Ex-pickup artist Roosh Valizadeh used to make a living selling dubious and at times straight-up rapey pickup advice to men desperate to get laid. Now that he’s found God he seems to make his living by loudly and publicly renouncing the weirdly driven hedonism of his old lifestyle.
His newest target of his wrath is that modern saturnalia that is … the gym.
In a post on his blog last month, Roosh, a former gym rat himself, denounced gyms as veritable temples of narcissism and lust. Back in the day, he explained, he went to the gym to lift several times a week But he was less interested in getting fit than he was in sculpting his body into something allegedly attractive to women. “I want to claim that I went to the gym to be ‘healthy,'” he wrote in his post, “but my true intention was to be attractive to the opposite sex for the purpose of fornication.”
Fitness? More like fittin’ dis dick in … oh never mind.
So now he feels obligated to warn other men of the dangers of the gym. As he sees it, there are four of them. The first danger is the “vehemently secular music” they play at gyms to combat the tedium of the stairmaster.
I don’t want to hear songs about sex, seduction, getting rich, dancing all night in the club, driving expensive cars, and becoming a big boss. Thankfully, I can hardly understand the “English” being sung in most modern songs, especially hip hop, but even then, the Satanically-engineered melody will find a way to worm its way into my brain and remain there for at least a day, distracting my spiritual life with the potential to insert sinful and pornographic ideas.
Oh, but Satan isn’t just writing catchy tunes to ensnare Roosh’s brain. He’s also making sure that women at the gym wear as little clothing as possible. “There seems to be a competition among gym-going women to see who can display the most skin without technically being naked according to local ordinances,” he snorted.
Roosh is especially angry about sports bras.
The arrival of “sports bras,” which are still bras (just because you put the word sports in front of them and remove the lace doesn’t mean they should be displayed publicly), confirmed to me that the gym has become like an antechamber to the brothel bedroom.
Yes, it’s the sports bra that used to put so many nasty ideas into Roosh’s head. Well, that and all the yoga-ing that goes on at the gym.
I like to think that I can maintain custody of my eye, but inside the gym, half-naked women cavort all around me, and then enter into compromising positions on their yoga mats which immediately sends my mind into the gutter without conscious effort.
And then there’s all that bending over.
Yes, I am admitting that I’m too weak to not glance at these women in bras with gigantic bulbous rear-ends when they bend right in front of me.
Before I turned to Christ, I actually saw this as a benefit of any gym, for why not be sexually entertained by women to lustfully prepare for an act of fornication? But now, I run away from it.
Another danger: mirrors, which encourage narcissism and body worship.
The mirrors were my teachers. Over many years, they taught me that my look is the most important part of me, that I had to cherish it if I wanted to continue receiving sexual benefits, and I could maybe consider getting botox injections when I became older to still be sexually attractive to young European women.
Sorry, Roosh. You’re an old dude now. Live with it.
The last major stumbling block at the gym? Gyms encourage men to “get bigger and bigger muscles for no practical reason” other than trying to look good for all those half-naked ladies.
There’s always someone who lifts more than you, or who has a better steroid supplier than you, so you will constantly aim to compare yourself to other men to subliminally attract the half-naked women that aggregate around the butt machines.
Curse those half-naked ladies for existing in Roosh’s general vicinity!
Your body is fine as it is, you’re healthy, but pride ignites within you to be even bigger and stronger, not to lift heavy things outside of the gym, but solely to lift heavier things within the construct of the gym itself to make you think that your body, given to you by God, is an achievement of your own. This temptation makes you a slave to the gym.
It always strikes me just how much people who aren’t black like to compare themselves to slaves.
But Satan won’t be able to get Roosh back to the gym; he’s now content doing calisthenics at a nearby park. “For me to go into a gym today” he explained, “I would need to cover my eyes and ears to not fall back into the world of the material.”
Roosh blindfolded, with noise-canceling headphones, wandering around the gym bumping into shit? I would pay to see that, actually.
Follow me on Twitter.
Send tips to dfutrelle at gmail dot com.
We Hunted the Mammoth relies entirely on readers like you for its survival. If you appreciate our work, please send a few bucks our way! Thanks!