Opinion: Marines on steroids are all the rage right now. Seriously. Please send help

CAMP LEJEUNE, N.C. – If anyone is reading this, I am locked in the bathroom of the gym closest to headquarters. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but every Marine in this place suddenly just started raging the fuck out, and I’m afraid for my life.

I was pretty sure half these guys were on steroids to begin with, but it had never been a problem before. Today, though, whichever idiot runs this gym put a Taylor Swift song on the playlist, and I think that set them off. It wasn’t even a new one, just one of the standard breakup songs. As soon as the speaker blared, “I knew you were trouble when you walked in,” these guys just Went. Fucking. Nuts.

As the growls quickly crescendo’d into full on screams and fits of rage, one guy took a bite out of a barbell like it was a goddamn Otis Spunkmeyer cookie. I wouldn’t have minded him so much if he didn’t immediately turn and gaze longingly at my leg. A lifter and his spotter over in the corner began to froth blood at the mouth and started smashing their heads into the wall mirrors. They only stopped to lovingly pat each other on the ass.

One of the only female officers who comes here went ballistic with the jump rope, garroting a male PFC who made the fatal mistake of turning his back on her for half a second to piss in his buddy’s water bottle. I’m 99 percent sure he’s dead now. One can only assume I’ll join him before long.

I made it out of the weight room mostly intact and limped toward the bathroom. I had to make a detour through the cardio room due to a fire breaking out in the hallway, and sweet Jesus, what I saw there will haunt me for the rest of my life. One swole-ass NCO from supply was mindlessly doing somersaults on a slow-moving treadmill.

My own first sergeant was using two lieutenants’ heads as sandals while plodding along on the elliptical and spitting on any TV which dared to show a World Cup game. A contractor was swinging a full-size punching bag like a massive fucking hot dog of horror at anyone within reach, and I’m fairly certain he’s the one who TKO’d the teenage girl who works at the front counter. She looked like she’d been lying there for a few minutes judging by the drool.

I made it through to the bathroom, finally. First I tried the steam room, but the mist was already a bit too pink for my comfort. I couldn’t hide in my locker since it’d already been pried open and used to store a poor fucking comm nerd from the S-6. Under the sinks was out of the question – somehow all the electric cables had been ripped through the soft ceiling panels and were sparking near the pools of water.

In the end I made it into the only stall without a limp body in it, which I’m now sharing with the janitor. I’d feel better if he wasn’t side-eyeing me and gripping his mop handle menacingly.

Seriously, if anyone out there is reading this, please send help.