Last Sunday I went to the gym for the first time. I worked out with the Starcraft team. The workout was led by a crew team member named Rowan. His name is very appropriate for a sport that involves rowing.
Most Starcraft players do not work out. Working out at a gym requires athleticism. Playing Starcraft does not. The Starcraft team is the product of human ingenuity’s ability to defeat Darwinism. Though Darwin himself would probably have played Starcraft.
Rowan the rower also plays Starcraft. He is the exception that proves the rule. He is masculine and has muscles in places I did not intend to notice. He is a computer science major, but he does not go to Tech. He is a “brogrammer,” which means he programs computer codes in a tank top.
“I want the Starcraft team to be so jacked,” said Rowan the rower, “that they can walk down frat row, and push aside frat guys and steal their women.”
He does not support fratricide.
He added, “And those girls will be like, ‘Oh what frat are you in,’ and my boys will say, ‘Starcraft Team isn’t a frat. Now, let’s get out of here.’ And that girl will totally watch them play Starcraft for three hours before they hook up.”
I was pleased to see my workout partner was my editor from the Wheel. His name is Justin. He had to read this. He is pale, skinny, bespectacled and has red hair. But he has a girlfriend, so he is not a cookie-cutter Starcraft player. His nose is big and he can breathe well, so perhaps that was his Darwinian trait that would save him from a tiger or an elk. He can lift more than the bar.
When he lifted the bar, I tried to make a Starcraft joke, so I said, “What the Frack?” Unfortunately that word is from Battlestar Galactica, not Starcraft. Rowan the rower proceeded to explain the complex economic concepts that make up the Starcraft universe while Justin handily pumped iron.
I asked, “How often does the Starcraft Central Bank invoke quantitative easing?”
Justin the Starcraft player finished his reps with surprising fluidity and said, “That depends if you want to inflate your economy at the expense of building your military.” In this game, you are a combination of General Patton, Ben Bernanke and Rosa Parks.
It was then my turn to lift. Never in my life had I been more afraid of a pole. That’s some 45 pounds of metal elevated above my chest, with only my twig-like arms keeping it from crushing me.
Rowan the rower spotted me, meaning he put one finger under the bar that was certain to cave in my chest. One finger hardly seemed appropriate. I was scared. I stared into the abyss, knowing the end was nigh, and I thought of my dog, Rocket. What a terrible name for a dog.
But the bar went back up. I sighed in relief, now certain I could take a Starcraft player if placed in some fight to the death.
Rowan the rower kept track of the weights we were lifting. Justin is now benching reps of 95 pounds. His girlfriend has not noticed.
“Let’s move on to the squats,” said Rowan the rower.
“Will this improve my ass?” I asked. I was particularly concerned with improving my ass. My mother often mentioned I did not inherit a black person’s ass. It is a point of shame that my mother is so racist. Yet, all I’ve ever wanted was a nice ass so my extended family will cease mocking me.
I attempted to squat. Rowan said, “Just pretend you’re sitting down.”
I tried again.
“What exactly do you sit on at home?” asked Rowan.
I was doing it very wrong. Rowan the rower demonstrated, much to the delight of one observer by the water fountain. He said, “You aren’t squatting right until you rip your underwear.” I was not aware that underwear also had planned obsolescence. Lucky for me, I neglected to wear any that day.
The squatting elicited much merriment from Justin the Starcraft player and myself.
If you ever meet a muscular man, and he intimidates you, please imagine him doing squats, for no one can look virile or intimidating while thrusting their donk backwards and dropping it like it’s hot.
After a few more jokes about 1-A and other Starcraft jargon, we packed up our backpacks and went home. But I will never forget the day that I learned how to work out with the Starcraft team, and now I am working toward the day when I am strong enough to confidently shout, “Come at me, Bro!”
– By A.J. Artis
The Emory Wheel was founded in 1919 and is currently the only independent, student-run newspaper of Emory University. The Wheel publishes weekly on Wednesdays during the academic year, except during University holidays and scheduled publication intermissions.
The Wheel is financially and editorially independent from the University. All of its content is generated by the Wheel’s more than 100 student staff members and contributing writers, and its printing costs are covered by profits from self-generated advertising sales.
