Gymroids in Disrepair

Originally Posted Monday, August 11, 2014

After the gym yesterday, I went to the grocery store to get the makings for a fantastic dinner for my mother.  As I was leaving, a car stopped beside me quickly and I heard a low, gruff voice say, "What do you want, mother fucker?"  I turned slowly to look at the driver.  It was one of the old gymroids I knew from the old steroid gym where I'd worked out for twenty-some years before it finally closed. 

"Maybe you might just want to step out of that car and get your ass kicked," I said with a grin.  "How you doing Bo?"  This was one of the true players back then, a strange guy who lived what was, even to the other oddball denizens of the place, a bizarre life.  He was one of a number of fellows who came from Maryland to this tourist town to live the good life.  The first one here got the others jobs as bartenders and bouncers in the most popular bars.  They had money and girls and drugs, and were members of the only real muscle gym in town.  What could go wrong? 

I loved working out there just to hear the stories.  They were the craziest you could ever hear, and Mo was part of many of them.  Even in an alternative universe, he was a character. 

But those gym stories are for another time.  Standing in the grocery store parking lot, we began to catch up a bit.  I hadn't seen him for the better part of a year, I was sure. 

"You still got that scam going?" he asked. 

"What scam?"

"Last time I saw you, you were eating sushi with that nineteen year old wearing the wig.  She said you were her 'photographer.'"

"Oh.  No, I've pretty much given that up now.  I'm just photographing root vegetables and weird objects." 

"Bullshit!"

We chit-chatted about the guys from the gym.  Lots of surgeries and joint replacements.  I noticed a cane in the car seat next to Bo. 

"Are you using a cane?" 

"Yea, for now.  I go in for a hip replacement next month.  I've been going to Miami to get stem cell injections.  They helped me everywhere except for my hip.  The doctor called and said to come down, that they are using placenta stem cells now, but fuck it.  I'm getting this replaced." 

He looked at me. 

"You look like you put on weight." 

"Really?"  I stepped over to see myself in the back window's reflection.  "Yea, I can't run.  I've got a torn meniscus and sciatica right now.  Do I look that bad?" 

"I'm not criticizing," he said, "I'm just saying." 

He told me he had sciatica for about six months but then he went to this clinic where they did something--he rolled off a three or four letter acronym.  It was a machine that stretched your spine, he said.  Eric did it too, he said, and they both felt better. 

"You should go.  The clinic is up here on the corner of Old Spider Road and Willow.  I'm telling you. . . ." 

"Yea, I'll look into it." 

"You don't sound like it." 

Then he began telling me about something else, something he'd started taking that made him young again. 

"Remember when you were in your thirties and someone would say, 'Hey, let's go to the beach,' and you'd be like, 'Fuck yea, let's go to the beach' where now you just say, 'Fuck that'?  Now I'm like, 'Fuck yea, let's go to the beach' again.  Rob called me the other day to tell me that he had started using it because one of his old wrestling buddies told him about it, and I said, 'Fuck you Rob, I told you about that two years ago.'" 

Chemicals were just a way of life for gymroids. 

"What did you say it was called again?" 

"Sermorelin.  I'll tell you the doctor to go to if you want to get it.  He's right over in the Family Practice Clinic.  His name is Morey.  If he doesn't want to give it to you, tell him you know me and I said the stuff works great.  You can only fill the prescription at one pharmacy in town.  You just mix it up and take it in with a small needle. . . ."

"Wait.  What?  It's an injectable?"

"Yea, its a small needle.  You shoot yourself in the stomach every day." 

"Oh man, fuck that."

"You can shoot yourself in the thigh then.  It doesn't hurt you pussy." 

"Well, I'll say you do look about ten years younger." 

"I just dropped twenty pounds.  I went on a diet, cut carbs, cut my servings in half." 

"I hate diets." 

"Yea, but my blood pressure was high, my blood sugar was off.  After I lost the weight, I had a blood workup and everything was good.  My blood pressure was 110 over 80.  You need to lose some weight, bro." 

Just then a female cop walked out of the grocery store in uniform and suddenly Bo had to go.  He's a convicted drug dealer who was pardoned by the Governor.  He still deals.  He hasn't any other way to make money.  He didn't get caught the first time, really, but was ratted out by another fellow at the gym who got popped for having a grow house.  He rolled over for a lesser sentence, and he landed on Bo.  After that, the rat had to move to another state for his own protection.  But again, that's for another time. 

Fat.  I've grown fat.  Fuck.  I am going to have to lose weight.  That is never fun. 

When I got home, I looked up Sermorelin.  It is a pituitary hormone that stimulates HGH production.  Not many studies have been conducted on it, but the warnings are the same as for HGH.  Since it causes meiosis in cells, it could wake up any latent cancers in the body and set them to reproducing.  And as with HGH, there is the chance of the onset of diabetes.  Not for me.  One of my friends starting doing HGH a few years ago and got prostate cancer.  Who knows if there was a correlation, but there could have been. 

Well, that was a long, boring way of telling you I have to lose weight, have to get my knee fixed, hope my back quits hurting so I can get back to my original weight of eight pounds eight ounces. 

But seeing Bo has convinced me that I need to write down all the crazy shit from those gym days when everyone was an outlaw.  I was there.