On Guinea Gorilla Juiceheads

Much like her Bump-It wearing counterpart from MTV's beloved show Jersey Shore, my friend Jo has a thing for big muscly dudes.

Actually, that's a bold-faced lie.

She has a thing for death metal and trash talking scumbags over the internet, and though he's a pretty big dude now, her boyfriend only recently put on muscle because he was severely underweight. It doesn't really matter, the point to take away from this is he used to be skinny and only recently started working out.

As I invariably mention every week or so because it's a sizable chunk of my day now, I'm doing something similar for myself. I got to talking with Jo's boyfriend about weights and supplements and such, and at a point mentioned that, were I to have enough space for it, I would readily walk down to Walmart for one of their $90 adjustable weight benches. I was tired of doing bench presses from the floor.

Suddenly, this large man I was talking to became very emphatic, very twitchy. "No!" he shouted. A few months ago he had purchased this same item and had it collapse beneath him while he was lifting weights. I disheartened for myself, but relieved for his alive-ness.

Then it dawned on me. "Tay-Tay," I said. (Not his real name, but he hates Tay-Tay, so that's what I'm going with.) "How much do you weigh right now?"

"Like 220, maybe? I wanna be 270." he said.

"And how much were you benching when you were still doing that?"

"About 200?"

"Ah. Alright. Y'see, Tay-Tay, those benches usually have like a 300, 350 pound maximum on it. You're pushing like 450. If you make it to 270, I'm still only going to be half that."

Then we laughed and talked about eating things and lifting heavy things and such, but it just reminds me what my calling in life truly is:

I am to get ripped and buff, then celebrate with a spray-tan and an Ed Hardy t-shirt so I can go down to the Jersey Shore and live amongst the meatheads like Jane Goodall with the chimps.