As all of you are authoritatively aware of—both because you have tried the product itself and because you are more than likely the fella in this video that mixes the stuff with his shots of Canadian whiskey and Sprite—preworkout is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to these United States, right up there with mom jeans and the Jeep Laredo. I mean think about all the gifts that preworkout powder has given you in its relatively short existence: energy. Muscles. Weird red poops where you are convinced that there must be blood in your stool, when really it’s just the remnants of the fruit punch flavoring. The ability to stare at yourself in the gym mirror with a facial expression combining rage, fear, and uncertainity.
A segment of my day wherein the only true rule is that there are no rules. Whatever I do is forgiven. Whatever ruckus I cause is ignored. Whatever display of raw humanity and desire my actions sketch out can never be held against me. It is society’s fault that I am forced to work and take preworkout at the same time. And this is, for me, how that combination usually plays itself out on the average workday.
Thanks a lot Obama.
A Running Diary Of Preworkout “Work Time”
5:32 P.M.-I grab a blue solo cup from the cupboard of our kitchen—both because I hate the environment and because red solo cups are for Communists—fill it with nasty sink water that is for poor people and is likely the reason I have no idea what the letter “q” is, and grab the jar of C4 preworkout formula I stash behind my computer monitor on my desk, just to the left of the Kleenex boxes I am constantly swiping from the conference room. I open the jar and scoop out 2 portions of the blue powder, pouring one into the cup after the next, and mixing it together with the H2O with a plastic knife I am using because plastic spoons, apparently, do not come with your KFC order. Bringing the cup to my mouth I take one big gulp, then another, before slamming the now empty cup down and burping directly in my co-workers face.
I do not apologize. The preworkout tastes like blue pixie sticks and, therefore, my burps should be giving my fellow employees nothing but pleasure.
5:33 P.M.-I open my Spotify app—while wondering what the F we fought WWII for if I have to pay a German dude in order to listen to the High School Musical 3 soundtrack—and search through the usual playlists filled with the usual jams that pack my workout pump up mix. T.I. Nelly Nell. Fity Cent. The aforementioned DMX. Scrolling the options I wonder what artists is going to make me want to rob a gas station today?
I land on Three 6 Mafia and hit play. “Juice got weed. Juice got bills. Juice got that work on the corner making deals…” By now I am 95% ready to stand up, quit my job, and fulfill my lifelong dream of being a low level drug dealer on the streets of West Memphis, Arkansas. Three 6 Mafia just makes it seem so glamorous.
5:35 P.M.-My legs have begun shaking uncontrollably, slamming into the bottom of my desk from time to time because I don’t feel pain and also have a strong desire to shake my workstation enough that the dude working directly to my left will accidentally start his email with “Hey Boob,” instead of “Hey Bob.” Hopefully the dude working to my left knows a guy named Bob. If not this entire operation was even dumber than it sounds.
5:38 P.M.- I type a slack message that reads “I just took enough preworkout to kill a baby giraffe” and send it to my team. Two of my team members respond with the exact same words and emojis “Poor Giraffe…sad crying emoji” (although I am pretty sure one of them actually put the laugh crying emoji in there, but for purposes of this story we will both ignore that realization and refuse to believe that one of my co-workers has a heart black enough to laugh at the death of a baby girraffe).
So much for metaphorical slack messages guys. But for right now, let me assure you…no giraffes were ever harmed by me during my consumption of preworkout. Although, that being said, I will also acknowledge that I have never taken preworkout at either the zoo or a local Toys R Us so…
5:39 P.M.-Having listened to 2.5 Three 6 Mafia tunes, I reenter my Spotify main menu and pull up my Fity Cent playlist. It also, coincidentally, turns out that Fity Cent will be in the St. Louis area this very afternoon, holding an event/signing for his premium vodka “EFFEN” which is both the best and worst name for something that you are expected to put into your mouth I could ever imagine.
The fact that I didn’t quit my job (common theme huh?) to fulfill my second lifelong dream of spending $50 to stand in line and get two bottles of “EFFEN” vodka signed by Fity Cent will be one of the greatest regrets of my entire life. It is also probably the reason that Fity went bankrupt. Because signed bottles of vodka doesn’t seem like that lucrative a market to me.
5:42 P.M.-The Fity/Eminem song “Patiently Waiting” comes across my headphones and I LOSE MY FUCKING MIND!! This is one of the 15 greatest songs ever written. And that includes every hit that Savage Garden ever had, so you know it’s good.
As the song builds I start violently rocking my body, back and forth while I nod my head and tense up my arms so that they don’t begin swinging wildly and accidentally lead to me ripping someone’s throat out of their body. My heart is racing. My eyelids are twitching. I haven’t picked my nose in at least 45 seconds. I now know exactly how someone with epilepsy feels. I mean not really, but I am pretty jacked so...
5:43 P.M.-I get a SnapChat from one of my coworkers, the one who sits 2 seats to my right. I open it. It features me, sitting at my desk, rapping Eminem lyrics out loud with my hand covering my mouth pretending as if said hand can keep all of the sound I am thumping out of my windpipe from reaching the rest of the office. “They think that they’re crazy, but they ain’t crazy. Let’s face shit basically. They just playin’ sick, they ain’t shit, they ain’t sayin’ shit, spray ‘em Fifty,” I boom, vigorously shaking while making some sort of weird, unintelligible gang sign with my left hand.
Everyone seated around me is staring in terror. I am leaning so low in my chair that, if it (the chair) had possessed either the capability to express its emotions or opposable thumbs, it (the chair) would likely have committed suicide by now. At one point I stand up and yell “KILL WHITEY!!!” will all my might. Luckily that was not caught on the SnapCat, and I have never admitted to doing it on the Internet so…skated by on that one.
5:46 P.M.-I leave my office and am walking down Washington Ave, bumping T.I. now and wondering if it would be worth it to stop for a taco at Rosalita’s Mexican restaurant because, after all, it is Cinco de Mayo, and once I take preworkout I basically become a poorer Donald Trump. Just as dumb. Way less clout in Atlantic City. Talk about your classic 0 for 2...
5:47 P.M.-I am walking through a decently sized crowd, there is some sort of Cinco de Mayo soiree going on in front of my building which looks way more appetizing than my future plans of fainting at the gym after 9 seconds of "doing pushups", and there are a lot of people on the sidewalk drinking and partying while I am just trying to get to the gym before my heart explodes and ruins my GAP chinos. There’s just one problem…this walk, which normal takes between 6 and 59 seconds depending on how many Gyros I ate that day, is taking forever. Wading through the crowd I am constantly being held up by some cadre of party participants or another, people walking so slowly that they make me feel as if I am someone who is capable of running 1.2 miles in less than 29 minutes.
As I deftly pass around and through the horde, I feel the desire to just say “F this,” put my head down, and trample each and every person who might be standing in my way. The only reason I don’t? I can see the Newspaper headline now: “Obese man kills 4 people in stampede, then passes out, defecates all over himself, and ruins his GAP chinos.” Either way, we are going to reach the same result. Either way, the only pair of non-sweatpants I own is screwed.
5:48 P.M.-The dude at the front counter of the gym says something that I cannot hear because I am currently listening to a Limp Bizkit song at what can only be described as a dangerous level of volume. I whip out my wallet and start shrieking, “it’s all about the nookie, c’mon, the nookie, c’mon, so you can take that cookie…AND STICK IT UP YOUR…YEA!!!” as a middle-aged man stops and turns in my direction near the drinking fountain, gawking. Just a tip there fella: never hire a millennial that doesn’t know at least one Limp Bizkit song by heart. That person has no respect for society. That person has never respect for culture. That person is, as they say, a nerd.
5:51 P.M.-I take off my underwear and stand bottomless—because I hate showing my nipples—while reaching for my compression shorts, or the “underwear that I wear to workout and am constantly untangling from my butt crack,” and facing the front door in order to avoid the middle-aged man changing behind me who, based on our previous interaction, has little to no respect for Fred Durst. A couple of bros happen to walk into the locker room while I am still grappling for my new clothes and almost get quite the eye full, before I block their view with my right hand at the last possible second. Sorry I couldn't give you a confidence boost fellas. Just remember what they say about people with tiny hands…that Double Cheeseburger at BK is so big it makes them look even tinier.
5:54 P.M.-I sit down on the locker room toilet—which luckily, if not surprisingly, is surrounded by a door and not just stuck out in the open next to the sink in the regular bathroom portion of the layout so that a bunch of weirdos could watch you do your business—and let the bodily fluids, uh, flow. I spend something like $149/month on preworkout (maybe a slight exaggeration, maybe not. Honestly have no clue), and I poop, on average, 94% of it out before I ever pick up a weight.
Why do I make such a seemingly foolish financial investment? These 25 minutes a day, the 25 minutes where I get to be uninhibited and free, the 25 minutes where I literally feel like I beat the F out of a bear if it wasn’t for the jerks at the National Parks Service always telling me not too. The 25 minutes/day where life is good, because I have the energy to dominate it. That is why I take preworkout.
Because this is America. And in America, we believe in freedom. That includes the freedom to potentially poison ourselves to bench 0.25 lbs more than we normally would. Cause yeah, not taking preworkout could help you live longer...but at what cost guys? The cost of spitting in George Washington's face and telling him that his dream is dead?
That is a price that's too steep for me. That is a price that I will never be willing to pay. That is a price that goes against my ethos, my principles, my religion. I take preworkout because that's just who I am. I take preworkout because I live in a country with the courage to stand up for my liberty. I take preworkout because that is what I believe. It is now. And it always will be.
This is the United States of America, a nation that is Indivisible, with C4 for all.