Destroy Everything! Destroy Everything! Destroy Everything! Destroy Everything!

DISCLAIMER:  You demanded it, so you're getting it.  Behold a heavily edited version of my original rant against strength coaches.  I doubt this will make sense to anyone, but worst case you'll laugh your ass off because I am obviously mentally unbalanced.

In spite of displaying more conceit than you'd likely see out of college sorority girl who's spent more money on plastic surgery in a year than most people spend on their first home, I required a small amount of external motivation to achieve the proper mindset to pull 606 and 672 easily as hell.  That motivation didn't come from a person or a chemical, but rather in the form of the song containing the lyrics I've got in the first image in this article.  That song, which has facilitated every PR since RUM, it is the hardest, angriest, most hateful, bile-spitting, life-destroying, soul-crushing, death-defying, fetus-aborting, friendship-ruining, life-affirming fucking song in the history of written music.  

Beethoven would have wept at the brutal simplicity of this song, and at the cutting edge of its message.  This song, Posi Holocaust, is my life's anthem... it defines me in ways I could not with my own words.  As ridiculous as this might sound, this song resonates so hard with me I will not listen to it unless I am attempting a max single because it fills me with so much rage and bile I can't be around the Normies who populate the everyday world.

Onto the subject at hand- the thing that's been burning a fucking hole in my gut like I swallowed a mouthful of magma with the belief I could channel the power of a volcano if I did so.  I've not, as I realize I needn't injest toxic and fatally hot magma to erupt like Mt. Vesuvius and lay waste to everything in my path.  What lies in my path, then, are strength coaches.  Yes, strength coaches- innocuous, banal, seemingly irrelevant people of whom there is such a surfeit on the internet that naming them hardly seems necessary and would take more time than makes sense.  Lest you wonder, I hardly consider myself a coach.  I'm more of a consultant.  I identify problems, provide solutions, give a lifters a direction and shove him that way.  Just as I do not fancy myself a coach, I do not believe I am responsible for the results gained from the programs I provide or the fixes I relate, any more than a mechanic takes credit for the fact that a nearly new AMG Merc  smokes a BMW M3  off the line.  I simply facilitate, and take no responsibility for the results- the results lie solely in the hands of the people for whom I provide guidance.

Your average "strength coach" in build and utility.

Of late, I've seen any number of coaches taking credit for the actions of the lifters in their stable.  I'm not talking about guys like Glenn Pendlay, who've earned the right but would sooner take credit for the invention of the internet than Tom Sroka's overhead press numbers, but guys few people know about and whom the world ultimately would not care if they immediately ceased to be.  They like to claim responsibility for the feats of the lifters "under" them, in spite of the fact that the lifter is the person who did all the fucking work.  This, I feel, is part of a greater phenomena whereby people believe that if they talk about something enough, they have done it.  That mentality, however pervasive, insidious, disgusting, pathetic, worthless, shameful, and ignoble as it may be, needs to be rectified with nothing less than a hefty dose of cyanide and probably better with a neutron bomb.

You picked the weights for a lifter who broke a world record?  Congratulations.  You're a good fucking guesser.  You did NOTHING.  NOTHING AT ALL.  Not only are you so fucking worthless your parents likely weep themselves to sleep at night with the knowledge they produced a pompous dipshit who'd be better off beating himself to death with a claw hammer than offering other people advice, but you're detracting from the efforts of a lifter far better than you.  FAR.  BETTER.  THAN. YOU.

I live alone.  I train alone.  I'll win the title alone.

If you don't recognize that quote, it doesn't surprise me at all.  It's Clubber Lang from Rocky III declaring he needs no one.  No matter how much you think to the fucking contrary, your lifters need you that much.  The best you can do is point out shit they're doing wrong- you're not responsible for their success.  Fuck me running, you're more responsible for the stranger's cum running down the inside of your girl's thigh than you are for your "lifters" success.  That's right- if you're so delusional you're taking credit for the lifts of your "lifters", I've likely cum on her cervix while you were in the bathroom at a meet.  If I didn't, someone else did, because we can smell weakness and you smell fucking weak.  We're not talking about my "share and share alike" ,mentality with my girls, either- we're talking about a chick who fucks the nearest male the second you turn your back because you're a shit-talking pussy who deserves to lose his girl to a better man.  

If you are a coach and you're going to absurdly claim responsibility for your lifters' success, guess what, fuckface?  YOU'RE ALSO RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR FAILURES.  They didn't listen?  Fuck you, you should have yelled louder.  They had a bad day?  Fuck you, you're there to make it better.  They missed weight?  Fuck you, you're a dogshit coach and should down yourself in a seedy porn shop's toilet.  And sweet Jesus, if you are a coach who either hamstrings your lifters' progress by instilling them with the idea that they're less than they are, or YOU SUGGEST THEY SKIP AN ATTEMPT IN A MEET AND THEY'RE NOT GRAVELY INJURED, do us all a fucking favor and jump in front of a bus.  A bus covered with AIDS.  And cholera.  Preferably one with a spiked cowcatcher on the front just to insure that you'll be maimed badly and die a slow fucking death in a shitty third world hospital or something. The next bitch who tells me that they skipped a fucking attempt at a meet and wasn't crippled with injury or illness is going to swallow a mouthful of his fucking teeth.  If you're going to be that weak, dickless, spineless, and pathetic, keep that shit the fuck out of my corner- I don't need any fucking has been's or never-gonna-be's fucking with my mojo.

Witches be crazy.

This is a sport of people who are so insecure, and so bitch-made, they can't take responsibility for a fucking thing themselves.  If they lose, they claim it was witchcraft, the other guy's gear, their coach's falult, their parents didn't love them, they are a compulsive masturbator because their parents didn't love them enough/too much/too helicoptery.  As such, I can't really blame the coaches too fucking much because they're really just a symptom of a greater problem.

"Force and might makes right. Perhaps things shouldn’t be that way but that's the way they are. I learned to look with suspicion and hatred on everybody. As the years went on that idea persisted in my mind above all others. I figured that if I was strong enough and clever enough to impose my will on others, I was right. I still believe that to this day."

- Carl Panzram

It's not just coaches who spew their vile weakness all over the fucking internet and the platform. Practically every Facebook status update I read is a paean to being a pathetic bitch.  Feel like airing your dirty laundry and your emotions on the fucking internet?  DON'T.  No one gives a flying fuck.  If anyone did care, you'd likely be able to   And for those of you who will claim they do, you're the bitch-made pussies spouting that passive aggressive bullshit in the first fucking place.  Oh, and don't even get me started on the clever little not-so-cryptic, look-at-me-and-feel-sorry bullshit, weak sauce status updates begging for attention and a faux-Mongol horde of white knights to roll in and gently stroke your inner child's engorged clitorises when you post something like: 

• "Ever have one of those day where everything bothers you from the minute you awake?  Today's one of those days."  
• "I'm done tired of the fights n the bs of u keepin secrets I dont wanna hurt n e more I hope you find happiness Ima stay bein single u can go do u n ima do me its betta dis way 4 both of us u kno its tru" [Sic. To the whole fucking thing and I hope they see me making fun of them and open up some veins.  Remember, it's down the road, not across the street, you fucking waterhead.]
• "It's so easy to make me happy and yet it's not... ponder that one for a moment."

I read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day when I was a little kid too, and you know what the moral of the fucking book is?  SUCK IT THE FUCK UP, BITCH. 

Unmerciful.  Callous.  Relentless.

It's mercy, compassion, and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.

Our entire fucking sport, and the internet at large, is crowded with pompous bitches who think their opinion is worth hearing, in spite of the fact that they're too stupid to clearly articulate their thoughts, it's highly likely that their parents don't even fucking like them, they've never had an original idea in their lives, and they're too poorly educated to provide a logical basis for the bullshit they smear all over the internet like a four year old retard fingerpainting on the wall with their own feces.  Special snowflake syndrome is so fucking out of hand at this point that everyone thinks they deserve some sort of award for showing up, even when they've participated half-assedly in a sport they should have never even recognized as such.  Who the fuck wants to sit through 45 minutes of handing out an goddamn trophy to every participant?  Fuck- I usually skip those things and head to the bar.  I'll pick up my cash later and you can keep the dumbass trophy.  Oh, forgive me- I'm being disrespectful to the sport again.  I might slam a bar like a fucking boss and upset someone's inner infant.     

LIKE.  A.  BOSS.

I am the best, and I live alone, I train alone, and I will continue to win titles, alone.  I need no one and require no help from anyone.  When I first started competing, I didn't even wear a belt, just to prove I literally needed nothing to dominate my competition.  No handlers, no advice, no support structure, no belt, nothing.  All I need is me, and to be fucking consistent and fucking brutal.  I'm not fucking magical.  No sorcerers were involved in the production of my program.  Not because I have the best training scheme ever invented- but because I do what I want, when I want, and don't fucking listen to nonsense to the contrary.  Nor am I alone in this.  Most people need a coach like they need a hole in the head, and they need a "program" like they need an asshole on their elbow.  Instead, what they need is to nut the fuck up, quit bitching on Facebook, and lift some heavy goddamn weights until they shit blood and weep five times distilled vodka, sweat 500 mg/cc testosterone and piss growth hormone.

All those I rely on: NO ONE

Those things I depend on: NOTHING

My survival lies in my own strength

It’s power through control

Control through strength

Strength through hate

Hate through fear

Fear through displays of power

Nut the fuck up.  Or don't.  I honestly don't give a shit.  I will just continue to sit up on high and cast down my judgements like thunderbolts from the heavens.  If you're going to pretend to halfway give a shit, try to be as awesome as the picture above.