Today I clean the “BroZone.” It is the bachelor pad of a my youngest client, a 25-year-old weightlifter and personal trainer. I did not give his apartment this hideous name. He did, along with some of his other meathead buddies during an all-night brainstorming session fueled by Budweiser and protein shakes. They were so proud of their brilliance, they made a plaque out of it. “BroZone” blazoned on gold plating, hanging above the front door. A testament to what you can do when you put your five brain cells together.
I don’t mean to give him a hard time, he’s a nice enough guy. He’s just a complete Lunk–the pumped-up guy at the gym wearing the bodybuilding tank top, grunting and judging other people. He’s got muscles popping out of him that I didn’t know people had. It’s like somebody started inflating him and forgot to quit. Last time I saw him it looked like his head was in danger of being engulfed by his neck. It’s hard to take that seriously.
I’m not looking forward to going there today. I suspect he had a party over the weekend because I found his “PARTAAAY” list. It consisted of:
- Bud Lite
- Mic Ultra (for Flabby)
- Grey Goose
And that’s it. No chips. No dip. Not even a sign of the manly hamburger or wussy hot dog. Of course his friends could be bringing the food, but considering I’ve never seen anything but stale milk and protein drinks in his fridge, and all of his friends look like him, I’ve come to believe that their neck muscles prevent them from eating anything solid.
The last time I had to clean up after one of his “PARTAAAYs,” I had to bring back a ladder to dismantle a six-foot beer can pyramid and scrape Jello shots off the ceiling.
So no, I’m not looking forward to today, but I got the ladder loaded and ready to roll. Tune in tomorrow for “Why I Am Drenched in Stale Beer.”