Today, I won another small victory in the long war against metrosexual gyms. Here's the thrilling recount: Whenever I'm in town for on break, I pick up shifts at a local coffee shop where I used to work full time (I love me some coffee for real). So, I've been working down there for the past week or so of Christmas vacation. Today I wasn't actually making drinks, I was digging postholes (I love me some posthole diggers for real, too) for a fence we're going to install around the parking lot. The boss sent a fellow employee named Brian out there to dig with me. Now, I like Brian, but he's dumb as hell. He wrestled and played football in high school so he's not small, but recently he's really taken to weightlifting. Today he decided to tell me all about it. I heard horrible, horrible things come out of that mouth; let me tell you. Brain told me that he squats in a smith machine so that he'll have correct form; he told me that he performs all his lifts at 15 reps for "definition"; he told me that he avoids deadlifting because he "doesn't want to look like a powerlifter"; he gave me little glimpses of his routine--glimpses which involved treadmills, calf raises, and the good old "chest/arm/back/shoulders/leg" split. When my bullshit tolerance level hit critical mass, I leveled with him. I told him that he and his trainer knew precisely jack shit about working out, that he took a homoerotic approach to weightlifting, and that he would lift mediocre weights for the next few years until he became so discouraged that his initial, meager gains had tapered off that he would finally quit. He seemed to take some issue with my assessment so I decided to attempt to persuade him. I told him that I could beat him in any test of strength he could come up with. After all, he'd been lifting for longer than I have. He played sports in high school. I played video games and studied Latin. It seemed like we should be fairly comparable in the strength department. First, we decided to see who could throw a hunk of concrete the farthest. I chose one from the ditch out behind the shop. After I threw it, he went to retrieve it and struggled to bring it to his chest. He accused me of "picking a heavy one." He managed to throw it almost half the distance of my original throw, but he blamed that on technique so I gave him a second throw. The second toss fell just a bit shy of his first one and he cried foul. I told him to try again. That time, he tried some strange, spinning technique and managed to improve a half a foot or so on his original throw. Out of breath and defeated, he conceded, "Well, you have stronger arms than I do." I couldn't take that shit lying down. I told him to follow me as I walked back across the parking lot into the store room at the rear of the shop. When we were inside, I grabbed one of the 150 pound sacks that we get our coffee beans shipped in. Then, I cleaned it and pressed it overhead. Brian cursed. The he got pissed and tried to do it himself. Well, whether because of his untrained grip or his undertrained lower back, he could barely budge it from the ground. After what seemed like an eternity of straining, he stormed up to the front of the shop. Later, he started asking me how to weight train. Now, I know a 150 pound C&P isn't anything to be proud of, but I felt like I had triumphed over the insanity that is gym culture. And, even if it was a small win, it was a win. Basically, I had to share it with someone, and you guys are the only audience that I could think of who might appreciate it. This board is also the only reason I'm not still wallowing in abject weakness and misinformation like my poor comrade Brian is.