Pencils down you goddamn little impotent, limp dicked Obama supporters! A pigeon towed loser who peaked in 8th grade just entered the gym and he means fucking business. You can tell by the flat brimmed hat sitting on his peanut head like a memorial for the people who died during the great war of Patagonia quarter zip fleeces, which means he’s ready to sit on a bench for an hour and a half and brood thoughtfully in the mirror.
He earned this. That hat gives him the right. A burden as weighty as the cross Christ carried. But someone has to do it. Someone must look this fucking cool. Someone must bear the affliction of training for nothing in particular. Though the hat serves as a massive hindrance for most exercises
Every inch of his bloated, pre-workout supplement inflated frame is a walking success story for insufferable Facebook ads. His essence is a culmination of brain dead marketing departments. Buck Mason. All Birds. Bird Dogs. No Bull. His livelihood is consumption.
