"You liking me or not has nooooothing to do with me. It's all about your energy, the way you were raised, the way you choose to see the world. The way you see things cause you to decide if you like me or not. I have nothing to do with it. Do I want you to like me? Of course. But I don't worry about it if you don't. There are some things you can't control."
Puppy Dog explaining his theory on human interaction based on his discovery of metaphysics.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Random Quote from Around the Gym: FB MCGee (333 Days until I fight my Boss)
"I'm good because I actually suck. I leave hickies. I mean, it's called sucking dick for a reason, right? How do you think I got to be worth $300 an hour when I was an escort?"
FB McGee on what makes her blow job better than the average woman.
There are some serious comedic gems around this place so this might become a regular feature, also I should have something new up based on the fall out from naked chick in the gym. Stay tuned.
333 Days till I take out Mr. MMA.
FB McGee on what makes her blow job better than the average woman.
There are some serious comedic gems around this place so this might become a regular feature, also I should have something new up based on the fall out from naked chick in the gym. Stay tuned.
333 Days till I take out Mr. MMA.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What Happens When Puppy Dog is Let Off the Leash (339 Days till I fight my Boss)
The busiest day in the fitness industry is Monday. The average American spends their weekend praying to Dionysus, Loki, and (occasionally) the Porcelain God. On Monday they will come to gyms just like mine. Using we fitness professionals as priests in the church of pain and sweat. It is also the day most people sign up for a gym membership. My new job of gym manager, combined with my loathing of Mr. MMA, has led me to schedule the start of my eight hour work day at noon on Monday’s. The gym gets me working through the evening’s busy period. I don’t have to see Mr. MMA’s smug condensing face. It’s not perfect, but it’s a workable arrangement.
Yesterday, I’d been at work just long enough to enter my password on the computer when Puppy Dog walks up to me with a mischievous little smile on his face. It was the smile of a typical teenager when they're about to get into trouble.
“There is going to be a photographer coming into the gym in a few minutes,” he tells me, the smile only getting bigger.
Puppy Dog fancies himself a patron of the arts. He’ll let local artist use the gym as a gallery after hours. He’ll allow the same artists to show their work in the gym. Like someone in the middle of a workout would suddenly stop and think “oh wow, I really need that painting” or some shit. It appeared that he had decided just having art in the space wasn’t good enough. We must now make the gym part of the art. Yet, his face betrayed a certain enjoyment that went way beyond what you get from looking at a painting.
“Ooookay, is there anything I need to know about this?” I ask him, alarm bells going off and my spidey sense tingling.
“The model is going to be naked,” he tells me. Immensely proud of himself for finding a way to interject naked chicks into the gym, in the middle of the afternoon.
“Here? Today? She’s coming in... and just taking off her clothes? Errr, Why?” My brain wasn’t working on this one. I love women. I have an even bigger affinity for hot naked women. I will go so far as to say there is few things better than being with a hot naked woman while letting basic biological impulses take over. That said, the gym is still a place of business, and we were in the middle of the business day.
“Right now!?!?!” All Business cut in. “Where are they doing this?”
“Here,” Puppy Dog says pointing around the front desk and entry way, which has floor to ceiling windows on two sides of the room. “Also in the weight area and mat room if they want to do that as well.”
“In front of the windows?!?” All Business asks with an ever-reddening face.
“Yeah, why not?” Puppy Dog asks him clearly not understanding how it could be seen as public indecency if Mommy and little Johnny walked by the windows and saw the nudie model doing God knows what. “These are going to be artistic photos, I don’t see a problem with it.”
The thing about Puppy Dog is he really didn’t see a problem with all of this. Somewhere in his head he thought all of this was actually all ok.
“Puppy Dog…” All Business started in, searching for how to put the barest of common sense into words. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“Hello,” a voice called from the doorway. We all turned to see a man who looked to be in his mid to late 60’s walk in with a girl. She was a very petite lady who looked to be in her mid-to-late 20’s, short curly brown hair and blue eyes. Both her ears were doubled pierced and had thick plastic tribal looking earrings in them. She looked, to me at least, reasonably plain. Not ugly, but not “dear God woman take your clothes off” hot either. The baggy sweat pants and loose shirt made judging the soon to be naked body difficult, though the lack of large breasts was immediately apparent.
“Hey Photog!” Puppy Dog exclaimed, jumping up to greet them. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” he said gesturing to the lady. “This is my subject, ________. In addition to being stunningly beautiful she is also a yoga instructor here in town.”
Yoga hmmm. I thought perking up as images of a finely and firmly toned female form flashed through my head. When I think Yoga I think of crazy contortion, freakish flexibility, and people Gandhi skinny.
With the sources of consternation now in the gym All Business quit arguing and Puppy Dog started helping the guests set up their photo shoot. In full view, I might add, of the plate glass windows.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Yoga Model asked me.
“Right there,” I told her pointing it out.
“Thanks!” She told me with smile and bounded towards the door, emerging a minute later in nothing but a pair of lacy black boy shorts. When she walked out my illusions of the yoga instructor were quickly shattered.
Let me also take a hard right from the story to say that maybe I had unrealistic expectations of the situation to start. Since I work at a gym, and I understand the prime motivation of my profession is to look good naked (I know what you tell people and you’re full of shit), I expect everyone who is thinking about taking their clothes off to be a naked model or porn star to be tight and toned. This was not the case with Yoga Model. Her upper body was pretty nice. While you might use the word “humble” to describe her breasts they were the definition of perky. The rest of her upper body wasn't so bad either. From the boy shorts down… that was another matter entirely. Cellulite and anti-tone ruled her thighs, made all the more noticeable by the black color of her underwear clashing with her pale skin.
“Well Photog, go ahead and get started,” Puppy Dog told him with a smile. “I need to get a shower. I’ll be back in a minute. Boss Fighter, do you mind giving them a hand if they need it?” Puppy Dog asked me over his shoulder heading to the locker room.
Right then something clicked in my head, and I started recapping the past 20 minutes.
-It was 12:30 in the afternoon, on a Monday.
-The entry way/studio section of the gym has floor to ceiling plate glass windows for two of the walls.
-Puppy Dog had told a Photographer that it was ok for him to bring in a model to take naked pictures of her. In such an environment and in the middle of a workday.
-Said model not only wasn’t that great looking (admittedly in my opinion) but had just shattered my illusion of what a yoga instructor was. Complete with flabby thighs, no less.
-Puppy Dog didn’t see anything wrong with this and (there’s always one of those isn’t there?)
-He’d just passed off babysitting duties for this goat rodeo to me.
Fuck me running. I thought as I watched the back of Puppy Dog’s head going towards the locker room. How the fuck did this happen!?!
I looked over at All Business, hoping for a reprieve to the sentence I just found myself under. I got nothing but an eye roll and a shrug. Shit flows down hill and I just got hit with an avalanche.
“Can you help me move this?” Photog asked me, snapping me out of my shocked stupor and into the present.
“Uhh, yeah sure,” I told him reflexively. “Were do you want it?”
Ten minutes of topless photography, one incredulous look from a woman walking by on the street, and All Business and I going from annoyed to pissed later, and it was time to change shit up.
“Hey Photog, have you seen the other section of the gym?” I asked him. In contrast to the free peepshow that everyone on goddamn main-street could see right now, the weight area/mat room only had a couple of windows. None of which you could really see into.
“Oh this is lovely!” Photog said as he walked into the space. “This will do nicely! Yoga Model what do you think?”
Spying the sit up bench she moved over to it. She looked at me and smiled. “Can I get fully naked on this?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I told her. “As long as your, I don’t know, not being, like, a porn star or something…”
“Oh no, no, no!” Photog jumped in cutting me off. “Nothing like that. This is art and it will be done tastefully. This is a celebration of the female form. Nothing so crude as that.”
No dipshit, this is a Goddamn goat fuck. I give fuck all about you wanting to photograph lumpy thighs in her birthday suit or whatever, but this is far from tasteful. I fumed in my head. How the fuck Puppy Dog thought this was a good idea, I have no idea. If anyone comes back here…
I didn’t allow myself to finish the thought.
“So it’s ok?” Yoga Model asked me again
“Sure, go ahead.” I told her. Before the words had left my lips the boy shorts came off and I was staring face to neither regions with an overflowing example of au natural. The boy shorts made complete sense in this new light. It was those or granny panties if you wanted to keep that tangle in the dark. It was thick dark, hairy, and above all, a fucking scary sight to behold. If the Army still ran a Jungle Warfare School they could conduct the whole course in that forest of pubic hair.
I stood shocked, horrified. Knowing in the back of my mind I should have turned away, closed my eyes, or at least looked up towards the sky, something. Anything. Instead I did what everyone looking at a freight train wreck does, stared.
Thankfully, Yoga Model missed it. She was too busy talking to Photog. She did me the favor of turning quickly to drape herself all over the ab bench. Snapping me back to the present and tearing my eyes away from her untrimmed secret garden.
“I’ll be back in a second,” I told the pair. Run and found All Business in the office.
“Where the fuck is Puppy Dog? And why the fuck isn’t he babysitting this disaster? He has to be out of the shower by now.”
“Oh, he’s at the desk. He told me he thought you wanted to supervise them, so he’d let you do it,” All Business told me in a “don’t’ shoot the messenger” tone of voice.
“Oh yeah, that’s just what I want dude. To babysit Cottage Cheese thighs and her geriatric photographer. While at the same time making sure that no one gets by the front desk. You know, so we don’t have a fucking lawsuit on our hands. Never mind this bitch has, apparently, never heard of a shaving, trimming, or waxing.”
“No shit, really?” All Business asked me in a mildly inquisitive tone.
“You’d need a GPS to get through that bush land.” I told him. “Seriously, get Puppy Dog’s ass over there so I can go do something more productive. Naked or not this is not my idea of a good time. Nor do I want to be babysitting these two.”
“All right,” All Business told me with a hit of a smile on his face.
I walked back over to the weights to find Photog giving instructions and excitedly snapping pictures.
“Uhh, the, uhh owners wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you or help out or, uhh... whatever,” I told Photog and Yoga Model.
“They sent you over here to watch us huh?” Photog said with a gleam in his eye and smile on his face I took to be him teasing me.
“No, no, no,” I told him.
Fuck yeah they did. I thought.
“More like if you need any help or anything, just let me know. Like moving things around or stuff like that.”
Or me throwing you out on your ass or, maybe, introducing your model to this century and what a razor is- whatever floats your boat.
“Ok, thank you.” Photog told me and continued to snap pictures and move Yoga Model around. I, on the other hand, made sure I was out of his shot and turned to watch the door. Five minutes, no Puppy Dog.
10 Minutes
15
Half an hour
40 minutes. I’d officially had enough.
“I’ll be right back,” I told the pair and went back to the front desk.
“They almost done?” Puppy Dog asked me by way of greeting.
“How the fuck should I know?“ I fired back at him. “I'm hoping you’re going to tell them they’re almost done, cause this is officially getting stupid, but that’s your call. And why aren’t you down there babysitting them anyway?” I know it’s not normally a good idea to yell at your boss. I was past caring.
“Oh they don’t care if people watch their process,” Puppy Dog told me. “In fact, they’re exhibitionists and prefer to have as large a crowd watching as possible.”
“And you think that’s a good idea!?!” I practically screamed at him.
“What!?” All Business chimed in.
“Yeah, they don’t care who watches,” Puppy Dog reiterated.
“Dude, I, pff, DUDE!” I stammered. I was starting to see red. “What if someone went down there and was offended? Then what? What if...”
“Just go down there and tell them this is over Puppy Dog,” All Business commands him, ignoring me, and glaring at him.
“Ok, fine.” Puppy Dog said with a hurt look on his face walking towards the weights.
“Goat fuck, an unbelievable fucking goat fuck!” I exclaimed to no one in particular.
“I know man,” All Business told me. “But Puppy Dog lives in his own world, sometimes we’ll ask him what color the sky is in it.”
“Who cares!? Do you know how much fucking trouble we’d have been in if the wrong person had walked in on this, and the way he wanted to let it go down!?!?” I asked. “This can’t ever happen again!”
“I know Boss Fighter, I know. I’ll talk to him about it when they leave.”
Fifteen minutes later Photog and Yoga Model had left, with promises to drop off photos soon. Puppy Dog “had to go to a meeting,” All Business was in the office doing paperwork. I got to go through the gym disinfecting the ab bench, along with all the other equipment, of Yoga Model's ass and bush sweat.
I don’t care if he’s an owner and because of that my boss. I'm keeping him good and leashed from this point forward. If that pisses him off, I’m kicking his ass too.
Yesterday, I’d been at work just long enough to enter my password on the computer when Puppy Dog walks up to me with a mischievous little smile on his face. It was the smile of a typical teenager when they're about to get into trouble.
“There is going to be a photographer coming into the gym in a few minutes,” he tells me, the smile only getting bigger.
Puppy Dog fancies himself a patron of the arts. He’ll let local artist use the gym as a gallery after hours. He’ll allow the same artists to show their work in the gym. Like someone in the middle of a workout would suddenly stop and think “oh wow, I really need that painting” or some shit. It appeared that he had decided just having art in the space wasn’t good enough. We must now make the gym part of the art. Yet, his face betrayed a certain enjoyment that went way beyond what you get from looking at a painting.
“Ooookay, is there anything I need to know about this?” I ask him, alarm bells going off and my spidey sense tingling.
“The model is going to be naked,” he tells me. Immensely proud of himself for finding a way to interject naked chicks into the gym, in the middle of the afternoon.
“Here? Today? She’s coming in... and just taking off her clothes? Errr, Why?” My brain wasn’t working on this one. I love women. I have an even bigger affinity for hot naked women. I will go so far as to say there is few things better than being with a hot naked woman while letting basic biological impulses take over. That said, the gym is still a place of business, and we were in the middle of the business day.
“Right now!?!?!” All Business cut in. “Where are they doing this?”
“Here,” Puppy Dog says pointing around the front desk and entry way, which has floor to ceiling windows on two sides of the room. “Also in the weight area and mat room if they want to do that as well.”
“In front of the windows?!?” All Business asks with an ever-reddening face.
“Yeah, why not?” Puppy Dog asks him clearly not understanding how it could be seen as public indecency if Mommy and little Johnny walked by the windows and saw the nudie model doing God knows what. “These are going to be artistic photos, I don’t see a problem with it.”
The thing about Puppy Dog is he really didn’t see a problem with all of this. Somewhere in his head he thought all of this was actually all ok.
“Puppy Dog…” All Business started in, searching for how to put the barest of common sense into words. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“Hello,” a voice called from the doorway. We all turned to see a man who looked to be in his mid to late 60’s walk in with a girl. She was a very petite lady who looked to be in her mid-to-late 20’s, short curly brown hair and blue eyes. Both her ears were doubled pierced and had thick plastic tribal looking earrings in them. She looked, to me at least, reasonably plain. Not ugly, but not “dear God woman take your clothes off” hot either. The baggy sweat pants and loose shirt made judging the soon to be naked body difficult, though the lack of large breasts was immediately apparent.
“Hey Photog!” Puppy Dog exclaimed, jumping up to greet them. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” he said gesturing to the lady. “This is my subject, ________. In addition to being stunningly beautiful she is also a yoga instructor here in town.”
Yoga hmmm. I thought perking up as images of a finely and firmly toned female form flashed through my head. When I think Yoga I think of crazy contortion, freakish flexibility, and people Gandhi skinny.
With the sources of consternation now in the gym All Business quit arguing and Puppy Dog started helping the guests set up their photo shoot. In full view, I might add, of the plate glass windows.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Yoga Model asked me.
“Right there,” I told her pointing it out.
“Thanks!” She told me with smile and bounded towards the door, emerging a minute later in nothing but a pair of lacy black boy shorts. When she walked out my illusions of the yoga instructor were quickly shattered.
Let me also take a hard right from the story to say that maybe I had unrealistic expectations of the situation to start. Since I work at a gym, and I understand the prime motivation of my profession is to look good naked (I know what you tell people and you’re full of shit), I expect everyone who is thinking about taking their clothes off to be a naked model or porn star to be tight and toned. This was not the case with Yoga Model. Her upper body was pretty nice. While you might use the word “humble” to describe her breasts they were the definition of perky. The rest of her upper body wasn't so bad either. From the boy shorts down… that was another matter entirely. Cellulite and anti-tone ruled her thighs, made all the more noticeable by the black color of her underwear clashing with her pale skin.
“Well Photog, go ahead and get started,” Puppy Dog told him with a smile. “I need to get a shower. I’ll be back in a minute. Boss Fighter, do you mind giving them a hand if they need it?” Puppy Dog asked me over his shoulder heading to the locker room.
Right then something clicked in my head, and I started recapping the past 20 minutes.
-It was 12:30 in the afternoon, on a Monday.
-The entry way/studio section of the gym has floor to ceiling plate glass windows for two of the walls.
-Puppy Dog had told a Photographer that it was ok for him to bring in a model to take naked pictures of her. In such an environment and in the middle of a workday.
-Said model not only wasn’t that great looking (admittedly in my opinion) but had just shattered my illusion of what a yoga instructor was. Complete with flabby thighs, no less.
-Puppy Dog didn’t see anything wrong with this and (there’s always one of those isn’t there?)
-He’d just passed off babysitting duties for this goat rodeo to me.
Fuck me running. I thought as I watched the back of Puppy Dog’s head going towards the locker room. How the fuck did this happen!?!
I looked over at All Business, hoping for a reprieve to the sentence I just found myself under. I got nothing but an eye roll and a shrug. Shit flows down hill and I just got hit with an avalanche.
“Can you help me move this?” Photog asked me, snapping me out of my shocked stupor and into the present.
“Uhh, yeah sure,” I told him reflexively. “Were do you want it?”
Ten minutes of topless photography, one incredulous look from a woman walking by on the street, and All Business and I going from annoyed to pissed later, and it was time to change shit up.
“Hey Photog, have you seen the other section of the gym?” I asked him. In contrast to the free peepshow that everyone on goddamn main-street could see right now, the weight area/mat room only had a couple of windows. None of which you could really see into.
“Oh this is lovely!” Photog said as he walked into the space. “This will do nicely! Yoga Model what do you think?”
Spying the sit up bench she moved over to it. She looked at me and smiled. “Can I get fully naked on this?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I told her. “As long as your, I don’t know, not being, like, a porn star or something…”
“Oh no, no, no!” Photog jumped in cutting me off. “Nothing like that. This is art and it will be done tastefully. This is a celebration of the female form. Nothing so crude as that.”
No dipshit, this is a Goddamn goat fuck. I give fuck all about you wanting to photograph lumpy thighs in her birthday suit or whatever, but this is far from tasteful. I fumed in my head. How the fuck Puppy Dog thought this was a good idea, I have no idea. If anyone comes back here…
I didn’t allow myself to finish the thought.
“So it’s ok?” Yoga Model asked me again
“Sure, go ahead.” I told her. Before the words had left my lips the boy shorts came off and I was staring face to neither regions with an overflowing example of au natural. The boy shorts made complete sense in this new light. It was those or granny panties if you wanted to keep that tangle in the dark. It was thick dark, hairy, and above all, a fucking scary sight to behold. If the Army still ran a Jungle Warfare School they could conduct the whole course in that forest of pubic hair.
I stood shocked, horrified. Knowing in the back of my mind I should have turned away, closed my eyes, or at least looked up towards the sky, something. Anything. Instead I did what everyone looking at a freight train wreck does, stared.
Thankfully, Yoga Model missed it. She was too busy talking to Photog. She did me the favor of turning quickly to drape herself all over the ab bench. Snapping me back to the present and tearing my eyes away from her untrimmed secret garden.
“I’ll be back in a second,” I told the pair. Run and found All Business in the office.
“Where the fuck is Puppy Dog? And why the fuck isn’t he babysitting this disaster? He has to be out of the shower by now.”
“Oh, he’s at the desk. He told me he thought you wanted to supervise them, so he’d let you do it,” All Business told me in a “don’t’ shoot the messenger” tone of voice.
“Oh yeah, that’s just what I want dude. To babysit Cottage Cheese thighs and her geriatric photographer. While at the same time making sure that no one gets by the front desk. You know, so we don’t have a fucking lawsuit on our hands. Never mind this bitch has, apparently, never heard of a shaving, trimming, or waxing.”
“No shit, really?” All Business asked me in a mildly inquisitive tone.
“You’d need a GPS to get through that bush land.” I told him. “Seriously, get Puppy Dog’s ass over there so I can go do something more productive. Naked or not this is not my idea of a good time. Nor do I want to be babysitting these two.”
“All right,” All Business told me with a hit of a smile on his face.
I walked back over to the weights to find Photog giving instructions and excitedly snapping pictures.
“Uhh, the, uhh owners wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you or help out or, uhh... whatever,” I told Photog and Yoga Model.
“They sent you over here to watch us huh?” Photog said with a gleam in his eye and smile on his face I took to be him teasing me.
“No, no, no,” I told him.
Fuck yeah they did. I thought.
“More like if you need any help or anything, just let me know. Like moving things around or stuff like that.”
Or me throwing you out on your ass or, maybe, introducing your model to this century and what a razor is- whatever floats your boat.
“Ok, thank you.” Photog told me and continued to snap pictures and move Yoga Model around. I, on the other hand, made sure I was out of his shot and turned to watch the door. Five minutes, no Puppy Dog.
10 Minutes
15
Half an hour
40 minutes. I’d officially had enough.
“I’ll be right back,” I told the pair and went back to the front desk.
“They almost done?” Puppy Dog asked me by way of greeting.
“How the fuck should I know?“ I fired back at him. “I'm hoping you’re going to tell them they’re almost done, cause this is officially getting stupid, but that’s your call. And why aren’t you down there babysitting them anyway?” I know it’s not normally a good idea to yell at your boss. I was past caring.
“Oh they don’t care if people watch their process,” Puppy Dog told me. “In fact, they’re exhibitionists and prefer to have as large a crowd watching as possible.”
“And you think that’s a good idea!?!” I practically screamed at him.
“What!?” All Business chimed in.
“Yeah, they don’t care who watches,” Puppy Dog reiterated.
“Dude, I, pff, DUDE!” I stammered. I was starting to see red. “What if someone went down there and was offended? Then what? What if...”
“Just go down there and tell them this is over Puppy Dog,” All Business commands him, ignoring me, and glaring at him.
“Ok, fine.” Puppy Dog said with a hurt look on his face walking towards the weights.
“Goat fuck, an unbelievable fucking goat fuck!” I exclaimed to no one in particular.
“I know man,” All Business told me. “But Puppy Dog lives in his own world, sometimes we’ll ask him what color the sky is in it.”
“Who cares!? Do you know how much fucking trouble we’d have been in if the wrong person had walked in on this, and the way he wanted to let it go down!?!?” I asked. “This can’t ever happen again!”
“I know Boss Fighter, I know. I’ll talk to him about it when they leave.”
Fifteen minutes later Photog and Yoga Model had left, with promises to drop off photos soon. Puppy Dog “had to go to a meeting,” All Business was in the office doing paperwork. I got to go through the gym disinfecting the ab bench, along with all the other equipment, of Yoga Model's ass and bush sweat.
I don’t care if he’s an owner and because of that my boss. I'm keeping him good and leashed from this point forward. If that pisses him off, I’m kicking his ass too.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Supporting Cast of Characters and Getting Promoted Mr. MMA Style (344 days till I fight my boss)
While reports of my death have been grossly over exaggerated, my apologies for not having written again sooner. Lately, I’ve been more or less blissfully free of Mr. MMA’s never ending bullshit because, well, I got promoted. To tell the tale I beg your patience is a slight digression. I need to clue you into the supporting cast of characters that makes up the rest of Mr. MMA’s ownership group.
First, there is Puppy Dog. He’s an extremely likable guy, just like a puppy that you just brought home for the first time. Like that new puppy he always has to be watched and supervised. If you let him off the leash you do so at your own risk, he isn’t going to get anything done when you need him to that way. He’s a natural PR guy and that’s more or less his role with the gym, just don’t expect him to think long term or be on time.
Next, you’ve got Young Gun. He’s in his late 20’s but is already a rousing business success, having bought and sold more than one company already. His biggest problem is his inability to sit still and focus on one venture, so he always has too many things on his plate. Fortunately for him, and unlike Puppy Dog, he can manage time with military like precision so is more or less effective in his multiple ventures.
Finally, you have All Business. He’s direct, upfront, and no nonsense. In another life he was probably an NCO in the military (if you believe in reincarnation) because he has that same approach to life all the good ones have. I get along with All Business the best out of all the owners. We see eye to eye and while he doesn’t have as outgoing a personality as I do, we agree on the bedrock principles in life. It should come as no surprise that All Business is at odds with Mr. MMA almost as much as I am.
There has been a huge turnover at the gym recently. Mr. MMA, called “The Emperor” behind his back by most of the personal trainers (see I’m not the only one who doesn’t like him), had pissed off one individual so bad he left, another one said Mr. MMA was a factor in the decision but had too much going on outside the gym so he quit, and the gym let one other person go. I went from FNG to salty overnight.
All Business seized on this immediately and started pushing even harder for me to become a gym manager. While I’m a trainer/instructor first, if I don’t have a client or if I’m not teaching a class I’m also willing to take the time to make the gym membership sales and I don’t have my head up my ass, or so All Business told me. Young Gun was cautiously optimistic about me and Puppy Dog pretty much goes with the position that seems the strongest at that moment, the only one who needed to get on board with this was Mr. MMA. If you remember Mr. MMA’s initial feel out of me over management issues was what started this whole party.
About a week ago All Business’ banging finally came to fruition. Mr. MMA breezed through the door with a serious look on his face as he walked up to me.
“We need to talk Boss Fighter.” He told me.
“Ok, sure. What’s up?” I asked him, standing up and turning around to face.
“Uhh, how about we do this outside?” Mr. MMA says looking around nervously, as usual.
“Fine with me.” I tell him as we walk out the gym. Mr. MMA makes a show of looking around before starting in.
“I want you to know that for the past couple of weeks the owners and I have been talking about making you a manager here…”
I know dip shit. I couldn’t help but think. All Business and I have already talked about everything from hours, to responsibilities, to pay scale- pathetic as it’s going to be. Why the fuck do you think I’m sitting at the desk right now to begin with you moron?
“… and I want you to know I think you are a great choice for the position and I have been pushing your name really hard to the other owners…” Suddenly, something I’d know about Mr. MMA but had never been able to articulate popped into my head.
You really are the ‘always right guy’ aren’t you? I just need to make sure you think all my ideas are your ideas, let you take all the credit for them and I’m never going to have an issue with you am? I thought to myself. I hate people like that. If it’s a good idea, it’s a good idea. It doesn’t have to be yours to it to work people.
“… and when you get that offer I want you to come see me so we can discuss it. I think it’s a great opportunity for you Boss Fighter, and I really want you to take.”
You arrogant fucking jackass I already took the job, I’ve just waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass to make it official! I couldn’t help but think. And All Business was the one banging this drum, not you! You fucking prick!
“Sounds good Mr. MMA,” I told him, pussing out from telling him off for the thousandth time this month. “I’ll be looking forward to talking with Young Gun (who’s in charge of hiring) when he comes in today.” Young Gun didn’t come in that day, but All Business did. That night as we closed up he officially offered the job to me in Young Gun’s stead.
“So, at what point, did you wanting me for the manager turn into Mr. MMA’s idea for me to be the sales manager?” I asked All Business as we were closing up the gym later that night.
“As soon as I realized that the best way to make it all work was to let Mr. MMA think it was his idea in the first place,” he told me with a smirk on his face. I’m going to beat Mr. MMA like a redheaded step child in 344 days, but All Business is the fucking man. “Make sure you get your schedule done up and sent to us all by the end of tomorrow.”
Strangely, when I made up my 40-hour schedule, I wasn’t at the gym the nights Mr. MMA taught his point sparring martial art classes. What a surprise.
First, there is Puppy Dog. He’s an extremely likable guy, just like a puppy that you just brought home for the first time. Like that new puppy he always has to be watched and supervised. If you let him off the leash you do so at your own risk, he isn’t going to get anything done when you need him to that way. He’s a natural PR guy and that’s more or less his role with the gym, just don’t expect him to think long term or be on time.
Next, you’ve got Young Gun. He’s in his late 20’s but is already a rousing business success, having bought and sold more than one company already. His biggest problem is his inability to sit still and focus on one venture, so he always has too many things on his plate. Fortunately for him, and unlike Puppy Dog, he can manage time with military like precision so is more or less effective in his multiple ventures.
Finally, you have All Business. He’s direct, upfront, and no nonsense. In another life he was probably an NCO in the military (if you believe in reincarnation) because he has that same approach to life all the good ones have. I get along with All Business the best out of all the owners. We see eye to eye and while he doesn’t have as outgoing a personality as I do, we agree on the bedrock principles in life. It should come as no surprise that All Business is at odds with Mr. MMA almost as much as I am.
There has been a huge turnover at the gym recently. Mr. MMA, called “The Emperor” behind his back by most of the personal trainers (see I’m not the only one who doesn’t like him), had pissed off one individual so bad he left, another one said Mr. MMA was a factor in the decision but had too much going on outside the gym so he quit, and the gym let one other person go. I went from FNG to salty overnight.
All Business seized on this immediately and started pushing even harder for me to become a gym manager. While I’m a trainer/instructor first, if I don’t have a client or if I’m not teaching a class I’m also willing to take the time to make the gym membership sales and I don’t have my head up my ass, or so All Business told me. Young Gun was cautiously optimistic about me and Puppy Dog pretty much goes with the position that seems the strongest at that moment, the only one who needed to get on board with this was Mr. MMA. If you remember Mr. MMA’s initial feel out of me over management issues was what started this whole party.
About a week ago All Business’ banging finally came to fruition. Mr. MMA breezed through the door with a serious look on his face as he walked up to me.
“We need to talk Boss Fighter.” He told me.
“Ok, sure. What’s up?” I asked him, standing up and turning around to face.
“Uhh, how about we do this outside?” Mr. MMA says looking around nervously, as usual.
“Fine with me.” I tell him as we walk out the gym. Mr. MMA makes a show of looking around before starting in.
“I want you to know that for the past couple of weeks the owners and I have been talking about making you a manager here…”
I know dip shit. I couldn’t help but think. All Business and I have already talked about everything from hours, to responsibilities, to pay scale- pathetic as it’s going to be. Why the fuck do you think I’m sitting at the desk right now to begin with you moron?
“… and I want you to know I think you are a great choice for the position and I have been pushing your name really hard to the other owners…” Suddenly, something I’d know about Mr. MMA but had never been able to articulate popped into my head.
You really are the ‘always right guy’ aren’t you? I just need to make sure you think all my ideas are your ideas, let you take all the credit for them and I’m never going to have an issue with you am? I thought to myself. I hate people like that. If it’s a good idea, it’s a good idea. It doesn’t have to be yours to it to work people.
“… and when you get that offer I want you to come see me so we can discuss it. I think it’s a great opportunity for you Boss Fighter, and I really want you to take.”
You arrogant fucking jackass I already took the job, I’ve just waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass to make it official! I couldn’t help but think. And All Business was the one banging this drum, not you! You fucking prick!
“Sounds good Mr. MMA,” I told him, pussing out from telling him off for the thousandth time this month. “I’ll be looking forward to talking with Young Gun (who’s in charge of hiring) when he comes in today.” Young Gun didn’t come in that day, but All Business did. That night as we closed up he officially offered the job to me in Young Gun’s stead.
“So, at what point, did you wanting me for the manager turn into Mr. MMA’s idea for me to be the sales manager?” I asked All Business as we were closing up the gym later that night.
“As soon as I realized that the best way to make it all work was to let Mr. MMA think it was his idea in the first place,” he told me with a smirk on his face. I’m going to beat Mr. MMA like a redheaded step child in 344 days, but All Business is the fucking man. “Make sure you get your schedule done up and sent to us all by the end of tomorrow.”
Strangely, when I made up my 40-hour schedule, I wasn’t at the gym the nights Mr. MMA taught his point sparring martial art classes. What a surprise.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Reality Check with Fight Guru (351 Days until I fight my boss)
While I have no practical experience in MMA other than being a fan, (and so the old cliché goes) I have a few friends that do. One of the most connected to the industry is a guy that I’ll call Fight Guru. Fight Guru, in addition to being a marketing whiz and damn decent individual, works for one of the best-connected MMA websites in the world. The man usually has a 24-48 hour heads up on just about everything in the industry besides whose going to win the fights. He is also not known for pulling punches or with holding opinions that might burst peoples bubbles and send them crashing back down to Earth.
A short excerpt of an online chat we had about a week ago.
Me: imgoingtofightmyboss.blogspot.com, I’m not kidding about this dude. I’m really going to fight this fucker.
FG: Hang on let me check this out (about five minutes later) AHAHAHAHAHA! Wow, what a dick.
Me: You have no idea man. Seriously, dude, I am going to fight him. And I’m going to put him on the ground and keep hitting him till someone pulls me off him.
We go back and forth for a bit until he points out a major stumbling block in my thinking.
FG: Wait a second he’s how big?
Me: Just under 6’ and like 210-215, at least that’s what he says he is. He looks it too man. He’s definitely not a fat ass, and he’s pretty quick, but he’s not what I’d call solid.
FG: And he’s being doing Martial Arts for how long?
Me: Like 20 something years man, might be closer to 30.
FG: Dude the man is 210lbs and you weight like, what 160 something?
Me: 155, I got on the scale today.
FG: He’s a Light Heavy Weight with decades of experience man; you’re a lightweight with less than five. I don’t know Boss Fighter…
Me: (weakly, even for an IM) I’m going to try and bulk up to 170 by fight time
FG: Oh…
With 351 days until I want this all to go down here’s the point I’m at:
1. I still really want to do this, despite the height, weight, and experience difference
2. The reality is I better find a huge hole in his game and/or magically shit world class instruction between now and fight time.
Fight Guru’s point is crux of all of this. Even if I can bulk up 15lbs in the next year (very doable) while still keeping my quickness and speed (might not be as doable), I’d still be giving up 40-50lbs to a guy who is leaps and bound more experienced than I am. Sections of the gym fellate his ego with the dozens of point sparing and kata trophies he’s won all over the country.
I’ve got a few heavy bags, as much conditioning equipment as I need, the Crossfit workout of the day, and a burning desire to put Mr. MMA on his ass.
I. Don’t Care. I am still going put him on his ass.
If this was a script coming out of Hollywood I’m sure they’d write me in a happy ending. I’m counting on the “don’t ever quit” mantra that the Army drilled into my head. That and a hope that someone can answer the following question:
Anyone out there got BJ Penn’s phone number?
A short excerpt of an online chat we had about a week ago.
Me: imgoingtofightmyboss.blogspot.com, I’m not kidding about this dude. I’m really going to fight this fucker.
FG: Hang on let me check this out (about five minutes later) AHAHAHAHAHA! Wow, what a dick.
Me: You have no idea man. Seriously, dude, I am going to fight him. And I’m going to put him on the ground and keep hitting him till someone pulls me off him.
We go back and forth for a bit until he points out a major stumbling block in my thinking.
FG: Wait a second he’s how big?
Me: Just under 6’ and like 210-215, at least that’s what he says he is. He looks it too man. He’s definitely not a fat ass, and he’s pretty quick, but he’s not what I’d call solid.
FG: And he’s being doing Martial Arts for how long?
Me: Like 20 something years man, might be closer to 30.
FG: Dude the man is 210lbs and you weight like, what 160 something?
Me: 155, I got on the scale today.
FG: He’s a Light Heavy Weight with decades of experience man; you’re a lightweight with less than five. I don’t know Boss Fighter…
Me: (weakly, even for an IM) I’m going to try and bulk up to 170 by fight time
FG: Oh…
With 351 days until I want this all to go down here’s the point I’m at:
1. I still really want to do this, despite the height, weight, and experience difference
2. The reality is I better find a huge hole in his game and/or magically shit world class instruction between now and fight time.
Fight Guru’s point is crux of all of this. Even if I can bulk up 15lbs in the next year (very doable) while still keeping my quickness and speed (might not be as doable), I’d still be giving up 40-50lbs to a guy who is leaps and bound more experienced than I am. Sections of the gym fellate his ego with the dozens of point sparing and kata trophies he’s won all over the country.
I’ve got a few heavy bags, as much conditioning equipment as I need, the Crossfit workout of the day, and a burning desire to put Mr. MMA on his ass.
I. Don’t Care. I am still going put him on his ass.
If this was a script coming out of Hollywood I’m sure they’d write me in a happy ending. I’m counting on the “don’t ever quit” mantra that the Army drilled into my head. That and a hope that someone can answer the following question:
Anyone out there got BJ Penn’s phone number?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Mr. MMA's Cardio Workouts (353 Days till I fight my Boss)
The first time I saw him getting ready, I thought it had to be joke. For all of his foibles and annoyance Mr. MMA has been married for well over a decade and is a father. These facts made it seem improbable that the nylon bag he walked into the gym with could be what I thought it was. Then he unzipped it. Sure enough, a pair of rollerblades. My boss, Mr. MMA, the man who strives for Zen and balance in all things is… a rollerblader.
Mr. MMA’s reason for doing such a thing to himself is that he has bad knees. That’s all well and good but there is a part of me that has to call bullshit. Dude, I have bad knees, which happens when you’ve jumped out of a plane with heavy stuff on like I have. You still won’t see me rollerblading, especially when he’s paid to have top of the line elliptical trainers put into the gym. They’re so good that in addition to a super smooth rolling action they have the cable input. You can watch TV as long as you’re moving. If I didn’t have to work I might never get off the damn thing in the morning. It’s really the only chance I have to watch Sportscenter. Now with it being live every morning, never mind- I digress. Back to our regularly scheduled bashing of my boss.
Rollerblading is something my mother does to work out. It’s what a gay friend of mine does if he thinks he “really likes a guy” for one of the first few dates. It is what you did back in the early 90’s if you wanted to look trendy, shit I don’t think they even have rollerblading in the X-games anymore. Yet you will still see Mr. MMA leave from the gym and take to the streets two or three times a week on the damn things.
This is getting to the point of me almost needing therapy. I get talked down to and bitched out by guy who thinks it’s socially acceptable to glide along the street on a set of brightly colored Salomon’s. The same dude that has created a running joke of wanting to wear a pink shirt “next time [he’s] out blading” to promote the gym with the other owners. Yeah, he's the same person nit picking how well I cleaned up the front desk before I left work the other day.
Homosexual friends of mine think what he’s doing is gay and I can do nothing but smile and take it for another 353 days till I fight him!?!?!
That day cannot get here soon enough.
Mr. MMA’s reason for doing such a thing to himself is that he has bad knees. That’s all well and good but there is a part of me that has to call bullshit. Dude, I have bad knees, which happens when you’ve jumped out of a plane with heavy stuff on like I have. You still won’t see me rollerblading, especially when he’s paid to have top of the line elliptical trainers put into the gym. They’re so good that in addition to a super smooth rolling action they have the cable input. You can watch TV as long as you’re moving. If I didn’t have to work I might never get off the damn thing in the morning. It’s really the only chance I have to watch Sportscenter. Now with it being live every morning, never mind- I digress. Back to our regularly scheduled bashing of my boss.
Rollerblading is something my mother does to work out. It’s what a gay friend of mine does if he thinks he “really likes a guy” for one of the first few dates. It is what you did back in the early 90’s if you wanted to look trendy, shit I don’t think they even have rollerblading in the X-games anymore. Yet you will still see Mr. MMA leave from the gym and take to the streets two or three times a week on the damn things.
This is getting to the point of me almost needing therapy. I get talked down to and bitched out by guy who thinks it’s socially acceptable to glide along the street on a set of brightly colored Salomon’s. The same dude that has created a running joke of wanting to wear a pink shirt “next time [he’s] out blading” to promote the gym with the other owners. Yeah, he's the same person nit picking how well I cleaned up the front desk before I left work the other day.
Homosexual friends of mine think what he’s doing is gay and I can do nothing but smile and take it for another 353 days till I fight him!?!?!
That day cannot get here soon enough.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Gym Cliche Pt1: Fake Boobs McGee (358 Days till I fight my boss)
Every gym has a Fake Boobs McGee. There's at least one of her in every gym.
You’ve stared at her- don’t pretend like you haven’t. Male, female, gay, or straight have stared or glared at the chick with the loud hair and "expanded" chest. Let’s just be honest, they’ve been pumped up so big you could use them as markers to land a spaceship. Low cut designer sports bra/shirt combo complimented by the short Nike running shorts or spandex booty shorts. She walks through the doors to the gym and things slow down. Depending on the outfit, things might come to a complete stop. Ladies are glaring death at her. Guys are wondering what the boob job looks like with the clothes off and just how firm they are.
If the ensemble weren’t enough the woman oozes “I wanna fuck.” Sometimes you’d think she’s infected the gym with it. The guy bench pressing a house ten minutes ago is suddenly asking her if she “needs a spot,” hoping he gets a chance to find out just how far down her shirt he can see. Most of the guys think they have a chance of scoring with her. All of them have thought about it at least once. The women in the gym talk all sorts of shit about her, while not to her face, definitely not in the hushed secretive tones they way they do about other members. Yet this particular patron of modern fitness seems to not care what the ladies are saying, and she basks in the attention of the men while staying at just enough distance to keep most of the guys on the hook. It’s just the way the woman is.
My version, according to her, was even a former escort. While the rest of you just get to wonder what she is like in bed or just how much of a slut she is, I see McGee in a drastically different light. I’m her $70 an hour borderline socially acceptable boy toy. Welcome to the life of a personal trainer, kids.
Fake Boobs McGee has made no secret of how “cute” she finds me or how “great” she thinks my ass is. I used to joke when people talked about guys being sexually harassed by women at work. Now I’m wondering just how bad Karma is going to catch up with me. I am now, more or less, the consort to the former escort for the duration of the time she is in my gym. A dash of resistance bands and abdominal exercises thrown in to make it socially acceptable.
There is so much irony in the situation that part of me wants to pull a Bruce Almighty screaming up at the sky “IS THIS MY LIFE! Seriously, this is what you have planned for me!?!?!” after I’m done working her out. Only to then walk upstairs in front of her, feeling like I’m a fucking strip steak about to be paid for at the supermarket check out.
It’s not that I have anything against McGee. In fact when no one is around and she finally turns off the sex kitten “I think just like a man when it comes to sex” act she’s a decent chick. It’s that she pays $210 a week to stare at my ass and try every trick on me her former johns played on her. It's that tri-weekly blow to my ego. Meanwhile, my need for said money and desire to not be put out on my ass keeps me as the prey, or at the very least the object of her infatuation. I used to literally hunt terrorist. Now a former escort’s slapping me on the ass when she has a craving for rump roast.
And yet, when it’s all said and done, she can- all by herself- pay my proverbial rent. So until I can punch out Mr. MMA’s lights, I hope she’s got a couple of friends. I still have a car payment, insurance, and food to pay for.
358 Days till I fight my Boss.
You’ve stared at her- don’t pretend like you haven’t. Male, female, gay, or straight have stared or glared at the chick with the loud hair and "expanded" chest. Let’s just be honest, they’ve been pumped up so big you could use them as markers to land a spaceship. Low cut designer sports bra/shirt combo complimented by the short Nike running shorts or spandex booty shorts. She walks through the doors to the gym and things slow down. Depending on the outfit, things might come to a complete stop. Ladies are glaring death at her. Guys are wondering what the boob job looks like with the clothes off and just how firm they are.
If the ensemble weren’t enough the woman oozes “I wanna fuck.” Sometimes you’d think she’s infected the gym with it. The guy bench pressing a house ten minutes ago is suddenly asking her if she “needs a spot,” hoping he gets a chance to find out just how far down her shirt he can see. Most of the guys think they have a chance of scoring with her. All of them have thought about it at least once. The women in the gym talk all sorts of shit about her, while not to her face, definitely not in the hushed secretive tones they way they do about other members. Yet this particular patron of modern fitness seems to not care what the ladies are saying, and she basks in the attention of the men while staying at just enough distance to keep most of the guys on the hook. It’s just the way the woman is.
My version, according to her, was even a former escort. While the rest of you just get to wonder what she is like in bed or just how much of a slut she is, I see McGee in a drastically different light. I’m her $70 an hour borderline socially acceptable boy toy. Welcome to the life of a personal trainer, kids.
Fake Boobs McGee has made no secret of how “cute” she finds me or how “great” she thinks my ass is. I used to joke when people talked about guys being sexually harassed by women at work. Now I’m wondering just how bad Karma is going to catch up with me. I am now, more or less, the consort to the former escort for the duration of the time she is in my gym. A dash of resistance bands and abdominal exercises thrown in to make it socially acceptable.
There is so much irony in the situation that part of me wants to pull a Bruce Almighty screaming up at the sky “IS THIS MY LIFE! Seriously, this is what you have planned for me!?!?!” after I’m done working her out. Only to then walk upstairs in front of her, feeling like I’m a fucking strip steak about to be paid for at the supermarket check out.
It’s not that I have anything against McGee. In fact when no one is around and she finally turns off the sex kitten “I think just like a man when it comes to sex” act she’s a decent chick. It’s that she pays $210 a week to stare at my ass and try every trick on me her former johns played on her. It's that tri-weekly blow to my ego. Meanwhile, my need for said money and desire to not be put out on my ass keeps me as the prey, or at the very least the object of her infatuation. I used to literally hunt terrorist. Now a former escort’s slapping me on the ass when she has a craving for rump roast.
And yet, when it’s all said and done, she can- all by herself- pay my proverbial rent. So until I can punch out Mr. MMA’s lights, I hope she’s got a couple of friends. I still have a car payment, insurance, and food to pay for.
358 Days till I fight my Boss.
Monday, September 22, 2008
How Mr. MMA Got His Nickname (361 days till I fight my boss)
In my eyes Mixed Martial Arts is the greatest sport in the world. Take two combatants, give them minimal padding with minimal rules and let them decide who is the best; using whatever martial art tactics they want. It’s simple, it’s captivating, and it’s primal. The few rules like the banning of groin strikes and regulating weight classes not only helped the sport in the eyes of the average John and Jane Q Public, but it also increased the longevity of the fighters and gave me my favorite thing to watch on the planet. As if that wasn’t enough, mixed martial artists are easily the greatest athletes on the planet. If I could only get my clients to train a tenth as hard as those men and women do. I'd have at least my own local fitness show, not to mention the hottest looking group of people in town.
I’m a complete Mixed Martial Arts junkie. Mr. MMA thinks that most Mixed Martial Artists have a “lack of honor” and views the sport as if it's all that is wrong with the world today.
Despite his reservations about the purity of purpose for your average mixed martial artist, for the price of standard lesson price of $200, he’ll be happy to share his knowledge with you to help you win your next fight. Mr. MMA has one taker for these lessons. This pupil of Mr. MMA has a fight coming up and after seeing this rather large individual walk through the door I suddenly had to know what Mr. MMA is teaching him. It was an itch I couldn't resist scratching.
Walking back into the mat area I arrived just in time to see Mr. MMA tie on his black belt and ask the student if he was ready. The lesson started with the traditional bow and assumption of your typical side karate/Tae Kwon Do/Kenpo/ (insert your point scoring art here) stance. From there, Mr. MMA proceeded to teach a straight kick. Mr. MMA admittedly looked pretty smooth as he executed it. I’m guessing multiple decades of practice would do that for you. His student, on the other hand, did not look so good. His kick looked like the one Anderson Silva caught before he pounded out James Irvin at the last UFC Fight Night. He was telegraphing the kick by grossly dropping his back shoulder before he even stepped in for the kick, trying to hit the shield Mr. MMA was holding at chest level as hard as he could. As it went on, his dip of the shoulder only got worse as the pupil tried harder and harder to load up the kick.
“Now remember, throw this with confidence. Like you mean it.” Mr. MMA was telling him. “He’s not going to see it coming until that leg is already coming up, and by that time it’s too late!” Mr. MMA spoke excitedly. He'd been getting progressively more and more excited as the lesson wore on.
“Hey dude,” I spoke up. “Be careful. You’re dropping that back shoulder noticeably as you load up. As high as you're kicking a good wrestler will be able to time his shot for a single and a good striker can close the distance to on you the way that shoulder is dropping.”
“It’s dropping that bad?” He asked me, clearly surprised I was saying something.
“Yeah man, it is,” I told him.
“Well don’t forget you're kicking for the ribs,” Mr. MMA said, pointing to a spot five or six inches lower than he’d been holding center mass of the shield.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. I thought. You are so full of shit, dude.
I had to step away from the lesson because when someone came in for a tour of the gym. I came back to the lesson twenty minutes later. Mr. MMA had moved on to a three-punch combo, ending in a rather slow developing hook. His pupil was moving through it pretty well and Mr. MMA was again excited.
“That’s it!” He shouted. “If you hit this, it’s done. The purpose of the fight is to end it as quickly as possible, right? To get in and out and on with your day? This will make that happen.”
I’d say the purpose is to win and prove you are the better man or woman in the cage that night. To show that you’re better, but hey what do I know? I thought, glaring at him. His tone let anyone within ear shot know in exactly how little esteem he held MMA.
“You do this, and it’s over. It’s over,” he continued on. “I’ve used this in tournaments against black belts and dominated them. This really, really works!”
Because, you know, a point sparring tournament is so much like stepping into an octagon shaped cage with nothing but a pair of 5oz gloves and a set of fight shorts on. You fucking moron.
“Ok, again!” Mr. MMA told his student. As he worked it through three or four more times I noticed that every time the student moved forward, Mr. MMA was always dropping his head and covering up.
Plume clinch Note for the non MMA/fight fan, it’s where you cup the back of your opponents head in your hands so you can unload you knees into his or her face. It’s beautiful when executed correctly- watch Anderson Silva v Rich Franklin I for a great example.
“Hey man,” I called out to them. “Can you use knees in your fight? I know you’re fighting amateur.”
“To the body, but not to the face,” he told me.
“See how Mr. MMA is ducking and dropping his head the way he is? That combo positions you perfectly for a plume clinch if the guy you’re fighting does the same thing. Watch for it, especially if you’ve backed him up into the cage.” I told him.
“Pff, the force you are going to generate on that punch, if he’s still standing after that, I want to train with him,” Mr. MMA said; turning to glare at me as he finished the sentence.
Ok dude, who are you? Mr. Fight Fucking Guru? Hasn’t the very name of the sport mixed martial arts dawned in you, you fucking moron? BJ Penn could take the punch, Rick Franklin did take it more than once in his two fights with Silva, holy hell Big Nog has made a living of taking punches like that only to come back and sub the shit out of people. The blow Fedor took when he got slammed and still came back to beat Fujitia... I continued to fume in my head, feeling the color in my face starting to rise. Ok Mr. MMA, I’m sure ‘no one can take that punch’… hey wait a minute, Mr. MMA… yeah dude that is your name until I leave this job. From here on out, you’re Mr. MMA.
With that I had a nickname for him. Two days later he would give me the speech that got all of this started.
And in 361 days, I'm going to strike a blow that so many out there only wish for. Only 361 days till I fight my fucking boss.
I’m a complete Mixed Martial Arts junkie. Mr. MMA thinks that most Mixed Martial Artists have a “lack of honor” and views the sport as if it's all that is wrong with the world today.
Despite his reservations about the purity of purpose for your average mixed martial artist, for the price of standard lesson price of $200, he’ll be happy to share his knowledge with you to help you win your next fight. Mr. MMA has one taker for these lessons. This pupil of Mr. MMA has a fight coming up and after seeing this rather large individual walk through the door I suddenly had to know what Mr. MMA is teaching him. It was an itch I couldn't resist scratching.
Walking back into the mat area I arrived just in time to see Mr. MMA tie on his black belt and ask the student if he was ready. The lesson started with the traditional bow and assumption of your typical side karate/Tae Kwon Do/Kenpo/ (insert your point scoring art here) stance. From there, Mr. MMA proceeded to teach a straight kick. Mr. MMA admittedly looked pretty smooth as he executed it. I’m guessing multiple decades of practice would do that for you. His student, on the other hand, did not look so good. His kick looked like the one Anderson Silva caught before he pounded out James Irvin at the last UFC Fight Night. He was telegraphing the kick by grossly dropping his back shoulder before he even stepped in for the kick, trying to hit the shield Mr. MMA was holding at chest level as hard as he could. As it went on, his dip of the shoulder only got worse as the pupil tried harder and harder to load up the kick.
“Now remember, throw this with confidence. Like you mean it.” Mr. MMA was telling him. “He’s not going to see it coming until that leg is already coming up, and by that time it’s too late!” Mr. MMA spoke excitedly. He'd been getting progressively more and more excited as the lesson wore on.
“Hey dude,” I spoke up. “Be careful. You’re dropping that back shoulder noticeably as you load up. As high as you're kicking a good wrestler will be able to time his shot for a single and a good striker can close the distance to on you the way that shoulder is dropping.”
“It’s dropping that bad?” He asked me, clearly surprised I was saying something.
“Yeah man, it is,” I told him.
“Well don’t forget you're kicking for the ribs,” Mr. MMA said, pointing to a spot five or six inches lower than he’d been holding center mass of the shield.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. I thought. You are so full of shit, dude.
I had to step away from the lesson because when someone came in for a tour of the gym. I came back to the lesson twenty minutes later. Mr. MMA had moved on to a three-punch combo, ending in a rather slow developing hook. His pupil was moving through it pretty well and Mr. MMA was again excited.
“That’s it!” He shouted. “If you hit this, it’s done. The purpose of the fight is to end it as quickly as possible, right? To get in and out and on with your day? This will make that happen.”
I’d say the purpose is to win and prove you are the better man or woman in the cage that night. To show that you’re better, but hey what do I know? I thought, glaring at him. His tone let anyone within ear shot know in exactly how little esteem he held MMA.
“You do this, and it’s over. It’s over,” he continued on. “I’ve used this in tournaments against black belts and dominated them. This really, really works!”
Because, you know, a point sparring tournament is so much like stepping into an octagon shaped cage with nothing but a pair of 5oz gloves and a set of fight shorts on. You fucking moron.
“Ok, again!” Mr. MMA told his student. As he worked it through three or four more times I noticed that every time the student moved forward, Mr. MMA was always dropping his head and covering up.
Plume clinch Note for the non MMA/fight fan, it’s where you cup the back of your opponents head in your hands so you can unload you knees into his or her face. It’s beautiful when executed correctly- watch Anderson Silva v Rich Franklin I for a great example.
“Hey man,” I called out to them. “Can you use knees in your fight? I know you’re fighting amateur.”
“To the body, but not to the face,” he told me.
“See how Mr. MMA is ducking and dropping his head the way he is? That combo positions you perfectly for a plume clinch if the guy you’re fighting does the same thing. Watch for it, especially if you’ve backed him up into the cage.” I told him.
“Pff, the force you are going to generate on that punch, if he’s still standing after that, I want to train with him,” Mr. MMA said; turning to glare at me as he finished the sentence.
Ok dude, who are you? Mr. Fight Fucking Guru? Hasn’t the very name of the sport mixed martial arts dawned in you, you fucking moron? BJ Penn could take the punch, Rick Franklin did take it more than once in his two fights with Silva, holy hell Big Nog has made a living of taking punches like that only to come back and sub the shit out of people. The blow Fedor took when he got slammed and still came back to beat Fujitia... I continued to fume in my head, feeling the color in my face starting to rise. Ok Mr. MMA, I’m sure ‘no one can take that punch’… hey wait a minute, Mr. MMA… yeah dude that is your name until I leave this job. From here on out, you’re Mr. MMA.
With that I had a nickname for him. Two days later he would give me the speech that got all of this started.
And in 361 days, I'm going to strike a blow that so many out there only wish for. Only 361 days till I fight my fucking boss.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
How this Party Got Started (362 Days Till I Fight My Boss)
No shit, there I was. I put it this way because the first thing you need to know about me is I’m an Army Vet. I went to college on the GI Bill, have multiple combat tours, and have had the axiom of “lead from the front, at all times lead from the front!” drilled into my head repeatedly. This served me well in the military, and in life. It’s a shame more people don’t live by it.
I had been working in the gym for almost a month. After teaching my morning fitness classes I ventured into the weight room/mat room to wipe down the equipment from the usual morning work out rush.
Lately the gym has had issues with the contracted cleaning staff and if you plan on keeping a gym going, making sure the equipment is clean is one of the top requirements. With that, I picked up a spray bottle and set up doing the little things I needed to keep my job.
Making it into the mat room I found Mr. MMA, "meditating" as he called it. I call it laying on the mats with your eyes closed taking a post work out nap.
I started working quietly. No production, no "look at me" bullshit. I just wanted to do the job and not deal with Mr. MMA. Halfway through the task Mr. MMA looks up at me and asked "has anyone talked to you about being a manager, Boss Fighter?"
"No" I replied, which is a half-truth. The owner I like said he was pushing for me to get the recently opened up position. However, last night he'd asked me to keep a lid on that information.
"Let me ask you something, Boss Fighter. Are you an arrogant man?" A look of grave concern now plastered on Mr. MMA's face.
booooooooooooooog
The Kung Fu Movie Zen gong sounded in my head and all I could think was: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Spray bottle in my hand and a can't win situation in front of me I split the difference.
"I think I'm confident," I replied. "But I think the problem with that question, Mr. MMA, is that the difference is often as much about how you are perceived as how you present yourself."
"There is no real difference Boss Fighter,” he tells me, attempting to have great gravity and depth in his voice. It sounded like an Asian guy imitating David Carradine’s character did in the "Kill Bill" movies.
"How so Mr. MMA?" I ask in an attempt to be polite.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I already know the answer because we all know a guy like Mr. MMA. The person who’s read "The Book of the Five Rings," so now they are the next coming of the Buddha. It only makes it worse that Mr. MMA is Asian and speaks with a slight accent. The only way he could be more cliche is if he started calling me "young grasshoppa."
"Confident people," Dr MMA intones, "carry that confidence on the inside, they are humble on the outside.”
No shit, really? I thought real confidence was, like, a superficial thing. And why does this have to be all about a “he,” you sexist fuck? Can’t women be confident? Sadly, having that sort of equal rights discussion wouldn’t have been well received.
"An arrogant man,” Mr. MMA blathered on, “is one who carries that feeling on the outside. It is for others to see and he does it selfishly, he is not humble, he is not magnanimous. He is proud.” Mr. MMA then proceeded to spend the next five minutes talking about all the things that he has done in his life. How his graduate degrees shaped him. How all his martial arts training has helped him on his journey. How successfully he has navigated the treacherous waters of business so well and so successfully, leading him to ask me:
“Do you think you have some life experience, Boss Fighter? Do you have a background that has instilled wisdom and humility into your life?”
“Well I have to say being in the Army was a pretty humbling experience…” I started...
“I haven’t known you well enough to judge, but most military guys I’ve met are horrible, Boss Fighter. At tournaments, I’ve met Green Berets and Navy SEALS and Marines and they are all…” He paused to let his disgust build before he spewed, “…lazy. They are generally unfocused and undisciplined men, Boss Fighter. And all of them are arrogant, proud men. I won’t let one of my yellow belts, let along a black belt, fight any of those military guys. I don’t want my students to become corrupted by their poor work ethic.”
The breath I took can only be described as proof that serenity now works. I’m proud to tell people I’m a Vet. I've always felt honored to have served my country. I may not have Mr. MMA’s graduate degrees. I kicking down doors and leading men into combat. Apparently, in Mr. MMA’s world, that sort of experience doesn’t count for anything- at least at Martial Arts tournaments.
"So tell me Boss Fighter are you confident and humble, or are you proud and arrogant?"
Ha, yeah. Like that isn’t a loaded question after your little anti-military rant. You fucking asshole. I thought, biting the inside of my mouth. Reminding myself for the 4th time in the past minute to just keep breathing. I could give fuck all about your definition of success. I’m much more of a “do or do not” type of guy, but you don’t want to hear that. Nor do you want to hear how much I wish I could spray and wipe out your mouth with the disinfectant in my hand.
All those thoughts flying through my head and what do I say? "I'm probably a little of both."
Nice Boss Fighter, very smooth. That-a-way to tell him something.
"All men are vain Boss Fighter,” Mr. MMA decided that we needed to have another lesson from his school of Zen. “All men have vanity, but what I wonder about you is if you have enough of a handle on your vanity to be a good manager, to be a leader. I have lead groups from 1 to 100. Managed task from putting the lock on a door to the building of a building…"
I want to fucking fight you. God DAMNIT I want to fight you. I want to just step in and put my fucking shin upside your smug fat head and keep driving until you are out cold on the fucking mat! Was all I could think - over and over again, like the skip prone Beatles record I had as a kid.
"Rarely, Boss Fighter, very rarely…" Mr. MMA said with raised voice, snapping me out of my violent daydream. “...have I met a good leader who isn't at least 40-50 years old and making 200-300k a year."
What the fuck, asshole? I thought, thinking of my former Platoon leader, my 24-year-old squad leader, of the girl who spoke at my commencement in college. At 22 she’d started two non-profits to help fight 3rd world poverty and was studying at Cambridge.
Finally, mercifully, he patted me on the shoulder. Then, as he walks away, he reminds me to wipe down where he was just laying.
Watching him walk out of the mat room I had one single, solitary, burning thought: I’m going to fucking fight you. I’m going to hit you in the mouth, and keep hitting you till you’re out cold on the floor, Mr. MMA. I’m going to beat that smug look off your face. I’m going to smile gleefully as you become the latest victim of pride going before the fall. I’m going to fucking fight you.
And in 362 Days, I am.
I had been working in the gym for almost a month. After teaching my morning fitness classes I ventured into the weight room/mat room to wipe down the equipment from the usual morning work out rush.
Lately the gym has had issues with the contracted cleaning staff and if you plan on keeping a gym going, making sure the equipment is clean is one of the top requirements. With that, I picked up a spray bottle and set up doing the little things I needed to keep my job.
Making it into the mat room I found Mr. MMA, "meditating" as he called it. I call it laying on the mats with your eyes closed taking a post work out nap.
I started working quietly. No production, no "look at me" bullshit. I just wanted to do the job and not deal with Mr. MMA. Halfway through the task Mr. MMA looks up at me and asked "has anyone talked to you about being a manager, Boss Fighter?"
"No" I replied, which is a half-truth. The owner I like said he was pushing for me to get the recently opened up position. However, last night he'd asked me to keep a lid on that information.
"Let me ask you something, Boss Fighter. Are you an arrogant man?" A look of grave concern now plastered on Mr. MMA's face.
booooooooooooooog
The Kung Fu Movie Zen gong sounded in my head and all I could think was: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Spray bottle in my hand and a can't win situation in front of me I split the difference.
"I think I'm confident," I replied. "But I think the problem with that question, Mr. MMA, is that the difference is often as much about how you are perceived as how you present yourself."
"There is no real difference Boss Fighter,” he tells me, attempting to have great gravity and depth in his voice. It sounded like an Asian guy imitating David Carradine’s character did in the "Kill Bill" movies.
"How so Mr. MMA?" I ask in an attempt to be polite.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I already know the answer because we all know a guy like Mr. MMA. The person who’s read "The Book of the Five Rings," so now they are the next coming of the Buddha. It only makes it worse that Mr. MMA is Asian and speaks with a slight accent. The only way he could be more cliche is if he started calling me "young grasshoppa."
"Confident people," Dr MMA intones, "carry that confidence on the inside, they are humble on the outside.”
No shit, really? I thought real confidence was, like, a superficial thing. And why does this have to be all about a “he,” you sexist fuck? Can’t women be confident? Sadly, having that sort of equal rights discussion wouldn’t have been well received.
"An arrogant man,” Mr. MMA blathered on, “is one who carries that feeling on the outside. It is for others to see and he does it selfishly, he is not humble, he is not magnanimous. He is proud.” Mr. MMA then proceeded to spend the next five minutes talking about all the things that he has done in his life. How his graduate degrees shaped him. How all his martial arts training has helped him on his journey. How successfully he has navigated the treacherous waters of business so well and so successfully, leading him to ask me:
“Do you think you have some life experience, Boss Fighter? Do you have a background that has instilled wisdom and humility into your life?”
“Well I have to say being in the Army was a pretty humbling experience…” I started...
“I haven’t known you well enough to judge, but most military guys I’ve met are horrible, Boss Fighter. At tournaments, I’ve met Green Berets and Navy SEALS and Marines and they are all…” He paused to let his disgust build before he spewed, “…lazy. They are generally unfocused and undisciplined men, Boss Fighter. And all of them are arrogant, proud men. I won’t let one of my yellow belts, let along a black belt, fight any of those military guys. I don’t want my students to become corrupted by their poor work ethic.”
The breath I took can only be described as proof that serenity now works. I’m proud to tell people I’m a Vet. I've always felt honored to have served my country. I may not have Mr. MMA’s graduate degrees. I kicking down doors and leading men into combat. Apparently, in Mr. MMA’s world, that sort of experience doesn’t count for anything- at least at Martial Arts tournaments.
"So tell me Boss Fighter are you confident and humble, or are you proud and arrogant?"
Ha, yeah. Like that isn’t a loaded question after your little anti-military rant. You fucking asshole. I thought, biting the inside of my mouth. Reminding myself for the 4th time in the past minute to just keep breathing. I could give fuck all about your definition of success. I’m much more of a “do or do not” type of guy, but you don’t want to hear that. Nor do you want to hear how much I wish I could spray and wipe out your mouth with the disinfectant in my hand.
All those thoughts flying through my head and what do I say? "I'm probably a little of both."
Nice Boss Fighter, very smooth. That-a-way to tell him something.
"All men are vain Boss Fighter,” Mr. MMA decided that we needed to have another lesson from his school of Zen. “All men have vanity, but what I wonder about you is if you have enough of a handle on your vanity to be a good manager, to be a leader. I have lead groups from 1 to 100. Managed task from putting the lock on a door to the building of a building…"
I want to fucking fight you. God DAMNIT I want to fight you. I want to just step in and put my fucking shin upside your smug fat head and keep driving until you are out cold on the fucking mat! Was all I could think - over and over again, like the skip prone Beatles record I had as a kid.
"Rarely, Boss Fighter, very rarely…" Mr. MMA said with raised voice, snapping me out of my violent daydream. “...have I met a good leader who isn't at least 40-50 years old and making 200-300k a year."
What the fuck, asshole? I thought, thinking of my former Platoon leader, my 24-year-old squad leader, of the girl who spoke at my commencement in college. At 22 she’d started two non-profits to help fight 3rd world poverty and was studying at Cambridge.
Finally, mercifully, he patted me on the shoulder. Then, as he walks away, he reminds me to wipe down where he was just laying.
Watching him walk out of the mat room I had one single, solitary, burning thought: I’m going to fucking fight you. I’m going to hit you in the mouth, and keep hitting you till you’re out cold on the floor, Mr. MMA. I’m going to beat that smug look off your face. I’m going to smile gleefully as you become the latest victim of pride going before the fall. I’m going to fucking fight you.
And in 362 Days, I am.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
In One Year, I'm Going to Fight My Boss
I’m new to my city. I moved here after I graduated college in May with a degree in a liberal arts discipline. When I graduated college I'd planned to go into sales. Maybe make a little extra as a freelance writer. That was the plan, and like most plans it ran right into the wall known as reality. If you’d told me I would end up working as a personal trainer/towel boy under a prick like my boss, I’d have told you you’re fucking crazy.
Unless you are one of those very lucky people in the world, you have a boss. Someone, at the very least, who tells you what to do and is the person you report to. If you’re lucky you have a good boss. Someone you respect and maybe even admire.
However, since 60% of the American public hate their jobs or wish they were doing something else, I’m guessing you have a boss like me: an arrogant control freak that is out of touch with reality and cares only about him or herself. You do the work. They take the credit. They screw something up. You get thrown under the bus. They show up late constantly. You get called out the day you come in five minutes late.
There is this huge part of you that just wants to tap them on the shoulder one Friday right before your typically meager ten minute lunch break and punch them as hard as you can in the face, isn’t there? Well, I’m going to do it. One year from today, I’m going to fight my boss, “Mr. MMA.”
I work as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor at a gym in a major city. In the gym we have a Martial Arts School. Mr. MMA is the owner of that Martial Arts School, and is also a part owner in the gym itself. He’s a 3rd degree black belt in an art that judges the winner by scoring points and not actually doing damage. An art he thinks is superior to everything else on the planet. He'll happily tell you so, as he smirks at the inferiority of all other Martial Arts.
He is almost six feet tall and 210+ pounds. Mr MMA holds a sizable reach, height and weight advantage over me. He's extremely quick for any person, let alone a man in his early 40’s. If the fight were tomorrow, there’s a 95% chance he’d win. He’s been training in his pansy ass martial art for decades. Point scoring or not, it's still far more than the two years of kickboxing I have under my belt.
That’s why I’m giving myself a year. A year to train. A year to watch and observe him, and to make enough inroads into the city I just moved to so I can move on without any repercussions from the ass whooping I am going to give Mr. MMA.
18 September 2009 Mr. MMA and I will fight. Hopefully, right around the time he thinks he’s leaving to eat lunch, and in just enough time for me to turn a long weekend into a permanent career change. That is, after he's out cold on the floor.
I do, in fairness to them, have other bosses. Frankly, they’re pretty cool. Yet, to me, Mr. MMA is just that bad. So in 364 days and a wake up, I’m going to do what the overwhelming majority of Americans want to do, but can’t. I’m going to step into the world of a person that I can’t stand and shatter it. I’m going to do what our forefathers used to be able to do, settle a matter with your fists and that be the end of it.
I'm going to fight my fucking boss.
Unless you are one of those very lucky people in the world, you have a boss. Someone, at the very least, who tells you what to do and is the person you report to. If you’re lucky you have a good boss. Someone you respect and maybe even admire.
However, since 60% of the American public hate their jobs or wish they were doing something else, I’m guessing you have a boss like me: an arrogant control freak that is out of touch with reality and cares only about him or herself. You do the work. They take the credit. They screw something up. You get thrown under the bus. They show up late constantly. You get called out the day you come in five minutes late.
There is this huge part of you that just wants to tap them on the shoulder one Friday right before your typically meager ten minute lunch break and punch them as hard as you can in the face, isn’t there? Well, I’m going to do it. One year from today, I’m going to fight my boss, “Mr. MMA.”
I work as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor at a gym in a major city. In the gym we have a Martial Arts School. Mr. MMA is the owner of that Martial Arts School, and is also a part owner in the gym itself. He’s a 3rd degree black belt in an art that judges the winner by scoring points and not actually doing damage. An art he thinks is superior to everything else on the planet. He'll happily tell you so, as he smirks at the inferiority of all other Martial Arts.
He is almost six feet tall and 210+ pounds. Mr MMA holds a sizable reach, height and weight advantage over me. He's extremely quick for any person, let alone a man in his early 40’s. If the fight were tomorrow, there’s a 95% chance he’d win. He’s been training in his pansy ass martial art for decades. Point scoring or not, it's still far more than the two years of kickboxing I have under my belt.
That’s why I’m giving myself a year. A year to train. A year to watch and observe him, and to make enough inroads into the city I just moved to so I can move on without any repercussions from the ass whooping I am going to give Mr. MMA.
18 September 2009 Mr. MMA and I will fight. Hopefully, right around the time he thinks he’s leaving to eat lunch, and in just enough time for me to turn a long weekend into a permanent career change. That is, after he's out cold on the floor.
I do, in fairness to them, have other bosses. Frankly, they’re pretty cool. Yet, to me, Mr. MMA is just that bad. So in 364 days and a wake up, I’m going to do what the overwhelming majority of Americans want to do, but can’t. I’m going to step into the world of a person that I can’t stand and shatter it. I’m going to do what our forefathers used to be able to do, settle a matter with your fists and that be the end of it.
I'm going to fight my fucking boss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)