“Don’t be that guy!”

So I was working out at the gym the other evening when the King of the Douche Bags graced us with his presence. Now don’t get me wrong, there are generally loads of piss-ant douche bags at the gym who like to like strut around like little peacocks playing the “who has the biggest dick now?” game with their amounts of pounds lifted.

My work out buddy and I aren’t allowed to play this game, as we can’t compete with some of those douche-dudes who can lift more than quadruple my body weight with their nose-wiggle muscles. However, I am happy to finally report that we’re no longer the weakest guys in the gym either, and physically intimidating at least one other person is such a great feeling.

Anyway, the King of the Douche Bags made a stealthy entrance into the free weights section of the gym, readying his regal weights and preparing his bejeweled lifting throne without causing much commotion or demanding any “official entrance trumpet music.” Then, in a sudden fit of rage, he began doing Power Cleans.

Now for all you non-juice-monkeys and non-meatheads out there, a “Power Clean” is an exercise in which the person lifts a massive amount of weight on a bar that is sitting on the floor to the waist level and then to the shoulders/head level, and finally nicely puts it back down on the ground.

You may better recognize this as the lift that those immensely intense-looking Olympic power-lifters do with eyes bulging and neck veins popping like they had just dropped the most colossal shit of their lives. Getting a visual yet? Yeah, that one.

However, the King of the Douche Bags didn’t think he would garner enough attention by simply returning the weights to the floor quietly, so at the zenith of his lift, right around eye-level of his 6-foot-something height, he decided to just let the weights drop. BAM!

Now if this had happened once, it would have been alright. Sometimes, in an attempt to stake their penis-envy claims, the little peacocks try to lift more than they are physically able to, but then their muscles give out and they have to drop the weights. It happens from time to time. Yet, (BAM!) the King (BAM!) of the Douche Bags (BAM!) didn’t drop (BAM!) the weights just once (BAM!), but more like (BAM!) eight times (BAM!) in a row (BAM!). Do you see how annoying that is?

The mid-sized peacocks began to grumble amongst themselves about how the King of the Douche Bags was not obeying the “golden rule” of the gym. Even if he were to have selective common courtesy amnesia, there’s a fucking sign on the wall that literally reads “Don’t be that guy!,” reminding him to put his shit back where he got it from and to not let his weights crash onto the floor.

Being perhaps the fourth smallest guy in the weight room at the time – though only slightly weaker than my work out buddy who kept whispering “hardcore” under his breath with every crash – I had major peacock points to make up, and I saw this as a rare opportunity to quickly climb the gym’s hierarchal ladder. I grabbed the smallest weight I could find – a 2.5lb one – and marched straight to the King of the Douche Bags’ crashing zone. The mid-sized peacocks thought I was a crazy mo’fo’.

Right after he let another one of his lifts drop to the floor (BAM!), I stood squarely in front of him, looked him dead in the eye, raised the 2.5lb weight above my head with both of my hands (like Rafiki did to Simba in The Lion King), and then slammed it to the floor with all my might (baby BAM!). We angrily stared into each others’ eyes for about a full 30 seconds after the crash, which I thought was long enough for him to fully get the point of how I just shamed him by making him realize how much of a d-bag he was being.

The King of the Douche Bags, despite the stupid-looking faces he made while lifting, was, at the least, not as dense at the iron he was pumping, because he got the idea and finally dethroned himself.

The mid-sized peacocks were impressed, and they promised to stop stepping on my feet whenever I would lie down on the bench press seat. I considered this a small victory and was glad to accept it.

Since that evening, I have never seen the King of the Douche Bags ever again, and one may even go so far as to proclaim that his doucheiness has been fully vanquished, but I know that it won’t be long before another hardcore mid-sized peacock tries to claim the throne once more. Until the time when my title is put to the test once again, I shall remain self-knighted as “Justin, Slayer of Doucheiness.”
Granted, it’s not as badass of a title as “Dragonslayer” or “Womanizer,” but hey, I’ll take what I can get.

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