The True Bad Boy’s Guide To The Gym

So you’ve decided to join a gym. Good for you. Whether it’s CrossFit, Gold’s, or a $10 a month shithole that some glory days football player from your high school decided to open up in a storefront that used to be a Payless in the strip mall, the first step is signing up. And the second step is going. I know, it’s hard to work out once you’ve gotten out of the habit, but every time I feel too hungover to cause further pain to my body, I remember how wrestlers talk about how while Ric Flair was always the last guy at the bar, he was always the first one at the gym in the morning, sweating out the poison. And whatever is good enough for The Nature Boy should be good enough for you. Just make sure you’re not an asshole about it. Here are some tips, guidelines, and advice on how to get jacked like never before.



Yoga pants might be the greatest clothing innovation of the 20th century. Any time I don’t feel like going to the gym because I decided that Bulleit Rye was a great substitute for food and water from the hours of 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., first, I think about The Naitcha Boah! WOOOO!!! Then, I remind myself that there’s going to be gym babes in yoga pants at the gym. I’d say 90 percent of gym babes wear them. And of that 90 percent, 70 percent of those gym babes have squatted to perfection gym butts, stuffed into snug black packages, on display with total disregard for your accidental wandering eye while you’re conveniently doing cable crosses which happen to face the mats where the gym babes in yoga pants tend to frequent. And there’s no need to STARE like a psycho. The yoga pants are everywhere. Just relax your eyes and let them come into view naturally, like a gentleman.

Don’t feel like looking at gym babes’ butts in yoga pants? Fine, stay home on the couch with a sack of Taco Bell, thinking about how disappointed Ric Flair would be in your lack of commitment.



Yes, it’s the gym, and certain smells are to be expected. However, it’s hard enough to choke back the dry heaves caused by whipping around a kettle bell while some filthy pig reeks like rotten tacos, ass juice, piss, a dead, homeless guy’s armpit, or fucking mildew. There’s nothing worse than some moldy asshole who keeps using the same towel for months on end, or who wears the gym clothes he put away wet in his bag last week. He walks around smelling like the 100 load beat off rag your freshman roommate kept under his bed.



No. Who are you, Michael Douglas in “Wall Street”? Don’t be a fucking asshole. No one wants to hear your conversation about whatever stupid shit no one cares about while he or she’s on a torture rack. It’s grueling to listen to. Go the fuck outside. Better yet, leave your phone in your car. “Sorry I didn’t pick up the phone, I was at the gym” is a great excuse to get out of anything. Maybe even better than, “Sorry I didn’t pick up, I have diarrhea.”


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Jesus Christ. Stop. You look like a sick fuck who can’t keep his yoga pants viewing under any sort of control.


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A lot of those gym babes in yoga pants tend to also rock sweaty, cleavage-inducing sports bras up top. While it seems really hard, you must resist the urge to go eyeball fishing down the booby hole, because you’re going to get caught. “But she obviously wants guys to look,” you might say. Maybe, but not in every case. A lot of those gym babes have yoked up gym dudes with them somewhere in the building who have enough testosterone pumping through their veins to crush your skull with one of their shriveled up ‘roid nuts or tiny yet muscular dick that made them feel the need to get so jacked in the first place.



Check out some videos of The Rock on his Instagram, gettin’ all blown up. Yeah! The Rock makes it look fun, and he’s big as fuck. Now get in there, lift heavy and hard, shut your mouth, and know your role, jabroni!



The first day I went into the locker room at my gym, I accidentally locked eyes with a man who was blasting a blowdryer up his asshole. Thing is, my gym doesn’t have community blowdryers. And this man was bald. And that means he brought his own blowdryer from home, just for his asshole. He has an “asshole blowdryer.” That image will never leave my brain. Ever. While I’ve seen far worse things in my lifetime, it was the accidental eye contact that I’ll take to my grave.



There is nothing more private than a man’s workout playlist. It’s yours and no one else’s. You put whatever you need on there to get the job done, no need to be “cool” about it. This is the time to really connect with your soul. I currently have some sick combination ranging from The Geto Boys to 3 Doors Down to Tool to Volbeat to The Goo Goo Dolls to Kelly Clarkson to P!nk (lots of P!nk) to Nickelback (fuck you, I don’t care) to Motley Crue to Third Eye Blind to The Brock Lesnar Theme Song George Michael to the obligatory AC/DC. And remember I’m writing this so I kept that list the least embarrassing as possible.



Don’t get one. Gym time is an easy time to let your brain wander to “fuck thinkin’.” Think “baseball.”



Why do I go to the gym? I don’t like antidepressants, but I probably should be on them. Hurting myself with weights releases natural endorphins as a replacement. I don’t treat my body very well with the booze and other unmentionables I put in it. I figure lifting weights and exercising might at least even me out. I go five days a week, and if I miss a day, I feel guilty. That’s my honest answer. But don’t get me wrong, last night after the gym, I bought two double cheeseburgers from McDonald’s, removed one of the buns, and made a four-banger for “protein.” Jack LaLanne I am not.

Maybe you want to slay some extra trim. Maybe your crank is small. Maybe you hate your family. Or, maybe you just like muscles. Everyone has a reason, but I think my favorite is this quote from Henry Rollins’ “The Iron.”

The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you’re a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.

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Mike Burns

Mike Burns is a comedian, author, and writer of television. He was born in Saginaw, MI and lives in Los Angeles, via Chicago via New York. Mike graduated from Michigan State University with a degree in Advertising that he threw in the trash. He's also the creator of @DadBoner and the author of "Power Moves: Livin’ The American Dream, USA Style by Karl Welzein."

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