The Five Meatheads You Meet at the Gym

[Fit2bLarge]

TweetPosted: 2/1/2006 by: Christopher Humpage


Invariably, today’s heading begs a more primary question -“Why are we at the gym in the first place?” An outstanding query - for the whole gym rotation accounts for nothing more in the grand scheme of things than a sophisticated human hamster wheel. If you don’t believe me, have some little, lightning-fast, black dude break your ankles with a sick crossover and be forced to rehab on one of those elliptical machines. Pretty soon you’ll be looking to suckle from the teat of a giant water bottle hanging from the wall, and piss it all out on cedar chips.

I digress, however. We come to the gym to rehab, to convalesce in its saunas and pump its iron, to leave feeling stronger than when we entered. We come to the gym because it's too cold to run outside, for its convenient spread of equipment, or because we think spending money on a gym membership and shoes with all kinds of plastic crap molded to them will somehow motivate us to get off our asses and start living right.

And in doing so, we encounter Meatheads.

For Meatheads, gym time takes on an exalted status in the hierarchy of needs. Their fitness quest, nay, Vision Quest, is on a level of importance we mortals rarely comprehend. It’s a requisite prelude to Jagerbombs and other late night Meathead feats of strength, like pounding cheese steaks. Gym performance is the Meathead’s compass. It is the opiate of his anabolic masses. It is a trading post for his life-giving, mass-building, Dianabol.

For gym-goers and outside observers alike, here is a primer on Meatheads, from their perspective. Such perspective has been chosen to assist in the reader’s understanding and identity with the Meathead, facilitating insightful gains toward the Meathead’s thoughts feelings, and emotions. The Meathead is a noble breed – and I, for one, would be loathe to see him marginalized in the dawning age of metrosexualism. The Meathead can be a resource for you if you need instruction on Romanian dead lifts, advanced proximal-distal lat work, or just help moving some heavy shit, but beware- he will try to get you hooked on Ripped Fuel.

The Five Meatheads You Meet at the Gym (From Their Perspective):

Bouncers are the tacit souls among Meatheads. This ad advocates a unified code of law among bouncersLoud, Ex-Football Playing, Sales and Marketing Professional Meathead – “Yeeeaaahhh! I just drank a big ‘ol cuppa mud at the front desk! Gonna do some upright rowing, bent rowing, lat pulls, dead lifts, - yup, 2 ½ hours on lats! Hey man, if you’re goin’ for awesome power, you gotta go for it! Yeah, after this workout, I’m gonna go out and do some networking, you know, I’ve got this insurance agent thing going in addition to the copier sales, which I’m going to mention every time you see me. I’m also going to scream as loud as I fucking can each rep like I’m Zeus taking the giant shit that plopped down from the heavens and became Mt. Olympus!”

Supplement Guy Meathead – Hey dude. Been awhile. Have you gained weight? Man, I’m up to a solid two fifteen. Spent twelve and a half weeks on the Creatine, but now I’m phasing off that with Sol Palmetto. After I de-tox and cleanse my system with a hot, steaming, colonic, I’m going to hop onto the Myoplex, and just eat protein. Yeah dude. Just nine servings of protein a day. And hey, if that doesn’t work, I know other ways to get an edge, dude (Gives a nod and a wink as he walks off and hits “Play” on his MP3 player, pumping ear-damaging levels of Three Doors Down).

Jeans Meathead – I fucking refuse to do cardio. I fucking refuse. I’m not even going to stretch to warm up. Stretching is for pussies. I’m coming in to work out in construction boots and a wife beater, to show off my tats, and talk to other dudes about my tats. I’m rad in the summer when my ball-sweat it totally visible on my jeans. That’s what you want to see - me, and the ball-sweat on my stonewashed Hilfigers. I used to do martial arts. I drive a Dodge Magnum.

Bouncer Meathead – Every Thursday I drive two hours to bounce at a college bar at the school I graduated from in 2003. After I spend all night getting in dudes’ grilles and jawing with dudes about disc brakes, I drive directly to work Friday morning, tired as shit, and bask in the hangover of a kick-ass night sitting on that stool by the door looking tough. I love bouncing. I’m a wanton ***** for it. If bouncing was smoking heroin, I’d be hunched over in an airplane toilet, chasing the dragon, setting off all kinds of alarms, freaking out the passengers, and it would be sweet. I’m an artistic meathead, a reflective meathead. I seek meaning to my meat headedness through bouncing. And if you’re cool, I’ll give you that sly, disinterested wave-in when you get to the door, and I won’t press you for your ID. But be cool, man.


Mini-Meathead – Fuck yeah, I’m pissed about being only 5’6”! I’m pissed I had to sit the bench in high school football behind the taller receivers! I dead lift angry! I’m pissed that girls are always saying they want a man who is tall, dark, and handsome! I hate God! I bar-curl angry! The only time I can take my mind off my insecurity is when I’ve had more than one sip of beer, at which point I’m suddenly 6’5”, 240, with Teflon balls! I bench press angry! That chick over there would totally give me a killer smoker if I was taller! Fuck! I drank sixteen beers last night!

Well friends, there it is. Use this knowledge when you encounter a meathead. Meatheads, despite their reputation as useless drones who simply consume calories and add mass, encompass a variegated spectrum of unique personalities and perspectives. And they come in five types. Try walking a mile in their Atomix brand strength training shoes. Pound the depressing slab of goo that is their Powerbar. Feel their pain, for it you don’t feel their pain, you won’t gain – insight, ripped mass, back acne, or anything else, for that matter. Who knows? Maybe you are a closeted meathead yourself, yearning to live the lifestyle. Maybe you will ascend into the ranks of meatheads, and perhaps advance to the top of the meathead society – oiled up, geeked up, ‘roided up, and parading in front of judges, grimacing in a tiny thong during the finals of a bodybuilding competition, with your heart about to rupture from dangerous levels of Ephedra enhanced Ripped Fuel through your bloodstream. There are many roads to the top, no matter what type of meathead you are.

Train hard. Train proud. Train onward, yon Meatheads. As for the rest of you, show compassionate courtesy towards these diamonds in the rough. Meatheads have needs, too.

[Slightly Enhanced]

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