Building High-Performance Muscle™

ATOMIC DOG
Like Hell You Could


I need to make it clear that I'm not a freak, not by a long shot. In strict competitive bodybuilding standards, I don't cut it.

It probably has just as much to do with personal choice as it does my height or my unreasonable reluctance to Roger Clemens my ass with a lot of illegal chemicals. Since I'm well over six feet, I'd have to weigh about 30 pounds more to even come close to the modern, hulking, competitive bodybuilding esthetic.

In other words I'm no fireplug, but that's perfectly okay with me. I like looking good in a suit, even though it still has to be custom made. I like being relatively light on my feet. When I'm naked, I prefer it that women gape at my grossly enlarged and veiny pecker instead of my grossly enlarged and veiny pec.

Neither can I haul, hoist, lift, or press enough weight to win any serious powerlifting contest unless I deceitfully hacked, wheezed, and phlegmed my way into one for powerlifters afflicted with tuberculosis or emphysema.

If I had to describe my body type or physique, I'd have to say I look more like a football player, maybe a tight end, the rare in-shape quarterback, or even a linebacker. I am, however, by regular-folk-on-the-street standards, a big guy, a "built" guy, a "buff" guy, an in-shape guy.

Non-lifting friends want me to go to the IKEA store with them so I can help them lift unpronounceable Swedish furniture into the backs of their SUVs. Non-lifting friends often point at me in any number of situations and say, "See that guy? He'll kick your ass."

I'm somewhat of a physical novelty to these people, probably a lot like a girl with really big tits is to her friends. Just as her flat-chested buddies tease her by hoisting up their tiny tits and pushing them together to make one good one, my non-lifting friends will often greet me by "making a muscle" with their arm or, worse yet, hitting a sad most-muscular pose.

Of course, with the big-breasted girl and her friends, they probably all strip down to their panties and have a pillow fight afterwards, so it isn't all bad.

Girls Next Door

But with the guys who "make a muscle"? They just snort and snicker at their wit.

Oh yeah, it's a riot. Humor at its best.

I feel like striking them.

Likewise, I'm big enough that strangers look at me and think meathead. The brave ones try to make conversation with me by talking about sports or the latest steroid scandal.

I'm sure a lot of you fall into the same sturdy Dreadnought of a boat.

The thing that bugs me the most, though, is the line the non-lifters, the Zach Braff clones, lay on me at least once a week. It's their attempt to provide a plausible but woefully untrue excuse for the condition of their ectomorphic or gelatinous body. Here is that rationalization, the one I hear all the time, the one I'm sure you hear all the time:

Like hell you could.

But I don't say that. I usually respond with a tight-lipped smile and go on my way, but in their minds, "my way" is off to a long day at the gym or to the wheat grass stand to quaff a liver, barley, and whey protein shake.

It's okay, though. It doesn't matter.

Still, if I were a vindictive or snarky kind of guy, I might not let that rationalization pass so easy. I might, if I were a vindictive or snarky kind of guy, say something like the following:

Clive Owen and Monica
Meditate

Maybe the next time I'm given the "I could look like you" line, I'll just print this rant out and staple-gun it to the offender's forehead.

You know, just to save time so as not to detract from all those long hours I need to spend at the gym.

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