The Weight Room

The Weight Room

Unfortunately, however, our generous financial backers proved too parsimonious to shell out the big bucks for a state-of-the-art weight training facility in the humble “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” headquarters. As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must make undignified trips to the local undignified gymnasium if we want to maintain a suitable level of physical fitness.

As you can imagine, dear reader, this causes all kinds of problems. Those Americans who are not suitably attached to weightlifting to wear de facto clown pants to the gym know what an indignity a daily spot of exercise can be.

The gymnasium closest to “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” headquarters is a perfect case in point. Like pretty much every workout facility in these here United States of America, this gym plays a hotchpotch of simply unbearable music.

As far as we’re concerned, physical fitness is, if not next to godliness, at least in the general proximity. And yet it seems to us that listening to endless iterations of Peter Frampton’s “I Want You To Show Me the Way” is an awfully high price to pay to stay in shape.

In fact, dear reader, a trip to our local gymnasium is likely to force one to endure Steve Miller’s feculent tune about being a “midnight toker,” the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s feculent cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground,” and C&C Music Factory’s unspeakably atrocious “Everybody Dance Now.”

With appalling music like that, it’s no wonder that so many Americans are fat.

As if this aesthetic torture weren’t enough, we are compelled to take in the noxious perambulatory preening of the local gym rats. Each workout facility is home to at least a handful of no-necked pituitary cases that appear to spend their entire waking lives at the gym.

These human peacocks never seem to work out, either. Rather, they simply strut in front of various mirrors, and demonstrate their consummate dedication to physical fitness by greeting other sufficiently in-shape regulars with a variety of grunts.

And then, of course, there’s the gear fancied by most of the ladies. As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are concerned, posterior penmanship almost makes Peter Frampton seem palatable by comparison. Almost.

As if the risqué gear of the distaff elements in the gym weren’t suitably irksome, there’s always the raunchy piece of nautilus equipment we call “The Yes/No Machine.”

You probably know what we are talking about, dear reader: The machine used only by women and assorted emasculated males that strengthens one’s inner thigh muscles through a spread-eagle-to-close-legged motion. Just looking at that outré contraption is enough to make us deeply uncomfortable.

Naturally, dear reader, the gal utilizing the old “Yes/No Machine” is clad in ridiculously infinitesimal shorts and a sports bra. In essence, she makes Madonna appear like a fusty old prude.

And yet, dear reader, if any man dares to glance in her direction, she shoots back a particularly peevish scowl. Why, imagine the nerve of that fellow, she must be saying to herself. I’m just a scantily-clad gal sitting spread eagle on a piece of exercise equipment. What’s so odd about that?