You know when you’re at the gym minding your own business just trying to stick around long enough so you can convince yourself you’ve done something positive for your body? And right as you approach the water fountain for your fifth swig of water in as many minutes and another glance at the chick on the elliptical with the yoga pants and the bubble butt, you feel an aggressive tap on your back.
“Can I get a spot?” says Hercules.
Fuck.
You look over at the bench press bar, it has so much weight on it that it’s shaped like an open umbrella.
You mutter a squeaky “ya!” like a true Beta Male.
You start sweating. So that’s what that feels like.
You are completely under-qualified for this task. You convince yourself that your assistance won’t be needed because the dudes arms are the size of a fucking telephone pole.
He lifts the weight off the rack with ease and brings it down to his chest, where it stays. You are helpless.
Take solace in the fact that you could not be more helpless than this poor bastard at this moment.