I'm not here to do traditional reviews. Don't expect me to bust out a story about a positive gym experience. My sole purpose is to tell you which hellish gyms to stay away from. My head is a lump of dough. It is comprised of water, yeast, and flour. There might be some sugar and salt in there too.
GlobalTrain Gym: D-
This place is a real shithole, man!
GlobalTrain's only treadmill only topped out at paltry 20 miles per hour at a 45 degree incline. The boneheads who run the place do not allow members to get on the treadmill with either a jump rope or a complete set of eight dumbbells cradled in your arms, let alone both at once.
I have no eyes or orifices, just rough depressions in the dough where those things would be.
Muscle Place Gym: F
What a terrible selection of equipment. I had to bring my own frisbees. Worse yet, the staff was very rude when I flung frisbees into the packed gym as hard as I could.
They were still rude when I aimed my frisbees at the front window and the full-length mirror covering every interior wall. Muscle Place Gym employees then followed me like a common criminal and (you guessed it) continued to be rude when I threw frisbees in the bathroom.
There is no muscle or skull beneath the dough. I pushed my finger in there once as far as it would go. All I encountered was a grainy grey liquid that dribbled down my palm.
Planet Fitness Galaxy Gym: F
I'll keep this one short and sweet. The fascists at Planet Fitness Gym do not allow members to scoot across weight benches dragging their buttholes across the padding like a dog with worms.
When I wake up every morning my pillow is covered in wads of my head. For several frantic minutes I pick every last glob from the fabric and affix it to my head. What if I didn't do this? What would happen if my dough continued to lose mass? Is there a threshold beyond which I would simply die, or worse, cease to be myself? These thoughts haunt me. Not an hour goes by where I don't glance around at the ground and compulsively touch the back of my head to make sure it's there. My life is a grueling and achingly lonely ordeal made worse by the constant fear of losing it.
Beef Palace Gym: F
None of the towels featured a pair of holes for your arms, so you couldn't wear one like an impromptu Razor Ramon vest and strut around flicking toothpicks at other members of the gym. In fact, as I was escorted from the building I was told that the rules were being revised to prevent members from flicking toothpicks in any circumstance, regardless of the presence or absence of a vest.
Every few hours my head rises to twice its size and I have to squeeze it back down into a rough ball. If I fail to do this my head gets all saggy and full of air pockets that slowly deflate.
Tender Bulk Gym: D-
I asked for every weight in the building to be piled on top of a single barbell. The staff did not comply. They did not even try to meet me halfway on the issue. When I explained that I had no intention of actually lifting the weight, but simply wanted to see what it all looked like in one spot, they were even less helpful.
The worst part of my condition? I've been desperately trying to stay away from gluten.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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