This story took place during my bulking era.

I knew that it was going to be one of those days when everything is against your comfort, but I was yet to meet the full level of crazy coming my way.

At the time, I was doing the poor man’s version of GOMAD, or in simpler terms, I was drinking one liter of whole milk per day on top of what I was already consuming in the form of solid nutrition.

The goal? To get big and strong, of course.

The coolest thing about GOMAD is that it does not require any cooking whatsoever. You just buy a box full of milk stolen from a cow and drink it, hoping that it contains something anabolic like IGF-1.

I learned the hard way that one of the dumbest things you could ever do is drink the full liter in less than 30 minutes. This is precisely what I did that day.

As you can guess, a liter of milk requires some serious unloading, but I had just finished work and wanted to go home as fast as possible. That’s why I decided to test my bladder and went straight to the bus stop.

However, where I lived buses don’t come every three minutes, more like every 15 minutes. I didn’t have time to wait and needed a quick solution to my problem. Weightlifting books taught me to evaluate the pain between 1 and 10 before deciding to train or not. Anything about 7 is considered a no-go. This kind of pain was level 25 and counting.

I started looking for a politically correct place to discharge my tank full of milk residue. I had to endure a few ball busting minutes to get away from the crowded road. After a little while, I stopped to evaluate the environment.

A church – no way, a playground for children – no way, residential building – no way, a parking lot – no way. I continued walking for another 5 minutes before finally giving up. I couldn’t take it anymore.

At that moment, I recalled a story which one of my wacky teachers told me many years ago.

The guy was into Asian culture and constantly visiting South Korea and Japan. One time he was in Tokyo, walking on the most expensive street with a couple of his friends when a guy pulled out his dick and initiated a massive unload. My teacher asked his friends what the hell was going on. They explained to him that the kidneys of the guy were more important than making everybody around happy, and therefore, this wasn’t a big deal.

It was a cool story, but not applicable in my case. If I was to do that on the most expensive street in my country, there will be a picture on every local website.

Anyway, I had to free myself of this GOMAD induced pain and decided to do it behind a few trees close to a residential building. I started the program, but the process was not that fast. At one point, I heard a female voice coming from above. I looked up and saw a woman staring at me with eyes saying: “This is exactly what is wrong with our country.”

“This is not a fucking toilet. How old are you, trash? If you want to live in the big city, there are rules to follow,” she said.

In my mind I was like: “I am doing liquid-bulking bitch, shut the fuck up and go back to watching brainwashing TV series about Hollywood’s idea of ‘real love’.” However, I said nothing and just lost my concentration.

The first wave was over, but I knew that a new one was coming. You don’t get rid of so much liquid in one wave. You need about 3 or 4. I decided to go the closest fast food restaurant and do it the civilized way.

15 minutes later I got there. I remember everything in explicit details because the place taught me about the importance of biceps size in the modern world. Believe it or not, we measure our manhood this way. It’s a modern invention.

I entered the place, wondering whether they had something anabolic. Since I was already suffering from constant fear of protein deficiency, I decided to go with a tuna sandwich. It’s proven that tuna contains protein, right?

I joined the large queue.

Since I was going to wait for a long time, I decided to make me some lemonade by looking around and examining the situation. A good hater is always looking for a target. I am a good hater.

Slightly to the left, I saw two transgender like Apple fanboys. The guys were wearing brown moccasins without socks. I found that disturbing, even though my teachers once told me not to judge a book by its cover. Well, if that’s the case why do books have covers in the first place?

The moccasin warriors were exploiting their iPhones and iMac to the fullest. I guess it was safe to assume that the nerds were taking their social image very seriously. The pretentious attitude coming from their gestures had formed a solid cloud around them. They were convinced that their gadgets and clothes were sending a “Who the fuck do you think you are? Look at my things, garbage man!” signal.

I positioned my lasers to the right and saw a weird love couple. It was the type of couple emitting forced and exaggerated love cues. You can call it “the calm before the storm couple” or in other words a couple that is simply going to burn in the fire of delusions and fakeness.

The girl was a fragile doll; the man was a steroid freak. His arms were as big as my legs. He reminded me of a smaller Rich Piana clone with about 1/3 of Rich’s ink. That equals about 20 tattoos.

My observation is that fragile girls often go for big boys only to get burned. I get it, though. It’s useful to have an anchor when it’s windy outside, and you weigh only 100lbs/45 kg.

Finally, it was my turn to order.

“What would you like, sir,” said the guy.

“A tuna sandwich.”

“With what?”

“With tuna”

“Any salads?”

“Yeah, put some salads there too.”

“What kind?”

“With tomatoes, cabbage and olives.”

“Mustard, ketchup?”

“Ketchup only.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.

“Here you go, sir. Something to drink? Cola maybe?

That was a tricky question. I wanted something to drink despite my delicate situation but paying double for a rust remover when I can buy the same thing for half the price a few blocks away was a little too much.

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

The guy added one more silent “Sure?” using only his eyes.

What can I say? His managers had gotten to his brain. I could feel his pain.

Finally, I took my golden tuna sandwich and installed my bulking body at a table for two because there were no tables for one. Why are the tables in restaurants always made for at least two people? Haven’t those guys heard of thrones?

A few short moments later, it was time for….wave two. When I got out, I saw an interesting scene. A semi-muscled guy appeared. I guess he was trying to end his protein hunger too. The guy was twice my size but still smaller than Rich Piana’s version I told you about. During his search for a place to sit, he looked at Rich Piana’s copy. Their eyes met like two male lions in the wild.

They were both wearing tank tops revealing freaky biceps. The electrifying stare between them represented modern day manhood measuring. I guess those oil investments had provided a nice return because Rich was the clear winner of this bicep duel.

They didn’t say a word to each other, but I ran a small example dialogue in my head:

“You ain’t sitting here, motherfucker. Your biceps are smaller than mine. You don’t get to breathe my air,” said Rich’s clone.

“Fuck you and your stupid anorexic bitch with fake hair extensions. I will sit next to the IT transgenders to make myself feel better,” replied the other guy.

He sat next to the two snobbish nerds and started consuming his protein ammo. I could definitely identify some serious turmoil in the nerds’ eyes. Those guys were feeling threatened. They had material possessions and status but were lacking the proper physique. This made them feel like insecure and confused pencil necks.

Who is on top? The guy with the body or the one with the money? Probably the guy with the money and the body, but this kind of perfect was missing today.

This story led me to the logical conclusion that for some weird reason the guy with the bigger biceps is always on the top of the street food chain.