HermTheWorm’s B.L.O.G.

I hate my life and I’m f-cking pissed.

The world sucks and my life sucks.

Two blogs ago I got zero comments, folks. Zero.

I just want to tell you folks out there that if I do one more blog
and it gets zero comments, I am going to officially retire from
blog writing, folks.

I am going the memorize this video verbatim, but instead of
saying I’m retiring from making videos, folks, I’m going to say
I’m retiring from writing blogs, folks.

And hopefully my life will get better.

So f-ck me, f-ck you and f-ck the world, folks.

Don’t let it come to this, folks.

F-ck the world!

What a hard working conscientious bunch.

What truly inspiring results-producing ladies and gentleman they are.

What would the world do without these fine, upstanding folks.

What’s that? It’s not opposite day?

Oh, I thought it was opposite day. My bad.

Okay. Let me start over.

Personal trainers. What a useless bunch of overpaid, overbearing losers. I hate them with a passion.

I’ll start from one half hour ago. It’s fresh in my mind and the bile is fresh in my spleen and go from there.

It’s leg day again. That wonderful day that all women say they love, but the day that REAL bodybuilders, ones who actually work it and have striated quads with major sweep and veins on said quads to PROVE they work it, dread. I busted a little blood vessel in my eyeball this winter doing leg presses with 8 plates on both sides.

Fun, fun, fun.

Yes, wonderful, wonderful leg day. I’m starting off with hack squats and legs presses followed by sled squats to warm up and then…

But wait…What’s this?

Could it be…?

Oh my. Mister Personal trainer is using the leg press as a seat so he can count reps as his little anorexic client does leg lifts with a big plastic ball. Those personal trainers sure do love their plastic balls!

Oh! And what’s this?

He’s using the sled squat as a nice little table for his sh-tty cell phone; but you see, folks, the cell phone likes its privacy, so he’s using the hack squat rack to hang his towel and rest his client’s water bottle. (What’s with the f-cking towel? I never see anyone with a personal trainer ever breaking a sweat. A towel? What the f-ck for?) After all, no sense crowding the cell phone. Cell phones need their space.

Yesiree. Take up the whole mother f-cking area just so you can have this anorexic loser do leg ups with a ball.

Why do that upstairs?

Because, Herm, upstairs there are wall to wall mats and he won’t be getting in anyone’s way up there. What’s the fun in that? So I do other stuff, because I’m not in the mood to ask him to move his f-cking **** so that I may do something preposterous like (God Forbid) use the exercise equipment to actually work out.

Whenever I do ask, they look at me like I just said something terrible about their mother. How dare I. Harumph!

I know a gentleman who is the father/founder of most New York Gym owners and was one of the first to introduce the concept of "personal trainers". I will not mention his name, but he’s the real deal.

He and I were talking a few months ago about how personal trainers are like drug dealers. They keep people coming back for more and more. They could spend a few weeks with a client and give them what they need to know about training and that would be that, but they keep a lot of it to themselves or else they would put themselves out of business.

Although, maybe not. I still think there would be a plethora of gals out there who would like to do useless, ridiculous nonsense that produce zero results and pay for it. They can talk about what a "jerk" the current guy they’re dating is and maybe even sleep with the trainer. I was friends with A LOT of personal trainers back when a few of them were cool and they get more ass than a toilet seat in a women’s room. I know this for a fact.

It’s like the Dire Straits song. Money for nothing and your chicks for free.

Great work if you can get it.

That’s fine. I have no problem with people using and abusing gullible people. In fact, I love to see it.

Whenever I see stupid people getting what they deserve it gives me a feeling that there is some sense of order in the universe. There is a God.

But please, stop taking up three, four, five stations with your one heinous client. Don’t ask me how many sets I have left, either, because it was 3, it’s NOW going to be five, and if you don’t like it you can f-cking lump it.

I pay your salary. I am your boss, not your client.

Me.

I pay gym membership. The gym is not an isolated entity that pays salarys and bills based on money it gets from thin air. The gym gets their funds from paying members.

They get their money from me, motherf-ckers. Me.

The guys that hired you? I pay their f-cking salary. I am your boss. Respect your boss. Let your boss do his work.

You want to take advantage of losers, fine. That’s what losers are there for, to be taken advantge of, but let your boss do his thing in the gym. I pay for the place, not you.

Me.

HermtheWorm.

Tell you what, personal trainers. You continue to delude, string-along, ridicule and yes, even pork your clientelle and stay out of my way and not only will I not hate you. I will actually admire you.

Yes! You will be my heroes.

We can be friends.

We can even go out for drinks and laugh at the fools who pay for your "services" and maybe even make up some ridiculous looking totally useless exercises for them to do. We’ll have a lot of laughs.

So what do you say? Do we have a deal?

Please think this one over, guys.

As Humphrey Bogart said in Casablanca "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

The other day my wife admonished me "Why can’t you ever do things like a normal person!"

So true. No one could ever accuse me of being the "N" word, that’s for sure.

The first time we saw the movie Cool Hand Luke she said to me that Paul Newman’s character was me incarnate.

For better or worse, I’ve always been the wise-ass who disobeys authority. My peers would always say "I’m not gonna’ try that, I bet Herm does. He always does stuff like that."

I’m known far and wide for doing "stuff like that".

One summer when I was 17 and working as a busboy in a Catskills hotel, they had me living in the dank, stinky hotel basement. One night I had the munchies, and, not having a stove in the room, I bunched a newspaper in balls and put the newspaper balls in a metal bowl, lit them on fire and proceeded to roast wienies over it. It made smoke. A lot of smoke. Ten minutes later, ten burly firemen came knocking at the door because they evacuated half the hotel. I found another job that summer.

Stuff like that.

So when Cool Herm Luke goes to the gym and I have a particularly tough set of squats that kick my bloody ass, after I’m done with the set and feel like the weights got the better of me (Yes, I pretend the weights are a living breathing entity–it’s called anthropomorphizing), I stagger over to the squat rack and say to the weights: “Just for that, you’re getting another set”. If that doesn’t make me feel vindicated, I’ll stagger back for another set. Okay, you bastard, you think you got this won? Try this on for size.

The weights are totally kicking my ass, but I keep coming back until I feel like the weights have had enough.  Sometimes I’ll even say to the weights under my breath after the last set. So, have you had enough? Even though my ass is totally kicked. I limp away huffing and puffing, but victorious nonetheless.

This scene from Cool Hand Luke runs through my head during the whole process.

My wife was right. I can never do things like a "normal person".

Perish the thought.

Postscript: This is a song I remixed for myself for my workouts that I listen to on my ipod. Reminds me of my life. I’ve been knocked the f-ck down so many times in my life but I always bounce back and wind up in better place than before.  So life, come on, bring it. Is that all you got?

Okay, so maybe it’s me.

(Maybe.)

Last week while doing supersets for shoulders/traps that consists of Barbell shrugs with 275 pounds to failure, followed immediately by dumbell shrugs with 90 pounds to failure, followed by immediately by close grip standing rows with 90 pounds to failure, followed immediately by standing close grips with 70 pounds to failure.

Yes, last week, during the first upright row portion of this insanity, a guy went to grab some weights from the smith machine I was using, and of course, as everyone knows, you can’t have a good workout unless you walk less than three inches away from me during my sets. It’s an unwritten rule. Google "Best ways to f-ck up The Herm’s workouts." Go ahead. I dare ya’.

I just kind of dropped/threw the 90 to the rubber floor. It bounced. Ba-boom-boom-boom.

I rip off my head phones.

"Right in the middle of my f-cking set." I say to no one in particular. Yeah, right. No one in particular.

"What did you say?" He says defiantly. Oh, we got a feisty one here, folks.

"That’s just great. Did you have to ruin my God damn set?"

"I wasn’t anywhere near you. I was four f-cking feet away."

Okay, when he passed he was about two feet away. Still way too close.

"That’s just f-cking great." I say shaking my head.

"Look" He’s sitting on the calf machine. He looks over his shoulder. "If you’re looking for trouble, you’re going to find it."

Whoaaaaaaa. Fiesty indeed.

"Yeah." I say in a way that would make any 8 year old proud, "I’m really scared."

He says something stupid. I say something stupid. He’s says something really stupid.

"Pfffft!!" I shake my head and resume my hell on Earth.

I saw that guy a couple of days later, too.

A couple of hours ago I’m doing leg curls on the…You guessed it! The leg curl machine! Wow, people who read my blogs are sooo smart.

I laid down on the machine and put the pin at the bottom plate…Did you hear that, folks…The BOTTOM plate, and prepared to do my triple drop set. This douchepickle puts his leg on my machine with his foot about one foot–How appropriate, his FOOT was one FOOT away. Funny, yes?

No?

I agree. Not funny.

"Do you mind if I stretch here?"

I take off my headphones. I assure you you would not like me when I take off my headphones. Would I lie to my faithful blog readers? Major league unlikable. Hall of fame first ballet unlikable.

"Jesus Christ, of course I mind. Jesus f-cking Christ, man!" I sputter.

Hands up. This 40 something Donny Deutsch look-alike (I know Donny personally and like him, but he looked like Donny. Sorry.) holds up his hands.

"Whoa, dude, dude, dude. Why so intense?"

I’m working out? I’m working legs today? I’m dying? I’m an intense person? I don’t want to eat your motherf-cking sneaker as a mid workout snack? Could one of these reasons suffice?"

"I’m not being…Jesus Christ, man…You have a whole God damn gym…Holy f-cking crow."

"That’s why I asked you." He reasons.

I’m sitting on the leg curl machine. I stare at him.

"Please? Please?"

He backs away and stretches his lame-looking legs elsewhere.

The point of this blog is this: These guys are starting to add up.

There was this guy three weeks ago who said I had too many dumbells by my incline bench when I was doing inclines (Too many for his liking?). "It’s a new concept. They’re called dropsets, maybe you’ve heard of them?" I explained. He stormed off in a huff. Another one. And another one.

And another one.

As I said, these guys are starting to add up.

I don’t wear my contact lenses to the gym to maximize my focus and minimize my distractions.

Sometimes I think I see one of these "blasts from the past". I squint. Is that that guy from THAT time?

Which time?

Pick one. I have an awful lot of "that times"

Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s me?

Wait a second. Why am I getting all sensitive and introspective?

Have I ever, ever had a problem with a hard-core motherf-cker? Ever? Ever?

No.

So it’s not me. It’s them. Sure as sh-t, it’s them.

And "them" are multiplying every week like aliens. Another incident, another alien.

Okay, let those aliens multiply. Go right ahead.

Me? I’m not gonna’ take it.

I’m going to go all Sigourney Weaver on their asses.

Oh dear.

Yet another reason why I despise summer in New York City.

The usual f-cking bullsh-t.

I walk by a woman with her tits hanging out at the gym, and as I walk by, taking extra care to NOT look in her direction, she covers her cleavage up (This I see out of the corner of my very myopic eye(s) that is/are sans contact lenses just for such heinousness and  heinosity).

I try not to look in her direction for a myriad of reasons. One being, she’s not particularly attractive AND even if she were, that is not why I go to the gym AND I will give no woman in the gym, on the sidewalk, on this Earth, f-cking Mars or any other part of the universe the satisfaction of getting a look from the The Herm.

It’s not going to happen. Ever. As Carl Sagan would say, in billions and billions of years.

Yet…

Yet…

Now I’m feeling like I did something wrong. I feel somehow embarrassed that she thought I was looking at her. I want to go over to her and say "Hey, you know what? I wasn’t looking at your f-cking tits." This is going to happen this summer. This is going to happen this month. This is going to happen soon. Oh yeah, real soon.

I leave the gym and walk home. I try to mind my own blind-as-a-bat uninterested business. And there they are. An endless flow of them. Like meteors coming at you in an arcade game. I see the blur getting clearer. Oh no! Look down, Herm. Look across the street, Herm. Look at your watch, Herm.

Hey, wait a f-cking second here.

Why the f-ck do I have to feel put out? Can’t I walk down the street with the buff swagger I so righteously deserve to have? What the hell has happened to this world? Okay, imma’ do it. I’m going to walk down the street like a normal human being.

Twenty seconds pass. Another Ho Ho eating pig with too little clothes on bops down the street as if she has it goin’ on. I look straight ahead. As I pass she covers her cleavage.

They save this sh-t for me.

I know they do. Why would they dress this way and then cover up when a guy isn’t even looking at them?

My picture must be circulated on the internet. When you see Herm, cover your tits. Yes, he isn’t looking but cover them up anyway.

I know the deal. They don’t want ME to see their tits. They are saving that titastic sight for a ANOTHER guy. Some other guy more buff and cute and hetero than ME. There are Billions and Billions (Carl Sagan again) of them out there (As if)! I’m not worthy to gaze upon their breastacular breastliness.

But I’m not gazing! I can’t even see, for crying out loud.

Okay, f-ck it. Bad day. I’m always irritated about something or other anyway. Let it go, Herm. Go take a nice relaxing tan.

I go into my tanning salon and sitting behind the desk is… Yes! Another wonderful gal with her f-cking tits hanging out. Holy mother of God, I hate my life. I hate my life with a passion and a vengeance. I look at the ceiling and give her my name. I tell her what bed I want. "Oh, so I see you have our all-summer package"

"Yeah, I do. " I mumble, looking down at my sneakers. Yes! Score! I don’t have to pay, therefore I do not have to look down. Down her shirt. Down at her protuberant titties. They’re here and they’re in your face. Get used to it.

"So, they convinced you to get the summer package." I’m already in an irritated state.

Snap.

"No, no one convinces me to do anything. I CHOSE to get the package." My patented dirty look follows.

Gotcha!

She puts her hand over her cleavage.

Naughty, naughty. Herm. Must not look at the merchandise.

But…But…I wasn’t looking at her…

Dammit! That did it.

I’m not wearing suntan googles. I make a silent prayer that the UV lights will burn out my eyeballs and as an added bonus, I’ll contract the world’s worst case of skin cancer and immediately die on the spot. Amen. I Cross myself for good measure, even though I’m a Jew.

I say a few hail Marys and walk into the tanning booth. Hallelujah.

I’m typing this now, so obviously my prayers were not answered. Tough titties, Herm (Oh, the bitter irony).

Well, maybe next time, God willing.

The beauty of bodybuilding is that it is the one endeavor where you get out of it what you put into it. No one can sleep their way to the top in bodybuilding. No nepotism. Steriods? They don’t lift the weights for you and whisper in your ear what to eat and what not to eat.

(Of course they’ll be idiots on this site who will say, "Yeah, Herm, what about fitness contestants that sleep with judges?" and to those dipsh-ts I say "Granted, but they have already put in the tortuous workouts and dieting to get to that point. They didn’t get to look the way they look by "sleeping with judges", f-cktard." Incidentally, this is the last digression I make for hypothetical imbeciles. I can deal with them if and when they rear their soon-to-be-lopped-off heads on my comment section.)

No one can claim that just because they didn’t go to the best schools or that mommy and daddy didn’t "wuv" them enough, that they can’t go to the gym and pretty much eventually get the body they want. In or around. Eventually. I did it in two months earlier this year at the age of 47, so don’t try to hand me any of that bullsh-t. I’m not "genetically gifted" (I hate that term) either, as the picture of me at age 22 will sadly attest.

You can work out like a mad fiend, and if your diet isn’t on point, you will not get the results you want. You need to get the proper rest too, to state what everybody here already knows.

Yes, the beauty of bodybuilding is that there is no time off. It’s 24/7, 365 and if you can’t deal with pain or sacrifice then maybe this isn’t the game for you. Go f-cking play canasta or penuckle. Or with yourself for all I care. Just don’t whine to me that you’re working your ass off and  that your diet is spot on and your not getting results, you f-cking liar. Lie to yourself, don’t f-cking lie to me. I have better things to do with my time: Like making stupid videos of myself shirtless, lip-syncing to cheesy music, for instance.

So the crux of this blog, the God damn motherf-cking crux of this blog is that nobody is responsible for THEMSELVES anymore. It’s always someone else’s fault. Society is to blame for all our ills. God forbid someone brings up personal responsibility, self-restraint and common sense and they are shouted down by the PC hoards for being insensitive. My f-cking dick is insensitive.

I have made peace with this. I am more than halfway finished with my life and have no kids to worry about; so the world can go to f-cking hell in a hand basket for all I care. It’s doing a peachy-keen, swell job of it at the moment, too. I’m not going to save the world. Jesus saves, not Herm. You’ve got me confused with another Jew; so go arrest me for not being a "nice person" and make sure my cell-mate is a good kisser.

But what gets my goat, what really rankles my ass, is how the collective PC thought process is working it’s way into science (which can now no longer be called science, but perhaps "political science"). I can site a plethora of examples of this: "Man-made global warming" being but a small turd in the septic tank, but this blog is about bodybuilding. Besides, I don’t want to debate any issues with you here. I will win (I assure you) and you will lose and walk away calling me all sorts of names that end in "ist", as people of your ilk tend to do whenever they are losing a debate with me, which is every f-ckin time. I’ve gone through this a zillion times. One zillion is my absolute limit. "No mas" as Roberto Duran famously put it.

So yeah, what really pisses me the f-ck off, however, is how the feel-good "science" thing has finagled it’s way into fitness. My f-cking world. Uh uh, not in my kitchen, buster. No longer are people fat because they don’t exercise or stuff their fleshy f-cking faces. No sir. The brits (You gotta’ love those dentally-challenged folks) have come up with a new discovery…(drum roll)…

The fat gene!

I kid you not. It’s now longer your fault if you are a fat f-ck. You have "the fat gene". Now you can feel good about yourself. Just the way secretaries and waiters can feel better about themselves now that they are called "assistants" and "Servers" while performing the same f-cking tasks. Let’s start calling pencil-necked geeks "Buff Adonis’s" to make them feel better about their wittle selves. Kumba-f-ckin-ya.

The fat gene.

The fat f-cking gene.

Wow.

But why do they get to have all the fun? I recently went to have my blood tested and was found to be the proud owner of a lot of genes that will absolve me of any personal responsibility for many of my transgressions, too:

The "Punch people in the face" gene: I can’t help it. When someone ****s with me a bit too much my hand curls into a fist and wham! It’s my genes, baby.

The "I couldn’t resist grabbing her ass" gene: Oddly this gene only comes into play only when firm, well-shaped behinds are in the vicinity.

The "Give me that remote control I can’t stand watching another f-cking reality show, honey" gene: Needs no explanation.

The "I love to make dumb videos of myself shirtless and post them on the internet" gene: Another that is self-explanatory.

The "Gene" Simmons: What an obnoxious, overbearing, self-centered Jew. In other words…My idol.

The "I can’t help making silent-but-deadly farts (SBD’s) in a crowded elevator" gene: I love this one. I hope there is never a cure.

The "I’m not going to see my in-laws today and if you don’t like it you can kiss my big black Jewish ass" gene: Only flares up during the holiday season for some reason.

The "I can’t help porking anything that moves because I’m a sex addict" Gene…

Hold the phone…

What???

They already have discovered this "gene"? People go to "rehab" because they can’t keep their fu-cking c-cks in their pants?

No way, Jose.

Fa’ real?

Wow.

The world really is going to hell in a hand basket. Bon f-cking voyage, folks. Don’t forget to write!

Me? My I’m going to the gym and hopefully the "work out until blood comes out of my ears" gene is going to kick in. I’m outta’ here.

Well, what do you know? I guess I’m genetically gifted after all.

We join HermtheWorm admiring himself in the mirror. On closer inspection, he is not actually admiring himself in the mirror at all. He is looking at his flaws and going all neurotic Jew. Let’s listen in, shall we?

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the buffest of them all?"
"Not you, Wormy, not by a long shot."
"Okay, mirror, let me rephrase that. Who is the buffest 48 year old of them all?"
"Sure ain’t you."
"What I meant to say is, who is the buffest, 48 year old Jew of them all?"
"Wormy, you’re not even warm."
"Warm my ass! I want to be hot! Hot I tell ya’! Hot, hot, hot! Okay, then, who is the buffest 48 year old Jew that goes by the appellation HermThe Worm?"
"Okay, Hermy, you’re in the top ten there."
"Yes!" Exclaims The Herm, pumping his fist and doing a little Snoopy happy dance, "I knew it!"
"Low. Low in the top ten, but still there, guy."
"Low schmow. I’m there and that’s all that counts. Any fan mail today?"
"Wormy, next time you get fan mail will be the first time."

The doorbell rings.

"Aha! Maybe it’s a fan! Or better yet, a stalker! Or better yet, a desperate, promiscuous female stalker with bad eyesight, non-existant standards and a low self-esteem. That type always goes for me!"

The Herm answers the door in a sing-song kind of way "Whooo iissss iiittt?"
"It’s me-ee, @ss-hoooooole." Answers an old man’s voice in an equally sing-song manner.

The Herm opens the door and sees an old man in a robe with a long white beard.

"May I come in, Wormy?" Asks the old man.
"Certainly not, you old goat, you called me an @sshole, douchebag."

The old man disappears and reappears on the couch.

"Well, since you’re here," Asks The Herm "Would you like a drinky winky?"
"Yes, I would love a drink."
"Tough f-cking sh-t, nipple nose, you ain’t gettin’ one. You called me an @sshole."
"If the shoe fits…"
"Okay, let’s cut to the chase, Grandpa, what brings you to my palatial duplex penthouse, you Father Time looking motherf-cker."
"Glad to see I still look like myself."
"So you really are father time. Nice to meet you. Now get the f-ck out."
"Nuts. I’m staying. Shall we get down to business?"
"What kind of business? Monkey business? Are you gonna’ fling poo at me and masturbate like a monkey?"
"No, Wormy, not monkey business. I’m here to make you your real age. You’re awfully young for 48."
"Bitch, I’m awfully young for 38." The Herm points to his crouch "This is the only thing I’m gonna’ let you age."
"Oh, I’ll age that too, Wormy, the whole package.  Where shall we start? Shall we make you bald? Gray? How about a nice gut?"

The Herm looks at his midsection.

"No! Not my abs! Not my precious abs!"
"Yes, your abs. Everything. I hope you like droopy balls."
The Herm points to his computer in desperation "Look, look at the screen!"
Father time peers at the screen. "Hmmmm, Body Building dot com. Isn’t that the site that has a lot of hot women who like to be photographed sticking out their asses?"
"The one and only."
"So what’s your point, Worm?"
"Well, if you make me my real age I can never show my face, no less my smokin’ body on BB.com ever again."
"So f-cking what, Wormy?"
"Well, then I wouldn’t be able to write anymore of my stupid blogs."
"And…?"
"And people would get depressed and suicidal, because people love my blogs. Even your wife loves my blogs."
"How do you know my wife loves your blogs?"
"Here, let me open this PM…"
Father time starts to read the PM out loud "…Do you know what I’m doing with this southern fried chicken drumstick right now? I’m sticking it in my…"
"No, father time! skip that part! Look at the end."
Father time scans down the screen and starts reading again "…And if you ever stopped writing your blogs, not only will I stop doing naughty things with southern fried chicken legs, but I will also stop giving that old fart of a husband of mine any p-ssy."
"See?" Says The Herm with glee.
"Well I’ll be a son of a…Okay, Wormy. You’re off the hook for now. But I’ll be back in five years. Just you wait."
"Great. Wonderful. Sounds like a plan. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out."
"Okay, five years it is. But only under one condition."
"Name it."
"Next time you get a PM from my fat f-cking bitch of a wife, don’t encourage her. Deal?"
"Deal." They shake hands.
"No wonder KFC sends me a huge f-ckig bill every month." Father Time mutters to himself as he shuffles out the door.
And The Herm remains the ageless wonder that he is for another five finger licking good years.

The End