Get a Truck Tool Box and Avoid Getting Framed

By: Mike Rosania

"Give me four more! Come on! Do IT!" screams a grizzled voice sounding like Randy "Macho Man" Savage. A 7-foot-tall man with muscles popping from places I didn't know muscles could pop from towers over a scrawny teenager whose trembling arms desperately try to complete a set of curls. Meet Robby, the gym's personal trainer and resident jerk. He's a high intensity, steroid pumping, self-centered, never-left-high-school type of guy. Sure, his bulging biceps are bigger than my head, but he's dumber than a set of bricks. But the thing that really gets me... his obnoxious alpha male superiority complex.

Clunk! The sound of weights crashing down draws everyone's attention to the skinny kid who just collapsed on the floor. "Get up Suzy! Or do I need to get you a Kleenex?" shouts Robby. He liked to call emasculate his clients by calling them girls' names during the work out. Luckily, the excessive amount of sweat camouflages the tears rolling down the poor kid's cheeks.

I may not be the biggest guy in the gym, or ever close to Robby's size, but there's one thing I know for sure - Robby Strick needed to go.

Ever since the local paper published an article on fitness featuring Robby's exercise tips, he has been walking around like he is a celebrity. Robby has always been bigger than average. Growing up, Robby had a few weight issues - he had a love affair with Twinkies. But once puberty hit, he started growing all over instead of just sideways.

There is just one thing that Robby loves more than himself and that's his truck. He has a brand spanking new, candy apple red pick up truck; fully equipped with huge chrome rims, rumbling exhaust and a sound system that constantly blasts the song "This is why I'm hot."

After my work out I stop in the locker room for a quick clean up. I'm startled by yelling voices. Through a row of lockers I can see Robby and some other muscle man arguing. Being the klutz that I am, I slip in a water puddle and smack down onto the hard tile floor. Robby looks at me, then looks the other guy in face and says, "I better not see you here again," and storms out of the locker room.

By the time I leave I can just make out the faint lyrics, "I'm hot 'cause your not," as Robby's red truck peels out of the parking lot. We all knew Robby wasn't a holy man, but what had he gotten himself involved with this time?

A few days later, when I pull into the gym parking lot I'm greeted by the flashing lights of a police car. Apparently someone broke into the back of Robby's truck. "I was framed! That's not my stash," yelled that grizzly voice. In the back of the crowd, there was the guy who Robby was arguing with in the locker room. There he was; smiling.

Did someone frame Robby? Probably not, but someone did brake into Robby's truck bed, and reported the drug-filled truck to the cops. I wonder if there are any witnesses to testify; a certain person that witnessed an argument. Oh well, I guess it's out of my hands.

Peace has been restored in the gym world. Halleluiah!

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