I have a friend who’s a body builder.
Well, that’s not ENTIRELY true. He was ONCE a body builder…not a weight lifter, though. A weight lifter and a body builder each lift weights; but the body builder doesn’t use the truss or adult-sized diaper. He lifts to look more attractive to others…and to himself—mostly to himself. After several months of lifting to look more attractive to himself and others, the average body builder overdoes it and begins to lift to look more like a Pokemon. In fact, my friend has presided over the opening of several toy stores in Tokyo.
But, it takes a LOT of time to get “cut” (body builder talk for that stage just before Pokemon)…hours a day; consequently, my friend interacted primarily with other Pokemons. They lifted together and posed together and traded steroids. He could have had friends outside the gym, but unfortunately he looked at everyone in terms of muscle to fat ratios. He masked his contempt for the uncut individual well by referring to them simply as “girly-man losers” and throwing their cars into ditches.
But, that was BEFORE he decided to change his career. Most of us agreed that it was high time for him to change his career, because he really couldn’t define what he did for a living. Whenever he tried to put it into words, he would become very depressed and eat raw eggs. So, he chose a carefully defined career where he would get the respect that he deserved: Nursing!
That’s right! ‘Cause there’s not enough nurses in the world…according to a lot of nurses. I don’t see this personally because I feel that anyone can sodomize someone with a cold rectal thermometer and practically anyone could ignore the “Nurse Call” buzzer if properly demotivated. But, boy am I wrong! They work these students like dogs…worse than dogs, ‘cause they have to read books and take tests; whereas, dogs usually just have to run after things and bite them.
But, the workload was so much for my friend that he had to quit lifting. So, he currently looks like one of those older pro-wrestlers: Muscled arms, a little belly and slight man-breast manifestation. In his cut days he performed crowd-control at Dupont Circle’s yearly “drag race”…a contest of speed between transvestites; however, this year he was slapped down by an angry Ann Coulter impersonator…at least I think it was an impersonator.
His old friends at the gym have shunned him. He was already somewhat of a pariah because of his aversion to steroids. It’s not that he considered them “cheating”; he just felt he would be uncomfortable with mood swings, body hair and a third testicle. He couldn’t talk shop with them any more. It became impossible for him to say the word “reps” without sounding vaguely like Paul Lynde. He no longer had a taste for his favorite breakfast: Oatmeal washed down with a glass of raw eggs and a chicken breast. He was not the man he once was.
So, friendless and aesthetically neutral, he has many options. He could quit the nursing program. If he worked around the sick and suffering for too long, he might develop empathy and no one would recognize him. Why suffer with the suffering of others when one could just as easily see a plastic surgeon, have one’s eyes cut almond-shaped, and enter the wrestling ring as “Moto the Terrible”? I offered that advice while he was still cut; however, he responded by breaking my femur over his knee…
He could lift free weights during classes. It would be impossible to take notes with conventional weights; but I have developed a solution: Thirty-pound ballpoint pens…
He could have plastic surgery and have that loose skin tightened. If he’s lost a lot of weight, it is possible that his nipples could end up under his arms.
An alternative would be for him to make new friends. Friends who are NOT shallow. Friends who do not judge a person on outside appearances. Friends who see a person’s inner-beauty. Friends who would stick with him through times of trouble and woe. Unfortunately, he has alienated these people through years of casual beatings.
I suppose, the best option that I can think of would be for my friend to move away from the world of man and study the way of the samurai sword. It would put his mind at peace and focus his thoughts; and, if any of the weightlifters laughed at him, he could stab them. I know that violence is never the solution, but it is often a COMPONENT of the solution.
So, my friend essentially lives in a wall between two rooms…actually, that is too close to my own wretched childhood…he lives in a threshold—a doorway between two rooms. The group in one room has shunned him for what he was; the other group has shunned him for what he is now; moreover, he keeps getting his hand slammed in this metaphorical door. I’d like to offer my friend all my love and support…
…but, I’m not speaking to him either…