Well I think that’s all a bunch of nonsense. I’ve seen the Jersey Devil first hand. In fact I see him fairly regularly. He works out at my gym.
He trots around the weight room, talking on his cell phone, reeking of Axe Body Spray and Coors Light. With his arms to his sides you can see the stains at the pits of his Polo shirt. He speaks very loudly for a creature that has eluded capture for hundreds of years. I suppose Devils never learn to be considerate of others growing up in the woods or whatever. Or maybe the popularity of being a folk legend drives you into behaving like a douche.
Today, like every other day, one of his sport teams lost and the head coach is a moron. Like everyday, he speaks into his Bluetooth headset and proclaims who should be benched, who should retired and what franchise owner should be paying him for wasting three hours of his time.
He says, “You put me in that uniform and give me a million dollar contract, and I guarantee that ball will never be dropped!”
“If you’re gonna make decisions like that, then maybe you need to get a colon cleansing to get your head out of your ass!”
He immediately slams the dumbbells on the floor for emphasis. This makes them appear heavier than they actually are.
He tells his Bluetooth “Okay I’ll let you go. It's chest day. Gotta go show these clowns how to bench.”
God only knows who he’s talking to. The guy has no friends.
So when it comes time to bench press, he comes looking to me for a spot.
I try to decline but he’s too drunk to understand. He slams his hand onto my shoulder and points at a girl’s ass in Lycra tights. Leaning on me, nearly rubbing his stubble against my face, he mutters something angrily and then smiles. His breath smells like burnt garbage and old fish.
With hand still clasping high around my neck and shoulder, he drags me over to his bench.
He loaded the bar with as much weight that could possibly fit. He has about 14 of those tire sized plates and a couple of the dinner plate sized one.
“You can handle this?” I ask. Wiping powder from under his nose, “Oh this? This is nothing.”
After about five minutes of cursing and speaking to himself in the 3rd person about ‘getting his’, Evil D as he likes to call himself, finally lies down on the bench.
ME: I’ll help you with the lift off on three, okay?
EVIL D: Evil D don’t need no stinking lift off or count down. You can count that Evil D is gonna throw this weight around. D' is gonna get his.
He plants his hooves firmly into the ground and extends his arms with bar in hand. He holds it, unsteadily, for about a second before dropping the bar directly on his neck, crushing his shiny pentagram medallion. His legs kickup from the ground. A thick vein pulsates in his right horn. A yellow froth sprays from his mouth.
I grab the bar. Amazingly, even with his windpipe crushed he can speak.
“Don’t touch it! I can handle this!”
I put my hands up in surrender and back off. Sweat is dripping of the tips of his horns pooling onto his popped collar. The seam in his vintage-style designer jeans are beginning to rip.
He’s speaking in tongues now like a Beatles tape played backwards. I’m waiting for some gateway to hell to open up. Luckily a busty woman in shorts steps onto the stepper machine and begins to bounce her ass within his view. He stops the Exorcist routine and whistles at her.
Don't forget there's still weight on his neck. His tail is purple and swollen like burned Ballpark hotdogs and looks like it's ready to pop. I feel a bit bad for him.
Then I remember he’s a devil. I walk off to the water fountain and get a drink.
