Get A Truck Tool Box And Avoid Getting Framed
by MIKE ROSANIA
Sometimes a truck bed cover doesn��t cut it for protecting your valuables. Consider adding a durable truck tool box for maximum security.
��Give me four more! Come on! Do IT!�� screams a grizzled voice sounding like Randy ��Macho Man�� Savage. A 7-foot-tall man with muscles popping from places I didn��t know muscles could pop from towers over a scrawny teenager whose trembling arms desperately try to complete a set of curls. Meet Robby, the gym��s personal trainer and resident jerk. He��s a high intensity, steroid pumping, self-centered, never-left-high-school type of guy. Sure, his bulging biceps are bigger than my head, but he��s dumber than a set of bricks. But the thing that really gets me�� his obnoxious alpha male superiority complex.
Clunk! The sound of weights crashing down draws everyone��s attention to the skinny kid who just collapsed on the floor. ��Get up Suzy! Or do I need to get you a Kleenex?�� shouts Robby. He liked to call emasculate his clients by calling them girls�� names during the work out. Luckily, the excessive amount of sweat camouflages the tears rolling down the poor kid��s cheeks.
I may not be the biggest guy in the gym, or ever close to Robby��s size, but there��s one thing I know for sure �C Robby Strick needed to go.
Ever since the local paper published an article on fitness featuring Robby��s exercise tips, he has been walking around like he is a celebrity. Robby has always been bigger than average. Growing up, Robby had a few weight issues �C he had a love affair with Twinkies. But once puberty hit, he started growing all over instead of just sideways.
There is just one thing that Robby loves more than himself and that��s his truck. He has a brand spanking new, candy apple red pick up truck; fully equipped with huge chrome rims, rumbling exhaust and a sound system that constantly blasts the song ��This is why I��m hot.��
After my work out I stop in the locker room for a quick clean up. I��m startled by yelling voices. Through a row of lockers I can see Robby and some other muscle man arguing. Being the klutz that I am, I slip in a water puddle and smack down onto the hard tile floor. Robby looks at me, then looks the other guy in face and says, ��I better not see you here again,�� and storms out of the locker room.
By the time I leave I can just make out the faint lyrics, ��I��m hot ��cause your not,�� as Robby��s red truck peels out of the parking lot. We all knew Robby wasn��t a holy man, but what had he gotten himself involved with this time?
A few days later, when I pull into the gym parking lot I��m greeted by the flashing lights of a police car. Apparently someone broke into the back of Robby��s truck. ��I was framed! That��s not my stash,�� yelled that grizzly voice. In the back of the crowd, there was the guy who Robby was arguing with in the locker room. There he was; smiling.
Did someone frame Robby? Probably not, but someone did brake into Robby��s truck bed, and reported the drug-filled truck to the cops. I wonder if there are any witnesses to testify; a certain person that witnessed an argument. Oh well, I guess it��s out of my hands.
Peace has been restored in the gym world. Halleluiah!
It��s kind of sad when you think about it. Robby could have avoided years in jail if only he had kept his steroids in a durable Delta Tool Box. Instead he wasted his money on lavish items like chrome rims and Thule racks. �C Mike Rosania
