Hey dude, are you using that preacher bench? How many sets of curls do you have left? Three, huh?
Hey, why don’t we call it one, and then you can go join that girl who has been reading Glamour magazine on the elliptical trainer for the last six hours. How does that sound?
Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but curls are serious business to me. Ever see Duane “The Rock” Johnson in “The Tooth Fairy”? That guy could crush your concave bird chest between his forearm and his enormous biceps. That’s what we’re talking about, broham.
Here’s the thing: I’ve got guns. Always have had them, always will. If you want to survive on a campus like this one, you need to get swoll. Load those arm cannons with a few “supersets” and pretty soon you’ll be busting out of your too-tight Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. Nobody would ever fizzickityuck with a dudeski like that.
What I’m saying, then, is that it’s my turn on the preacher bench. You’ve been hogging that thing for the last two minutes. These grapefruits I’ve been growing won’t squeeze themselves, hoss.
The brahmins and I are rolling deep at the bars tonight and we want our veinage to be popping. Our tans are already tight and our hair will set records for the highest clubspike, but it’s the curls that complete us, if you know what I mean.
See, the biceps brachii is a totally worthless muscle group, with one major exception: It impresses lots of guys and maybe one or two girls. What we need it to do is scare those other guys away from the girls, even if the girls don’t care about biceps, The Rock, or his star turn in “The Tooth Fairy.” And what about those guys who aren’t scared? We want them to come up and give our biceps a squeeze.
So what we’re saying is that you must curl as if your life depended on it. Doesn’t matter if the form on those curls is good, bad or indifferent. Put the whole back into it if that’s what it takes. See those lightweights and tenderfeet looking at you? They’re amazed by your awesomeness. You’re the heavy curling king of the weight room.
What, you’re telling me that I’m underdeveloped in other areas? That I don’t have any quads or hamstrings or calves? Kid, can you see that stuff in the dim lighting of a smoke-filled campus hotspot? Right, I thought so. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Puffy? You’re saying I look puffy? This is all natural, youngblood. No body fat here. Those pizzas and burgers I eat are just ways of packing on the protein. Same with the booze. That’s called carbo-loading — maybe you’ve heard about it?
Trust me: I’ve been at this hardgaining game for years. I’ve left a trail of tears in my wake. My curling excellence is sure to go unexcelled, in all the gyms on campus, until someone with even worse form shows up and throws two plates on that barbell.
Step aside, please. I want to do my set.