NAked Warrior - ZANDERBILT

I R O N E S S A Y S
My name is Grill so they call me Grill Man. I’m 6’2” and weigh 350 pounds. I have a
14% body fat percentile and can dunk a basketball with either hand. My goal is to deadlift
800 in a powerlifting competition. I have done 771 officially and 780 in training. So I’m
close. I’m serious as a heart attack when I walk into the gym. I go to the local Steel House
at the same time of day every day five days a week and have done so for 15 straight years.
All through the Christmas Holidays my training had gone splendidly. I was preparing for
the Mountaineer Open Powerlifting Championships in March. I always put a big red circle
around January 2nd on my training calendar because I need to prepare myself mentally for
the onslaught of the Mullet influx that strikes my gym. I have come to expect the migration
and try to make allowances in advance. I was determined this year not to allow the annual
mullet infestation to derail my Mountaineer Open training efforts. I’m an Iron Pro and can
rise above just about anything. I need to train and I need to train hard. Each training week
is critical and I cannot afford to lose three or four weeks of effort dicking around with mullet-mania.
I will not allow these Lilliputian slackers to prevent me or hinder me from
achieving my goal. Deadlifting 800 pounds is no freaking joke! Distractions are the enemy
of progress and I hate enemies.
This year’s infestation was particularly gruesome and horrific. As I parked my monster
truck in the parking lot, I knew they had arrived. The parking lot, normally half full, was
stuffed to capacity with Volvos, Hybrids, Mercedes Benz station wagons and other assorted
weenie-mobiles. As I walked through the front door of the gym on the day after New
Year’s, the cacophony was ear splitting. I stood at the front desk trying to get my bearings;
three days ago the joint was deserted. Now it was packed with dweebs moving about frantically,
emitting a collective high pitched hum. They flittered about like a swarm of mosquitoes
on crystal meth.
As I stood slack jawed, a mullet face-dancer actually bumped into me. Of course he didn’t
bother excusing himself. He just looked up at me with those vacant, hollow eyes (think
‘Children of the Corn’) before he rebounded off me and spun off in another direction. I can
go an entire year without being bumped into by anyone—yet here on my home turf, my
home away from home, I suddenly have some dork bump into me inside of sixty seconds of
walking through the door.
I felt soiled and defiled.
In my mind’s eye I envisioned a water buffalo about to be swarmed and eaten by a horde
of ravenous fire ants or perhaps attacked by a school of Piranha. Mullets attack fitness
facilities every year, ostensibly in search of building muscle, but I know better. They supposedly
seek to become big and strong because they are weak and small. Since they are
incapable and unwilling to exert themselves in the slightest, they seek to drag everyone else
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