What Working With a Permabulker On Steroids Taught Me About Life

A few years ago I worked desk-to-desk with a permabulker who was using oral steroids to get his muscle mass up. The guy was essentially the main slave of our boss and was used to fix all kinds of problems.

The boss wants music playing in the toilet? No problem.
The boss wants fruits in the kitchen? No problem.
The boss needs a ride to the airport? No problem.
The boss needs someone to paint his apartment? No problem.
This guy was taking care of all caprices. No questions asked.

I didn’t like the man. He had a dirty aura around him and was a veteran member of the popular Permanent Smell Of Dirty Clothes crew. The fact that 4 hours a day he was sitting right next to me, contaminating my oxygen, did not help our relationship either. He was the only one in the room with speakers connected to a computer and was constantly playing low IQ TV shows and music videos. The vibrations coming to my ears were irritating.


I didn’t know he was a steroid user until one day I heard a curious phone conversation. He was not the type of guy to keep quiet about such topics and was always talking as loud as possible in order for everyone to hear how great he was. He wanted people to see him as an alpha male who isn’t afraid of anything. However, he was like that only when it came down to external things. He was one of those people who always hide their main game plan but never miss an opportunity to show you their new clothes. He would push his biceps in your face, but personal topics like his salary remained hidden. When it came down to money, family and true character, everything was kept a mystery.

I was able to hear explicit details during his long phone conversations. Here’s one you may like:

“What’s up, man? Listen, I need some of that Stromba you gave me before. Can you
send me some,” said the permabulker to some lowlife.
“Why Stromba,” asked the other guy
“Because the last time I took it my muscle mass was increasing every day,” replied this world class handyman.

When I heard the phrase “muscle mass” I looked at him.
He said: “What are you looking at? 44 cm arms, bitch !!!!!!!!!!!!!”. Then he flexed his biceps and continued talking on the phone with his dealer.

Meanwhile a graphic designer from the office came to ask for something and also had the pleasure of hearing the rest of the phone call. The designer actually knew the other guy on the line – a former colleague.

“I am telling you man. Give me Stromba! Last time I used my biceps, triceps and chest were growing bigger and bigger and I was not even training. This time I will train, man,” said my desk neighbor and ended the conversation.
It was on.

“Was this Mr. XXX,” asked the designer.
“Yes,” replied the Stromba fan.
“I heard he has problems getting it up. True?”
“I don’t know about him, but my weapon is perfectly fine. Never had similar problems before.”

The overconfident reply did not surprise me because this guy was always answering the question: “What’s up?” with: “I am a young man. What do you think is up? My dick, of course!”.

A few weeks later the drugs were already on his desk. The guy had also prepared a couple of classic supplements – glutamine, creatine, BCAA and some protein powder. At lunch time he was mixing them like a hungry wolf. The muscle greed in his eyes was one in a million.

One time the very same designer had another conversation with the stromba champ while the latter was in the middle of his muscle rituals.

“This is for muscles,” asked the designer.
“Yes. I plan on getting even bigger.”
The guy was around 192 cm / 6’4” and 120 kg / 265 lbs. He had a decent gut too.
“What about the gut?”
“I will fix that. Don’t worry!”
The persistence of the designer began to annoy my colleague.
“How do you think? With tons of running and plenty of fucking! Get a life, loser!”

A few weeks passed.
During that period the man remained relatively persistent with his muscle building plan. I was constantly finding traces of protein powder on my desk as evidence. I hate when people infect my work space.

One day I was searching for a pair of scissors and went through all of his drawers. Oh, man! Let me tell you: They were full garbage, dusty and untidy. The amount of trash stored there was otherworldly. The middle drawer contained a bomb. When I opened it, a strong smell of carrion hit me. The odor was unforgettable and unique. That container was dangerous and needed a radiation sign on it. I was able to distinguish a very old box of glutamine, some plastic boxes, an old needle (not for steroids, too big), a spoon, a bunch of ancient promotional brochures and a few heads of plastic toys collected over the years.

One time the little daughter of stromba-man was playing in the office. She waiting for daddy to finish work, buy her some ice-cream and give her a healthy dose of brainwash with the help of Mickey Mouse and his brain dead animation friends. Like most kids the girl was curious to see what’s in the room and started opening the drawers one by one.

I saw it coming, but decided to keep quite. First, she was really annoying. Second, she looked exactly like her dad. It’s like somebody had chopped his head and put it on a girl’s body. It turned out the single eyebrow was genetic too.

She opened the middle one, where the bomb was, and nothing happened. Poker face. She even took an element of a plastic toy and continued her search. I guess she had already been conditioned to endure similar nose challenges. One could only wonder what kind of smell was living in the apartment of her father.

Over the years many people made the same mistake and opened the middle drawer. All of them felt like victims. Me? I never touched it. Some things are fun only when you don’t repeat them.

The guy was a lazy son of a bitch for sure, and I would bet a lot of money that he was training like a complete ladyboy too. His mentality and approach to things did not reveal a man who is willing to lift hard. Simply put, he didn’t have the character for a long and hard lifting journey. He was looking for a quick way to build his beach muscles with as little training as possible. This explained the usage of Stromba and whatever else he was taking.

During the same period the guy had an affair with the secretary. She had the sex look, but her character was weak sauce. She was way too clean to fall for this guy, but it happened. It was real. Kisses.

One time this same guy came back to the office after doing some construction work for our boss. I think he had to take down a bathroom wall, but I am not entirely sure. His look, however, was hard to forget. He was wearing work clothes torn down to pieces. The perspiration om his face was tenacious.

He had to get ready for some cultural event and started undressing right there in the room. I am not saying this is the most controversial thing I have seen, but imagine that you are working in an office and suddenly one of your colleagues decides to show you his underwear. I am pretty sure even the activists will be looking at him with funny faces. In my case, a few women got out of the room, but one stayed – the secretary. She even used the boss’ iron to get stromba-man’s shirt smooth. She was willing to break the rules for her hero.

This woman was torn by daddy issues because the guy was 12 years older than her, divorced and his dressing style was revealing a deep love for exploring the trash container outside. That didn’t stop her and she was all over his muscles. One could say that this is stromba-love if I ever saw one.

What happened next?
Money happened. He loved his muscles, but he loved his cash even more. He found a way to work abroad for a better salary, took a “vacation” and returned after a year. I have no idea what he was doing there. Maybe he was baking potatoes for some rich dudes. Isn’t that what 80% of people do when they immigrate to work abroad?

Anyway, he had become unrecognizable. The guy was down to 90 kg / 198 lbs, which was a significant reduction compared to his previous 120 kg / 265 lbs state. He had lost a ton of muscle, but on the bright side his gut was smaller too. I guess the lack of Stromba and food were the secret to his transformation.

To tell you the truth he was a little embarrassed to be so small around people who knew him as a muscle monster. One of the biggest fears steroid users have is being tiny next to old buddies. It’s like being known as a rich men and then lose all your assets.

The guy’s gestures were clear – half of his personality was gone. However, I could tell that deep inside he was happy because his finances were solid. When you think about it, the only thing he has done was trade fat and muscle for cash.

The wound needed some time to heal.
Once the welcoming party was over and all fake kisses and hugs were history, he sat on his desk next to me. He knew this was going to be the real test. I was known to be a hater since the beginning.

“How are you doing, bro,” I asked.
“Making money, what else?”
“Where are the arms?”
That felt like a slap in the face.
“Still here.”
“Still 44 cm?”
“Haven’t measured them in a year, but it looks like it.”
“You’ve lost weight bro.”
“Thanks. You have the eyes of an eagle, skinny boy. Eat some peanuts now.”
I had a history of eating massive amounts of peanuts. I saw peanuts as the perfect protein snack when you are in office environment – no cooking and you get 20-25 grams of protein per pack.
“Lots of running and plenty of fucking,” I continued.
“Something like that.”
“No gym where you were?”
“Who needs a gym when you have money? You should try earning some,” said Mr. Stromba and went to the kitchen with his old creatine, protein and BCCA powders. He also took his phone.
The healing process was about to begin.

One comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *