(Unofficial) gym rules for meatheads

1. No sleeves. Make sure you wear your favorite “No Fear,” “Tapout” or “Affliction” shirts to the gym. Also, wear cut-off shorts, but not too cut-off because that could mean you‘re gay.

2. Keep a stoic face, the less friendly you are with the recreational lifters and cardio-nerds the better. Make at least one smartass comment to a regular about the size of his biceps. Snort, huff and puff a lot as you walk around selecting weights to pile on.

3. It’s important that you err on the side of too much weight (you don’t want to look like a pussy). Then, contort your body painfully on every rep trying to get the g**damn weight up.

4. When selecting training partners, make sure they don’t mind yelling at you when it‘s your turn to lift (adequate yelling has been achieved once the veins in their necks and foreheads bulge out).

5. At least once every workout, single out a woman and comment that you’d like to “seriously tap that ass.” Go into vivid detail and don’t stop until everyone goes uncomfortably quiet, then turn, look at the weight rack and say, “Alright, this weight ain’t gonna lift itself!”

6. Curse. Often. Drop frequent “F” bombs, then look around to see who’s listening. If you catch someone looking, openly and loudly berate them for not minding their own business.

7. Never, EVER do an actual squat because setting up for the exercise wastes time better spent bicep curling, flexing in front of the mirror, or playing one hell of an air guitar for the ladies.

8. Preach to others about the virtues of clean eating and hard work, then go home, wait until the hooker has passed out and you‘ve drank all the Milwaukee‘s Best, and gorge yourself on pizza and Funyuns, remembering, of course, to inject the last of your steroids into your nut sack before turning in.

9. Shave your entire body. Go ahead, it’s not gay. Really. Also, you should probably oil up before lifting, as it reveals the contours of your muscles for all to see. Seriously, not at all gay. Homo.

10. Go home to the darkness of a bedroom closet, the one with the moldering cardboard cut-out of the Governator himself, and cry like a little girl who’s skinned her knee. Look forward to the rest of your life.