Classics..
Disposing Used Needles In The River
Now all us "vets" know that every once in a while we need to get rid of our used needles, but we don't want to just throw them away in our regular garbage which is dangerous and unsanitary!
So, we all have our own little secret waste sites; Mine is this quiet, peaceful little river that I often use a personal sanctuary to reflect on what I have accomplished. It is nestled behind an Elementary school out in the middle of No Man's Land.
So yesterday morning, I got up early around 11:30AM and packed up a pallet's worth of my old needles from my last 22-week cycle and drove on down to the riverbank. I had filled a few laundry baskets full of needles, bloody tissues, bandaids, and broken ampules but made sure to wrap them in big Hefty bags so the Danger-Factor would be eliminated.
I sat there for a while smoking some cigarettes just marveling at the calmness.
Then, I grabbed the bags out of the laundry basket and heaved them into the water. Then...a problem.
One of the Hefty bags split wide open and the contents spilled all over the grass. This isolated river is only about 30 feet from the fenced-in playground where the toddlers swing on the monkey bars. I became afraid that a child may decide to open the gate on the fence to investigate the contimated abundance of dangerous materials I had decided to leave there. I mean, I wasn't about to pick this stuff up - what if I stuck myself with a dirty needle? I figured the school janitors were experienced waste management pee-ons so they could handle this little mess! Then, I came to my senses and became relieved that a child knows better NOT to open the fence because the riverbank could be a hazard.
My only concern now is what if someone catches on to my dump site? Where does everyone else throw their dirty needles when they are used? You can't just walk into a hospital and submit these hazards! Any help is much appreciated!
WHY WE STARTED LIFTING...The Greatest Bodybuilding Story Ever Told
It was fourth and long with under thirty seconds to go in our high school district championship game. As a senior in high school with possibly my last game as starting wide receiver…I knew the stakes were high as we trailed 17 – 13.
The quarterback commanded, “Hike.” The play began to manifest as the defense blitzed and we charged forward.
Seconds before the quarterback was trampled, he managed to release a “Hail Mary” pass that was on target with me in the crosshairs. The pass could not have been more perfect.
The crowd roared as I arrested the ball and darted toward the goal line. Then…it was dark.
As I awoke in the hospital, I learned that a 330-pound defenseman demolished me just before I crossed the ten. No permanent damage to speak of, but the mental anguish of knowing that I lost because someone was “bigger than me” began to cause infuriation deep inside.
That winter, I was determined to devote my entire life to becoming a machine…a physical monster that would intimidate any passerby unto whom I came upon. I bought a membership to Gold’s Gym. I began to extensively research the usage of performance-enhancing drugs. All of my Christmas money that year was going to be used to purchase a variety of anabolic steroids. A priority of finishing up my senior year of high school quickly vanished. Besides weightlifting, all of my free time was devoted to working two jobs so I could afford every muscle-building drug available on the market.
People began to stare. During the first six months of my quest to become something extraordinary, I gained 30 pounds. My metabolism was always high, so I ate everything in sight: stacks of pancakes, entire packages of bacon, whole chickens, loaves of bread, apple pies, etc. I was looking good, and everybody knew it.
Since my parents emancipated me because of my unwillingness to attend school and my determination to never listen to any of their spoken words…I had to find new revenue streams because the night job at Kentucky Fried Chicken and the day gig working the local carwash weren’t making ends meet. Besides, I was reborn; I saw the light; I was going to be colossal. That is when I was forced to find new ways of generating income.
Don’t get me wrong, I felt bad. But how was I going to afford cycles of Growth Hormone and testosterone making chump change for the Colonel and waxing Mustangs?
I was drinking heavily one night when fate and a good idea intersected. My sister stopped over to my apartment because she had heard I had gotten arrested for assaulting some people in a local pizzeria. A few men decided not to let me have their table at lunchtime and all of the other seating was filled. You can imagine what happened next – I grabbed a metal napkin dispenser off of their table and bludgeoned the biggest guy sitting down. Then, his two friends were victimized by a haymaker and a steel-toed, Kodiak work boot…courtesy of me.
My sister began to speak loud. Then louder. Soon I was sure that my neighbors could probably hear her scolding me so I took one last sip of my Long Island Iced Tea and threw her down a flight of stairs. I walked outside and commandeered her SUV. I drove around for awhile as I finished a few beers and ended up at my friend’s pad. I ended up selling him a Jeep Grand Cherokee (Laredo) for $9,000 in cash. Nothing could stop me now.
- Fast-forward -
Four years later I was unrecognizable to many I knew in the town I fled after the Jeep incident. I felt like Forrest returning to Greensboro, only I had become a miracle of God. It is truly magnificent when your reality exceeds your dreams. My arms were a spectacle. My chest didn’t even look real. I had muscles growing out of other muscles. As I walked around my old hometown gym in my bandana and Zubaz pants, I realized that I had done something great. I could tell that everyone was threatened by my size. People were scared of me. If I needed a spotter, I would just yell at anyone nearby, “You, you and you! Get over here and spot me right now!” They did. People would pause in between sets just to investigate how much weight I would have on the bench. I would do a “One-Rep-Max” set and scream as the straight bar would bend because of the amount of weight on it. The three spotters combined wouldn’t even be able to lift this had I not been there.
I could tell that people were jealous. Envy consumed them. This feeling, this sensation of being mighty is why I got in this game in the first place. When I wake up in the morning before my Myoplex, 20 egg whites, and box of waffles, I just thank Jesus that I am what I am: A machine.
NO FEAR! IF YOU AIN’T SQUATTIN’, THEN YOU AIN’T SHIT!
My Roid Rage!!! Scary
Check it...
I went to my girlfriend's house last night to meet her parents for the first time. Her idiot father went to shake my hand and made a comment "Wow, you are a big guy." You can imagine for obvious reasons why THAT would get my blood boiling.
We are sitting around the living room prior to dinner shooting the breeze and lolligaggling about current events, movies, politics, etc., and then her mother has the audacity to break out with "So, Brian, you must spend a lot of time at the gym?" Well so help me baby Jesus, did I almost choke her with a piano wire!
Politely, I excused myself to go to the bathroom to "cool off." I put some cold water on my face and swore that if this whore talked about lifting one more time that I would seriously pistol-whip her.
The Scene: Dinner table.
We are sitting down and the food she is serving is all fattening (like most food observed on 90% in American homes). I looked at my girlfriend and said "I am not hungry!" She saw the face of death in my eye and knew to keep her trap shut or she could end up being the victim of a severe beating when we got home.
Her father then busts out with "Come on, eat...a little fat never dun hurt no one." I slammed my fist on the table, stood up and left the house. His Audi was parked in the driveway and I put my head through the passenger window. Then I left.
Is this roid rage? I usually think of myself as that of a passive and conservative gentleman! These Anadrols are great for strength, but I am questioning whether or not this incident is a reflection of steroids? Anyone?
My Dick Doesn't Work Anymore
This thread is a little embarrassing for me to say the least, so please don't flame me too much.
I have been on steroids for almost 6 years now non-stop and finally just gotten off of them to take a four week break. I started out with a beginners stack (d-bol, deca) and worked my way up to shooting over 1g of test/week, popping 6 A-bomb's/day, HGH, slin, tren, DNP, EQ, Winny V, etc.
I have had a few bad experiences with juice (gyno in both nips, baldness, acne) but nothing outweighed all the positives I got from steroids such as being able to squat 650 lbs! Hell, I can flip over cars now at keg parties to impress girls!
I have noticed something that is bothering me though - I can't hard anymore! It sucks. This is been this way for a long time now! I mean, I am happy as a pig in shit being able to lift ungodly amounts of weight, but pumping some chicks would be nice now and then! I don't want to take viagara because that could be dangerous and damaging my body is the last thing I want to do because I am very health-conscious. But, is there any other drugs I could ingest to solve this problem? Let me know because walking around with limp-dick all the time really sucks.
Squat or go home! Lift heavy! No fear
