January 19, 2001
Issue #30

PLAYING THE GAME
Part I of II
by Jason Meuller

The other day I’m in the gym, conversing back and forth with a few of my fellow gym rats in our typical fashion.  You know, the hooting, scratching, bleating lingo that’s played out in health clubs across this beautiful land of ours.  Just before I disengaged myself from this Crossfire-like discussion, one of my compatriots left me with a few words of wisdom.  “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

At first, I thought little of this simple philosophy.  I mean, yeah, it’s kind of cute, kind of clever, but for God’s sake man, I’m doing legs over here.  Who gives a shit about a cute saying at a time like this?   Added to that fact is that I’m training with a friend of mine, a former training partner mind you, who’s found it necessary to lay around on his ass for the past few years.  Needless to say, I’m taking full advantage of that fact, and showing him why Mother Nature frowns on slovenliness.  “Ok, I’m glad you just puked, I’m sure that 3 lbs of lasagna you ate before we got here wasn’t helping your range of motion on the leg press.  We’re about half-way done, so hang in there.”  To his credit, he didn’t quit, but that’s just because I had told him I’d spring for all you can eat Hometown Buffet if he saw it through.  You’ve got to learn their weaknesses folks.

So, we wrap legs up in less than an hour, with three people training mind you.  I’m completely crippled, I feel like I’ve just been “hobbled” by a psycho Kathy Bates in Misery.  Right about now one of those motorized wheelchairs would be nice, what are those things called, “Larks” or something, right?  That’s what I need for leg days, a Lark.  I can just see me tearing ass around the gym in my new Lark, I’d put a blower on that thing with one of this big trucker horns and inspire absolute panic everywhere I go.

“BWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Pardon me sir, that’s just the horn on my new Lark here.  How many sets do you have left on the squat rack?  I can’t afford it now, but in a few more years when I suck a few more of you guys in and sell out Bill Phillips style, I’m going to have the shiniest Lark on the block.  My Playboy Playmate, uhhh, secretaries will shine it and wax it with their breasts, uh, I mean chamois. 

Anyway, I get home and go through my usual post-leg workout routine, which involves a complex theatrical display of me lying on the floor, trying to look as uncomfortable as possible, while telling Carol that the only way I’ll feel better is if she has sex with me that night.  “C’mon honey, I know it sounds kinda crazy, but seriously, I just spoke with Charles Poliquin the other day and he was explaining to me how the post-coital hormone release is great for recovery.”  Mind you, this is my routine for every body part, in fact, if I simply go out to check the mail, you’ll find me lying on the floor, letters scattered around my prostrate form, trying to weasel some sex out of the woman.  Hey, it’s kinda embarrassing, but at least I’m honest with you guys.

Usually I’m made some vague promise of sex at some point in the distant future and left to contemplate my own navel.  And, the events of this day are no different.  So, I gather what’s left of my dignity, grab a big glass of iced tea, and settle into my $2,000 sweat-stained green leather recliner, the one I bought for days just like this.  And as I begin to slowly regain feeling in my legs, I think about the wisdom imparted to me at the gym.  Don’t hate the player, hate the game.  

I would not say I’m the hippest guy on the planet.  I know there is a style of music known as rap, but I’ve never listened to it.  I also know that there’s a style of music known as Hip-Hop, which Carol is unfortunately addicted to like so much crack.  Now usually, we try not to listen to the radio when we’re in the car, not because we enjoy listening to each other babble as the lie goes, but because we really can’t stand each other’s music.  However, there are times when I’ll get to stick a Metallica or Van Halen CD in, usually around Christmas or my birthday, and consequently, there are times when I must suffer through the latest drivel some nitwit with a drum mixer and synthesizer came up with in five minutes in a studio.  By the way, that’s the average time it takes to write, record, and market a hip-hop song.  Anyway, I can only stick my fingers in my ears for long as I yell, “LALALALALALALALA…..LALALALALALALALA.”  Eventually, I give up and have to listen to the stuff.  Sorry, I’ve gotten off course.

Within the realm of these musical stylings, I often hear references to “playas”.  Now, I don’t know exactly what constitutes being a playa, all I know is everyone claims to be one.  Every male rapper, R&B’er, and Hip-Hopper claims to be a playa, which I believe translates directly to “player” in the King’s English.  The only common thread I see amongst these individuals claiming player status is lots of money, women, and garish jewelry.  Good looks or sense of fashion seems to have no discernable place when determining who is, and who is not a player.  At least in the world of music.

Those that are jealous of the lifestyle lead by players are known as haters.  And again, realize that this is about the most unhip white guy on the planet trying to explain a very hip cultural phenomenon to you, and have it all end up applying to bodybuilding.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride, but if you hold on tightly, we’ll all make it to the end.  I think you could liken this situation to Flavor Flav from the rap group Public Enemy covering the Presidential Inauguration.   Funny as hell to watch (or read in this case), but not something you want to expose your children too.  So if your kids are sitting on your lap reading this at the moment, please, send them off to bed immediately and call a counselor.  It may not be too late.

Ah, where was I?  Haters.  Ah yes, well as I stated, haters are those that are envious of a players lifestyle.  And just as everyone claims to be a player, they also freely label everyone outside their clique as a hater.  Prepare yourself, gentlemen, I’m about to take us to light speed as I make the bodybuilding connection.

If there ever were a group of people on this planet that would be considered players, it would be bodybuilders.  And I’m not talking about the guy who wears the shirt that’s three sizes too small on Friday night, I’m talking honest to God, no doubt in your mind when you see them, bodybuilders.  How did I come to this conclusion you ask? 

#1

DESPITE WHAT THEY SAY, WOMEN LOVE BODYBUILDERS

Let’s take a quick poll here people.  How many of you have sat around, reading a bodybuilding magazine, and had your significant other, hopefully a female this time, say something like, “Honey, you don’t want to look like that do you?  That’s so gross!”  Mind you, an analogous situation is to find your girlfriend or wife reading a Playboy open to Carmen Electra’s latest, uh, spread I guess we’ll call it.  What are you going to say?  “Holy shit honey, look at the tits and ass on her!  For God’s sake woman, quit hogging the Playboy and go cook me something.”  As men, we do what protects the health of our sexual relationship, and most of us would probably feign mild interest in Ms. Electra, showing about as much curiosity as one might give to a cute baby commercial on TV. 

Women, knowing that us men have fragile egos (on our best days), react in a very similar fashion.  I can guarantee you that their first impulse is to rip the latest issue Flex from your hands and ask you to go mow the lawn or something.  Whatever, they just want to be left alone with the magazine for awhile.  However, secure with the knowledge that doing so would only worsen your already horrible erectile dysfunction, they play the nice, supportive, nurturing role that women play so well.  “Honey, I really hope you’re not planning on looking like that, you know I love you just the way you are.”  Now personally, I can’t imagine telling a woman who has the capacity to look like Carmen Electra not to try.  In fact, I’d be supportive of her every effort, and be like a one-man band of cheerleaders to boot.  “Rah, rah, sis-boom-bah.  She’s going to look like Carmen Electra!” However, if I’m laying next to Shamu the She-Whale and she’s telling me she wants to look like Carmen Electra, you know what my response if going to be?  That is, if I can possibly get it out without exploding in raucous laughter?  “Honey, you’re perfect, I love you just the way you are.”

Which leads me to believe that women say these things because they don’t believe the man they are saying it to could ever achieve that level of development.  Hey, I’ve heard comments like that myself a million times.  Of course, now that I’m with Carol, she routinely tells me she hopes I look like that someday, but that’s because she’s secure with the knowledge that my erectile function couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Case in point my friends.  I’m a good looking guy….for a low-land gorilla.  Let’s face it, all I’ve got going for me when it comes to attracting the opposite sex is my body.  And because I’ve got this body, I’m the guy that women want to touch and squeeze and pinch and push.  Kinda like a walking, talking bag of Charmin.  Bottom line, any guy who has achieved a significant level of physical development knows what I’m talking about.  Women, all women, love bodybuilders, no matter what they say to your face.

LOOK FOR PART II NEXT FRIDAY FOLKS.  SAME BAT-TIME, SAME BAT-CHANNEL!