The following is the creative genius that arrives from suffering through a Sunday morning hangover from hell?..
Did you order the Mag-10?!
You don’t have to answer that question!
I’ll answer the question.
You want answers?
I think I’m entitled.
You want answers?!
I WANT THE TRUTH!
YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!
Son, we live in a world that has iron, and that iron has to be lifted by T-men and T-vixens with big guns. Who’s gonna do it? You? You Captain Ab-blaster? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for bigger quads and you curse the T-People. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That suffering in the gym, while exhausting, saves LBM. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves LBM. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me lifting that iron, you need me lifting that iron. We use words like ?sets,? ?protein,? ?cardio.? We use these words as the backbone of a life spent building something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who struggles and cries under the barbell of the spots that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise I suggest you pick up some 45’s and load the squat rack! Either way, I don’t give a DAMN what you think you are entitled to!
My contribution layeth before thee