So I'm at the gym, minding my own business, reading a Star magazine, when some hulking mass of meat stomps onto the treadmill next to me. Which is lame. Because literally EVERY SINGLE TREADMILL IS OPEN, except for the one I'm on, so WHY? But maybe Captain Beef wanted to feel less alone in the world/gym, and who am I to judge? So about 3 minutes go by before the bizarre, feral, rhythmic grunting starts to really just get to me. What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Do you need to use my inhaler? And then the stench hit me. This man/apeman smelled like a garbage bag full of sweat, balls, and chicken soup - it was that top note that really just made me sort of gag a little. So I soldiered on for a good 4 more minutes before I just couldn't do it (running with your head completely turned sideways and trying not to breathe in through your nose is HARD). But I'm not heartless and for some reason I didn't want the missing link to NOTICE I was bailing on him and his carnival of aromas and song, so I went and did some situps for a minute, and then went to a different treadmill. Very, very far away from Mr. Fetid Sweatspray. And huzzah, friends! Not 30 seconds elapsed before my meaty companion had rejoined me, hopping onto the treadmill right next to me, grunting and stomping away as though he hadn't just had to stop his flailing and walk 50 feet to start all over again. So I left. Defeated. And kind of nauseated. Chicken soup and balls, everybody. Drink it in.
Hey...as a man of ballsy top-notes myself, I have to say, I find myself strangely drawn to you as well.
Posted by: peaches | 2008.09.05 at 15:54