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Thursday, April 14, 2016

The White Dome

I find new blood lifting big ass weight with every turn of my head.  Beast mode athletes with reds on the bar and speed from Mars.  It seems they are being grown under a giant white dome in the mid west.  Something the X-Files would do a show on.  The freak Weightlifting kids that are escaping from the bunker filled with bars and weights, plates and steaks, are being spotted from state to state. Scully would flip out her notepad while the white paper dome covering the giant field of platforms would flap in the wind, making the scene much more intense and suitable for the situation.  "Freak athletes are lifting bigger weights than ever," Scully whispered to herself, as if someone was potentially listening in.   "How is this so?"  Molder asked with dark frames covering his eyes while his hair danced in the wind.  "How are these weights being lifted?"  He asked Scully again, this time putting his hand on her shoulder as if she was possibly losing her balance.  Scully lifted her head like one of the monsters from the fields of brown where the corn fields sway and the dirt roads never end, she replied... "We will find out Molder, we will get to the bottom of this." " Well we better," Molder said while scanning the property with his slowly turning head, looking for any sign of green slime, pills, electricity cables, lab coats, rats in cages, or any mixing tubs of sort.  Molder then squinted his eyes, only knowing this from his eyebrows suddenly turning down as if the eye doctor asked him to read the bottom line from the projector.  Scully asked what was wrong, as she then started to follow Molder deeper into the white paper thin dome, still violently flapping in the wind, still more mysterious than ever.

Weights rustic and heavily used laid at rest, quiet and calm, patient and strong, as if they were waiting their turn for their attempts on stage. Resting benches restless, next to squat racks rack-less.  Dirt surrounded the platforms like pyramids on sand.  Molder walked over two platforms smoothly and without hiccup, almost as if he was gliding over them as his long black New York coat would sway out behind him like a super hero of sort.  Molder kneeled down slowly while at the same time taking off his shades and revealing his open eyes to an empty monster energy can.  Crippled and cracked, used and abused, dirty but shinny, the green monster can was evidence that these new Weightlifters were truly monsters.  Monsters that needed to be stopped from the destruction of commercial gyms, mediocre goals, half ass trainers, elitist articles, excuses, unhappy people walking down society's road while people pleasing others, and so much more.  For a low bar is the heaviest bar to be lifted.

Scully leaned over the right side of Molder balancing her weight on his left shoulder while picking up the dream chasing evidence, and carefully with the tips of two weightlifting clips, dropped the empty monster can into the evidence bag that proved evidence that Weightlifters in American work fucken hard, know about hard work, and use hard work to achieve bigger and bigger weight each day, month and year.  Dusty equipment in a unknown dome, drinking warm sugary energy drinks is all we need. Other countries can live and train upon their standards, we will live within ours.  I truly believe that America is the greatest Weightlifting team, and has the greatest of athletes, coaches and the best of community.  

Molder and Scully then proceeded to walk out from your garage.  

'Merica 2016 

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