measure around his biceps. He was measuring his arms.

What a tool.

But that’s not all.

That’s not what got me to write this.

He was kissing his biceps.

HE WAS KISSING HIS BICEPS!

Are you freakin’ kidding me? I could not believe what I saw. I though this was something that professional wrestling villains did to antagonize the crowd. Apparently I was misinformed.

So, yeah, this beer-bellied, steroid-muscled, wife-beater wearing, stretch-marked, pole-penetrated, ‘roid-raging, biceps measurer was kissing his biceps. That’s the story. That’s the ending. That’s the image I leave you with.

I’m sorry.