A couple of weeks ago I was at the gym feeling all kinds of turnt up and generally Usain Bolt physique-ish, so I decided to max out the elliptical machine as a testament to my fitness prowess. In my mind, I was convinced that with the proper combination of Rick Ross tracks, mental fortitude, and Vitamin Water XXX I could cleanly power through an hour set. This was a miscalculation. Twenty minutes into the workout, your boy was feeling like a southern broad in a Reconstruction era period piece—that’s to say, extra faint-y. But, gotdamn if I was gonna take a L on the elliptical machine next to the 100 lb woman reading Cosmo in a spandex outfit. If you pass out putting up too much weight, you’re still good with dudes in the gym. If you pass out on a cardio machine, the gym cats automatically forward your membership fees to the local Curves for Women, and then you have to get down on some Bosom Buddies or Madea shit to get the full value out of your year long membership.
In just that instant, all your manhood levels go down the drain. You start paying a dude with a Biggie Smalls eyeball situation to call you terry cloth (that means you very soft), your kids start calling you by your first name, you get passed over for promotions on the job, and then you eventually get caught out there on some very embarrassing shit like accidental suicide via autoerotic asphyxiation. If you stay on the elliptical though and finish out that set even though you feel like dying, maybe you can end up being the dude that invents the safe autoerotic asphyxiation setup and then you can be “a million dollars isn’t cool, you know what’s cool? A billion dollars” rich. It’s all about motivation y’all.
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: raythedestroyer
