Have you ever heard of planned self-damage? It’s simple: instead lying to yourself that you will eat clean nutrition forever, you plan your fails carefully to avoid more severe crisis. The following story happened precisely thanks to this principle.
It was early evening. The rest of the slaves were also happy that the work day was over, and it was finally time to do free people’s equivalents to watching TV in prison. The humanoids around me were feeling exciting about the newest entertainments strategically prepared by our masters. Anyway, I decided to have my own portion of this semi-colorless fun and went to a fast food place selling all kinds of exotic cuisine. It was time to fail.
This step immediately broke two substantial rules. First, the food there is not bodybuilding approved due to low protein concentration, tons of bad fats and lots of carbs. Second, a friend told me a long time ago that she have seen one of the “cooks” in this restaurant massage his cock with a passion while preparing meals. After I became aware of this malicious practice, I was forced to stay away from the place for a very long time. I know very well that probably 90% of the food I have eaten during my life was at one point prepared by a guy who had massaged his cock too, but knowing it for certain and still going there was a little too much. Still, that day I decided to break the rule.
I entered the place and went to pay for an extra large sandwich. Apparently the culinary kings there were not allowed to touch money because it’s dirty. Therefore, you have to go to a separate place to pay. The cashier was one of those “give me a phone and I don’t care what’s going on in the world” type of girls. She had dyed blonde hair with the brown roots showing. While I was giving her the coins, I saw some of the most epic fingernails ever – half-eaten and contaminated with dirt. I felt sorry for her, but I could also feel right away that she was a total bitch, and that sorry feeling didn’t last long.
While I was waiting for my sandwich I scanned the guys working there with my lasers. I was wondering who is more likely to pollute my food. They were all strong suspects, but one of them started playing with his belly. I had to mind bet on him. He had a massive beer gut and one of those “I will hit you while you are down” type of eyes.
The order was ready. I took the sandwich and got out pretty fast.
Oh, no! They’ve put some of that filthy white sauce on my sandwich! Damn it. I told them: “No, sauce, thank you.” However, I decided not be one of those arrogant bastards that complain about similar things and make the staff feel miserable. I have a trauma from similar experience.
Once I was in a small PC club when the owner sent one of the boys to buy him a sandwich. He hated pickles, but his improvised minor servant got him one with extra pickles. The moron took the sandwich and threw it at the boy. They started verbally abusing each other. It was ugly, and the scene has been stuck in my mind for years. Arguing with strangers over pickles and sauce is not on my priority list.
As a semi-civilized citizen I usually go to a small depopulated street to complete my planned failing a.k.a. junk food reload. It’s easy to remember the street because on one of the first doors is written 33, and this isn’t a number you can forget easily due to the massive secret society propaganda shaking the information realm. Those things are apparently so secret that a few months ago I saw a commercial on national TV about a documentary “exposing” them. I think this truth revolution wasn’t an accident by any means.
Finally, I started semi-aggressive consumption of this monstrous sandwich, which may or may not have been made by a guy who had previously shut down an itch with an epicenter including his dirty groin area. I tried to make that thought go away as fast as possible.
A few moments later, a middle-aged man with curly white hair and a buddy of his appeared at the corner, only a few steps away from the mystic door. I recognized the guy with the poodle hair. He is a popular “scientist” who is often on TV talking academic nonsense. Very annoying broken clock, no doubt.
I said to my self: “This fatso is probably part of the brotherhood, and those two are now discussing different ways to continue milking us to the fullest.”
Isn’t that what all wannabes in funky suits do anyway?
I am pretty sure exactly at this moment a large portion of that filthy sauce contaminated my cowboy jeans and cut that thought short. In reality, however, I knew my suspicion was most likely not justified because this was just a regular apartment building. Still, they opened the door and entered, so speculations are possible. Hiding in plain sight is not exactly unheard strategy.
One of the main subjects of this story was soon to appear on the scene.
After a few more minutes I saw another familiar face – a local bodybuilder I have seen in my old gym and on a website. The guy was enormous, lean and his arms were bigger than my legs. One could rightfully say those were “fuck you muscles”.
By “fuck you muscles” I don’t mean muscle used for sex, but rather the equivalent of “fuck you money” for muscles. “Fuck you money” is a term utilized to describe a person that is loaded to the point where taking orders and poor attitude from employers just does not work anymore. When your employees have “fuck you money”, you are no longer a slave owner. Sorry. You are the slave.
If the guys’ muscles could talk, they wouldn’t be afraid to say: “You want some of this, bitch!” to Rambo. I gotta say that made me feel threatened, but I did not want to run and ruin my planned fail.
The guy was carrying a very large backpack and a small suitcase. I guess he was returning from a summer trip. He stood next to me and started making me feel wildly uncomfortable. He looked at my food the way lionesses look at zebras’ legs. What was his problem? Protein hunger?
My sandwich was 100% steroid free and low in protein. This is not bodybuilding approved by any means.
“Where did ya buy that sandwich,” asked Mr. MyLifeForTrenbolone or Trenbolone for short.
I pointed the direction of the fast food restaurant without saying a single word. This is actually a really powerful tactic, because your voice can reveal a lot about you. When you are trying to hide things from people, you should keep all external information to a minimum, at least this is the way I do it. The voice and its tember can contain fear, confidence, anger, heartache and other emotions you may want to camouflage while behaving like a turtle. Even just a few tons can be enough to give away everything you want to hide. Besides, the only words that were coming to me were: “Do I look like the sandwich fairy to you, g4p prince?”
“How much,” asked Mr. Trenbolone.
This is when I knew the guy was out of his mind. Who the hell asks strangers how much their sandwiches cost. Anyway, I gave him a number and afterwards the unexpected happened.
“Can I take a bite,” said this rather hungry and weird specimen.
I guess the chemicals in his body were causing some serious brain heat too.
I gave him the “are you kidding me” look without adding “fucking” because I didn’t want to enter the danger zone. He forced a fake dry smile and went away. I guess this was supposed to be a joke, but it wasn’t exactly funny to me.
I finished the whole thing and went for a 30 minute walk only to return at the same place. I had to because this was the shortest way to the closest bus station. Right at the intersection there’s local bar where middle-aged low-lifes living nearby go to ease the pain of being undersexed and only fucked by the system. I knew the place well from passing by many times. I am telling you the truth. I’ve never been there to seek comfort, yet.
I was close to the bar outside when I heard hysterical screaming
“I’ll fuck you up.”
It was Mr. Trenbolone again talking to a drunk. He started screaming and pushed the other guy’s chest with two hands.
As kids we used to do the same titties push before a fight.
When we were fighting this was actually a requirement – you start pushing each other as hard as possible. This allows you to feel the strength of your opponent and respectively gain or lose confidence. It was also a way to add additional time to solve problems in a more peaceful manner and let other people stop the fight.
At one point Mr. Trenbolone donated some serious knuckles to the other guy’s face. Just the sound caused by the impact on the victim’s face produced a small vibration. Then, the rest of the drinking champs stopped the fight while Mr. Trenbolone was still screaming.
“I’ll fuck you and your mother.”
The fury in the air was strong and vicious. Why were they fighting? I have no idea.
This action scene reminded me of Ben Affleck’s epic meltdown, which is supposed to represent what happens when you are on roids. I know that the roid rage effect is widely overblown, although extra testosterone comes with extra aggression.
In Mr. Trenbolone’s case, however, I think it was the sandwich talking. He was a bodybuilder a.k.a. protein vampire and there was not much protein around.