Observations From the Treadmill

I had another rendezvous with the elliptical machine tonight. After my 45 minute romp, I was sweaty, tired, and ready to just roll over and fall asleep.

For someone who really doesn't care for large crowds of people, I do love to people watch. This probably stems from my early church years when Kant and I would sit at church dances and make snarky remarks about the Mollies trying to dance like Britney Spears in an effort to snag them an E.C. (that's Eternal Companion for you gentiles).

At any rate, with the gym, people watching is either hit or miss, depending on when you go. Last night's workout was apparently Teen Night as gaggles of the pubescent bunch were roaming around the gym. None of them wearing body deodorant.

Tonight, there was no real theme really. Just an interesting mix of people. I could see them all from my perch. It was almost like one of those Mutual of Omaha shows about wild animals in their habitat.

In front of me is a guy, late teens or early twenties, that looks like Ron Howard before he lost his hair. He's pedaling on the recumbent bike, while flipping through channels. Thankfully, he turned off Who's the Biggerst Skanky Whore hosted by Bret Michaels' wig. Then, I smelled it. A fart so rank, I could feel the my nose hairs disintegrate. Glancing around, I deduced the noxious fumes emitted from Opie. I covered my face with my blue workout towel until the threat of oxygen deprivation passed. Just a word of advice, if you plan on blowing ass, please remove yourself to a place where people are not right behind you.

Opie got off the bike shortly afterward, gave me a sheepish grin, and left. Hopefully, it was to go check his shorts.

Meanwhile, two girls enter, both relatively young tanorexics with bleached blonde hair, full makeup, and fake hooters. Accompanying them was some dude that I suspect was their handler, manager, pimp...whatever. (I'm guessing they couldn't find their way to Gold's Gym?)

One girl had the word "pink" in glitter on her ass. I assumed that was her special way of advertising.

Paris 2.0 and 2.1 set up shop on the ab machines that are also in front of me, off to the right. From my vantage point, I can see down their little tank tops. So can everyone else. Nestled in the safe confines of their silicone, are their cell phones. They would do half-assed crunches, stop, whip out their phones for some texting, finish, put their phones back in their handy little holders, and the whole scene would reply itself over and over again. Maybe they were booking, ahem, dates for later. Isn't that something their handler should have taken care of?

Off to my left is a guy grunting and straining on another elliptical machine. I watch him out of the corner of my eye because he looks like he's going to keel over with a massive coronary. I take note of the defibrillator hanging by the front desk.

Some dude is working the weight machines, rocking the crusty denim jeans that look like he's been laying under a car all day. He catches my eye and smiles a big grin with missing teeth. I vomit in my mouth a little.

Then, there are your guys who practically live in the free weights section. Their arms and chests are so big, I'm tempted to go untie their shoes for entertainment. Guys that big can't bend over and reach their shoes because they are so ripped. Someone should tell them that hitting the juice will cause their penises to shrivel up. I'm just saying...

Just in case anyone was wondering, there were no Gorilla sightings.

So, now I am safe within the warm confines of my home. I will now retire for the night. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.