All seven deadly sins—pride, envy, wrath, sloth, avarice (greed), gluttony, and lust—were committed at the Mr. California bodybuilding competition on February 30, leaving this reporter to wonder what happened to people’s inhibitions and better judgment. The event was held in Phoenix, Arizona, with the winner of Mr. California advancing to the Mr. USA competition to be held later this year in Mexico City, Mexico. The dry and unfamiliar climate might have played a role in the sin and debauchery that flourished that day.
When I arrived at the event, I first interviewed Mr. Los Angeles, who was rife with pride, bragging that he had the largest biceps of anyone in the competition. I checked the stat sheet and confirmed it. Mr. Los Angeles’s arms were a whopping forty-two inches, the most robust of anyone competing. Mr. Los Angeles was also proud of his six foot and four inch stature. He was also proud of his workout routine, his cultural heritage, and pretty much anything else about which I inquired. This incited quite a bit of envy out of Mr. San Diego, who was all too anxious for me to interview him.
Consumed with jealousy, Mr. San Diego finally interrupted my interview, disputing Mr. Los Angeles’s claims of having the largest biceps. Mr. San Diego claimed that based on his five foot and one inch height and his forty-one inch biceps, that pound-for-pound and proportionally he is the better bodybuilder. I explained to Mr. San Diego that, while I understood his point, the stat sheet still lists Mr. Los Angeles as having the largest biceps. At this point, Mr. Los Angeles chimed in that, “there really should be a height requirement for bodybuilding competitions, to screen out the vertically challenge and those suffering from Napoleonic complex.”
In response to this comment, Mr. San Diego’s jaw dropped and his face turned crimson red. I saw a vein in his forehead start throbbing. He began panting and suddenly, bellowed a primal shriek. He charged, head first across the room, closing in on Mr. Los Angeles. At the last second, Mr. Los Angeles sidestepped Mr. San Diego’s rush, leaving the bull to plunge face-first through the wall. This display of wrath did not go unnoticed by medical personnel, who immediately rushed to Mr. San Diego’s aid to try to free him from the wall.
Mr. Los Angeles shot me a wry grin of satisfaction. He explained that at the last competition, paramedics spent forty-five minutes extricating Mr. San Diego from a wall. “Yeah, he’s got priors for this sort of behavior,” said Mr. Los Angeles. “This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. He’s a short man with a tall temper.”
It was then that a six foot, six inch Amazonian woman approached me. I guessed her height because she hovered above Mr. Los Angeles, except she was definitely no bodybuilder. The gargantuan was about as wide around as she was tall, a medical condition she later explained to me as a thyroid condition, but I suspected food might also play a role.
“Hi, my name is Matilda,” said the Behemoth, proffering her hand. She violently shook my palm with an iron grip. “I’d like to apologize for my husband, Mr. San Diego. He gets angry from time to time.”
I assured Matilda that there was no need for her to apologize. She ignored my assurances and went on to explain that her husband is undergoing anger management counseling and that she is seeing a doctor about her thyroid condition. I told Matilda that it is a good idea that Mr. San Diego gets treatment because wrath is one of the seven deadly sins.
The whole situation was getting a bit too awkward for me, so I excused myself to the restroom. I assumed that the bathroom was empty because everyone was watching the spectacle of Mr. San Diego trapped in the wall. I approached the first stall and gently pushed the door open. What I saw astonished me. There sat Mr. Sacramento on the toilet with a hypodermic needle stuck in his arm. Atop the toilet paper dispenser sat a clear vial of fluid labeled, “Anabolic Steroids.”
Startled, Mr. Sacramento said, “What are you doing here? I thought everyone was tending to Mr. San Diego stuck in the wall.”
I stared speechless at Mr. Sacramento, wagging my head in disappointment, my eyes transfixed upon the vial of steroids.
“What?” Exclaimed Mr. Sacramento. “Um… these are… um… herbal supplements… I mean… doctor prescribed… I mean…” He writhed in his chair and fumbled for words as I stared in disbelief, wagging my head. Mr. Sacramento must have recognized his precarious predicament, because the next thing I noticed, he thrust himself upon my feet, hugging my ankles and sobbing, “PLEASE don’t tell on me! I’ll be disqualified from the competition if anyone finds out. Name your price, I’ll pay anything. Just don’t tell on me.”
“Mr. Sacramento, get a hold of yourself,” I said, shaking him off my ankles. He returned to the toilet seat, tears streaming down his face. I was moved to pity by the pathetic loss of total dignity. “Here,” I said, unrolling some toilet paper, “Compose yourself.”
Mr. Sacramento dabbed his tears and blew his nose. I explained to him that his steroid use was an example of the deadly sin of sloth. While other bodybuilders spent long hours buffing in the gym, he took lazy shortcuts to avoid the harsh routines.
“You’re right, man,” wept Mr. Sacramento as I laid out my indictment. “Everything you say is right. I just don’t wanna work out that hard. I need help.”
Mr. Sacramento thoroughly confessed his sin and promised to repent. I, in exchange, promised to keep our little bathroom encounter a secret, provided he finally get up and allow me to use the toilet. I really needed to go.
When I finally left the restroom, I could see Mr. San Diego’s short, stocky frame, still dangling out of the wall as rescue workers continued chipping away at the area around his neck. It would not be long now. Soon the disgruntled bodybuilder would be free and the competition could commence.
Matilda waddled around her husband, trying to comfort him amidst the work crew, but her husband would have none of it. “You did this to me, Matilda!” screamed Mr. San Diego. “You’re to blame! You let me lose my temper again!” Matilda glanced over to me and our eyes met. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. Embarrassed for her, I scuttled away.
“Places everybody,” came a voice over the loudspeaker, “the competition will begin in ten minutes.”
I strolled over to the concession stands to buy some popcorn and snacks. Suddenly, two bodybuilders rolling over each other on the ground diverted my attention. Archrivals Mr. San Francisco and Mr. Oakland were engaged in a wrestling duel.
“That Protein Bar belongs to me,” exclaimed Mr. San Francisco, choking Mr. Oakland’s neck. Security personnel rushed over and separated the two bodybuilders. I moseyed over to investigate the problem.
Mr. Oakland rose to his feet and brushed himself off. “Look Mr. San Francisco,” he began, waving the Protein Bar in the air, “I bought it first, so it belongs to me.”
“But I had to get my wallet,” replied Mr. San Francisco, “and that is the last Protein Bar left!”
A worker at the concession stand told the security guards that Mr. San Francisco wanted the last Protein Bar, but had to retrieve his wallet from his duffle bag. Before he returned, Mr. Oakland bought the last Power Bar, and that is why the fight broke out.
Playing the peacemaker role, I decided to intervene with the wisdom of Solomon. “Gentlemen,” I said, “Don’t you realize that you are both committing the deadly sin of greed.?” I paused for effect and both bodybuilders drooped their heads in shame. I motioned to the security guard and said, “If that is the last Protein Bar, then it should be shared. Guard, would you please cut this Protein Bar in half.”
Suddenly, Mr. San Francisco screamed, “Noooo!” He threw himself prostrate at my feet. “Let Mr. Oakland have the Protein Bar.” Mr. Oakland grinned triumphantly, unprepared for what would follow. Mr. San Francisco continued, “Please don’t cut it in half. A Protein Bar is too precious to be cut in half.”
The security guard looked at me and said, “Only the true and rightful owner of the Power Bar would feel that way.”
I nodded in agreement. “Give the whole Protein Bar to Mr. San Francisco.”
The crowd cheered in the background but Mr. Oakland fumed, “But that’s the last Power Bar! Mr. Palm Springs arrived early to the competition and bought out all the Protein Bars from the concession stands.” Mr. Oakland pointed to a huddled and alone Mr. Palm Springs in the corner, smacking his lips and chewing a Protein Bar. He was immersed in a field of empty Protein Bar wrappers on the floor.
I approached Mr. Palm Springs and said, “This is shameful, Mr. Palm Springs. You bought all the Protein Bars before anyone else had a chance”
Mr. Palm Springs gulped and hiccupped. “Yeah, so,” he said. “It’s my money and I got here first.” He unwrapped another Protein Bar and took a bite.
I explained to Mr. Palm Springs that he was guilty of the deadly sin of gluttony. After much reasoning and negotiation, he agreed to sell one of the bars in his cache to Mr. Oakland.
No sooner had I solved another crisis, I heard over the loudspeaker, “Bodybuilders, take the stage… the competition is about to begin.”
Mr. Oakland thanked me as he chomped another the rest of his Protein bar. Mr. Palm Springs scowled at me, then both men disappeared into the competition room and the concession stands cleared. At this point, I no longer cared who won. Being around all the deadly sins exhausted me and I was ready to leave early.
I turned toward the exit, opposite the competition room, and began walking toward the parking lot. Suddenly, I felt a presence near me. A shadow eclipsed me from behind. Fear raced through my veins as I spun around to meet the threat. I was relieved to see it was only Matilda. There she stood, towering over me.
“Matilda, you scared me,” I said.
She grabbed my hand with that ironclad grip. “Keep walking,” she said, and tugged me behind her toward the parking lot. Her palm completely enveloped mine, as an infant’s hand disappears into an adult’s hand.
“But Matilda,” I said nervously, “the competition is about to begin and your husband needs you by his side.”
“Shut up and keep moving,” she scolded. A new forcefulness beamed from her personality. “I’ve got plans for you. You’re going to be my new toy.”
The sexual overtones became quite apparent as she dragged me across the parking lot outside. “But Matilda,” I pleaded, “this is the deadly sin of lust. Please… you musn’t… you’re married and we cannot just…”
“Shut up,” she again interrupted. She proceeded to stuff me into the back of a black mini van. I resisted to the best of my ability but she was too strong. She grunted like an animal in heat, overpowering me with her weight. The door slammed shut, trapping me in a metal shell behind dark, tinted windows. I immediately noticed there were no handles on the inside and no access to the front seats. I was caged in!
Matilda got into the front driver’s side and the vehicle leaned as the van absorbed her weight. She started the engine, muttering under her breath, “I’ll get even with his little tantrums… some angry, vengeful sex… that will teach that husband of mine.”
“But Matilda,” I pleaded through the grill gate that separated the front and back seats, “You and your husband need counseling. This is not the way.”
My final pleas were ignored. The van peeled out of the parking lot, tires smoking in its wake. I banged on the side and then the back window, but nobody could see me through the dark, tinted windows. My nose steamed the glass as I watched the convention center disappear into the distance.
The van drove for twenty minutes before pulling into a hotel parking lot. Matilda was hypnotized, in a trance. She would not listen to reason. She parked the vehicle and opened the side door. I screamed, punched, and kicked but the Amazonian smothered me and effortlessly hurled me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She made it to her room and carried me over the threshold against my will.
Unspeakable things were done to me that afternoon and I have not been the same since. Even after spending $50,000 on psychotherapy, I still find myself taking three showers a day. Furthermore, I blame myself for what happened. I made the choice to surround myself with the seven deadly sins. I could have left the competition early. I could have told Matilda I was gay. Many scenarios play through my mind as to what I could have done differently that day. Instead, Mr. San Diego now has a bounty out on my head and I have been forced to change my identity.
I suppose I should learn to be thankful that things are not even worse. After all, adultery and fornication never made the list of the seven deadly sins. That is a good thing too, otherwise it would not just be my life that was now in constant danger, but my soul as well.
