What I Learned From Drinking Beer In The Gym While Leg Pressing

On my way to the gym today I decided to double fuck the industry and bought a large beer can to drink from during my upcoming sinful, yet epic, leg press session. Normally, I hate beer and the only alcohol I like somewhat is pirate rum. However, it’s very expensive and they don’t have small bottles here. Besides, I also didn’t want to get kicked out of the gym right away. I had plans to return there next week.

So, I entered the dungeon with a beer sticking out of my backpack. I looked like somebody who has recently left the madhouse after prolonged period of undereating. It’s easy to pull the recovering addict look when you are a natural born ectomorph.

I passed by two weirdos who were already training and chatting.


“Look at that skinny moron.” was definitely the thought they shared while staring into each other’s eyes with the type of passion you feel when you have a fellow hating buddy and a target.

I went straight to the leg press machine and started warming up with just the sled.

My two gym roommates were definitely having a wonderful time talking nonsense. One of them was really big, dumb looking and wearing a disgusting wife-beater shirt. The first association in my mind was: “Dbol bloat”. It turned out that he was a big-shot attorney in a foreign law firm. The other guy was much smaller, probably semi-natural, and as far as I understood he is getting paid for putting his fingers in people’s mouths while performing difficult maneuvers. In brief, the guy was some kind of a dentist.

Their conversation was extremely annoying, but at least it made me feel good about buying that beer. I knew right away that I have made the right choice. I was going to need it later on.

“I can’t stand people who think men with big muscles are stupid,” said the big guy after some epic grunting at end of his triceps pulldown set. Apparently, he was training arms that day.

“I hear you man. I am a doctor, smart and muscular. I’m living the life, brother. Haters gonna hate,” replied the dentist.

“Yeah, man. That’s what I am talking about. Bitches, money, muscles. The Big Three. That’s life.”

“How’s your girlfriend by the way,” asked the tooth fairy.

“Which one?”

At that point both started laughing hysterically at this cheap joke. For me this was a sign to open my beer. It was definitely the right time anyway. I was just finishing my warm-up sets and getting ready for the work weights. I opened the damn thing and right after it made that distinct “I am open.” can sound, the two muscle warriors looked at me like I was about to set the place on fire. I was able to feel heroic amount of disgust targeted towards me take over the atmosphere. I loved it.

Realistically, the beer tasted like aluminum foil, but it felt quite nice because it was mixed with the pleasure of disturbing those bozos’ peaceful muscle jerking.

After leg pressing I went to the calf machine in the corner, which was the initial plan anyway. At this point on the scene appeared a new player – a girl weighing something like 100 pounds. Ironically, she was one of those individuals who do cardio despite needing it the least.

She started doing all kinds of jumping jacks and even incorporated some head twisting. It looked like she was trying to get out of an imaginary fishing net around her. At this point I was definitely feeling even happier about that beer. I looked a little less crazy thanks to it.

The can was half empty by the time my final drop set on the calf machine was complete. I couldn’t feel it, but the air around me was full of that typical beer odor, which many people link to garbage men.

It was time for some weighted back hyper-extensions. I’ve been doing this exercise for over 6 weeks and so far it seems quite good. An extra bonus is that it’s safer than deadlifts when you are operating under alcoholic influence.

The two lifters were still there, discussing politics and money while the girl was doing some sort of box squats with a 22 lbs / 10 kg plate on top of her head. To me it simply looked like she was trying to break her neck while contaminating the bench with her disgusting sweaty dirty pants.

One could say that I was slightly intoxicated when I started the hyper-extensions, but that was not enough to disconnect me from what was happening around. The funny thing about hyper-extensions is that they are not exactly safe for work, if you catch my drift. Having your butt in the air while being unable to see who is looking at it is the definition of plug and pray. Anyway, in that particular gym the hyper-extension bench and the Roman chair set-up are right next to each other, which could only be the work of amateurs. If two people are using the equipment simultaneously, it appears that they are having some sort intimate relationship.

Long story short, that crazy bitch decided to do sit-ups on the Roman chair machine while alternating them with jumping jacks. By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. Part of her sweat gland production was already on the back of my neck. Too bad my beer was long gone. I had to move the hyper-extension bench far away from that cardio junky. This kind of oversharing is not my thing.

Finally, I got out feeling happy and thankful about another successful workout. On my way out I overheard an interesting conversation between the manager and a woman, which I think was working in a small store near the gym.

“I think that guy entered your gym with a beer, right?”

“Yes, it’s pathetic how low alcoholics can go.”

“Well, at least he is paying.”

“Yeah, he is. Money is money.”

So, what did I learn from drinking beer in the gym while leg pressing? Absolutely nothing.

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