Why Would You EVER Hire a Fat Personal Trainer?

I’ve never understood this phenomenon.  It reared its ugly head yesterday at the gym, as I was forced to listen to some obese asshole chastise and “coach” some old man through a pathetic work out which would not have produced sweat if it was conducted on the 50 yard line of Death Valley.  Why would you ever listen to that you might ask?  Why not just crank up your iPod volume and ignore it?  I’ll tell you why: I am currently on my 4th iPod Shuffle, and those devices are utter pieces of shit.  Not a single goddamn one of them has made it to year 2.  You can set your watch to those mutherfuckers breaking 2 hours after the warranty has expired.  If there is some currently unbeknownst to me conspiracy theory regarding Apple programming them to break the day after the warranty expires, then consider me as “Liking It” on Facebook, or whatever it is the kids do these days.  I personally don’t Facebook (and by “I don’t Facebook” I mean “I’ve hit the refresh button on the News Feed 14 times during the scripting of this paragraph), I’m above such shenanigans.  But back to Porky McPorkroast and the poor uninspired social security recipient he was condescending to.  The old timer was in 10 times better shape than the trainer, who needed to lose 75 pounds (and I’m being very generous here).  Why would you choo-choo-choose this asshole?  ”Excuse me sir, who would you like to assist you shopping for a new wardrobe today?”  ”Hmmm, I think I’ll choose the guy with the hair plugs, wearing the No Fear t-shirt tucked into acid washed jean shorts and Teva sandals with black dress socks.  He seems to know his trade.”  And an even bigger question might be, why is the East Bank Club (totally name-dropping the fact I’ve joined a hoity-toity gym so I could play “rich guy” for a few hours a week before I go back to my “poor guy” reality) employing fat ass trainers?  If you are going to make a career out of fitness, shouldn’t you maybe look the part or live the lifestyle?  Deciding on a career in fitness when you hate working out and love mayonnaise is like choosing a career as a symphony conductor when you hate Beethoven and love RATT.  No one is going to believe in you.  

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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