Craig awakens to Eye of the Tiger blaring from his phone: the song of a god damn champion. He springs out of bed like he’d heard the garbo pull up after another neglectful bin night and posts a motivational quote he coined himself:

Yesterday you said tomorrow, yesterday I’d already said yes, that’s the difference between good and great. No excuses, no mercyno worries 😛 – who are you going to be today?” #builttougher #whatexcuse? #training #athlete #fitAF #boysofcrossfit #nohaters #elite #adonis #godamongmen”

Well, hopefully, someone who doesn’t confuse having a gym membership with any meaningful life achievements, Craig. Christ, pack it in.

After a solid breakfast of 5 raw eggs, Craig walks into the gym with one fist in the air. The champ is here you soft-bodied disgraces. He swans through the group dolling out unsolicited motivational advice:

“Let’s see you push through the Filthy 50 today, Bruce, Jenny, your wedding is in 3 weeks, let’s pump up it to the max girl, ohhhhh J-Man in the house, whattup dog, you are looking straight jacked”. He’s coming off about as genuine as a Kuta beach Rolex stand.

Craig conducts his workout with the kind of intensity you see in Lleyton Hewitt’s eye as he holds an Aussie Open trophy while watching his career highlights reel. He is grunting like a constipated orc and sweating like Pell on appeal.

The instructor has lost all control over Craig and is powerless to stop him from forcing some beta-male to record a video of him lifting a dumbbell over his head. He uploads the video immediately, “This is how it’s done #CrossFit #Inspire #Fitness #Mirin?”

In an act that sickens Craig to this core, Jenny quits halfway through a set of burpees. Craig starts foaming at the mouth, he walks up to Jenny and inspires her, “I guess you don’t want your fucking wedding dress to fit Jenny”, Craig turns around and punches a door. A familiar cringe washes over the session.

He puts his hand up in the air, as to alert the group that he needs a moment to compose himself. These fitness jellyfish aren’t worthy to train with the champ. They wouldn’t understand door punching. They don’t understand passion.

After his workout, Craig storms out and power-douches into a nearby petrol station. He approaches the drinks fridge and sees a flabby pleb eyeing off a Powerade and is overcome by his own inspired greatness, “ah, maybe stick to the water if you’re not training ay pal”. Why are you like this Craig?

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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