THIS IS THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE READ ABOUT GYM!!
if you catch your kid smoking cigarettes you can:
A) forbid him (always backfires) or B) make him smoke cigarettes all day until he pukes. So if you think your kid might be queer, bring him to a men’s locker room and make him look at all these disgusting naked men all day. After he sees 347 gross, saggy, sweaty, back-acne-infested, hair-clump-having naked dudes, there is no way he will want to be gay. This is the only way to un-gay him.
You do realize you can’t really “ungay” someone. But looking at old naked people is a great way to make young people vomit. I’ve noticed a major difference between the young and old. Young people are very picky about who they are friends with. There are all sorts of requirements. They have to be as “cool” as you. They have to dress a certain way. They have to have similar interests. For an old person to be friends with another old person, there is one requirement: you need to be alive.
Old people automatically have something in common with each other: the hatred of everything else. It’s a real bond. In my studies of the elderly, I’ve noticed they talk about their health like we talk about sports.
US:
“How ‘bout those Mets?”
“Terrible! No starting pitching.”
THEM:
“How ‘bout your bowels?”
“Irritable! Blood in my urine.”
But at least old nubs aren’t so damn competitive when it comes to stupid stuff. Young dudes are ridiculous.
Dudes playing ball at the gym HATE to lose. So they HATE me. Because I just don’t give a shit! I could lose all day. I’ve got other things going on in MY life.
They yell at me: “Why don’t you hustle? Why don’t you run? Why don’t you jump?”
“Why don’t you get a girlfriend?!!”
Sh!t, I play just to MAKE them lose. I hate those bastards. It’s not all about winning. It’s about killing time.
When I play basketball, I play LAZY MAN’S BASKETBALL. We got rules. No running. No jumping. Sweating is a foul.
You do realize you can’t really “ungay” someone. But looking at old naked people is a great way to make young people vomit. I’ve noticed a major difference between the young and old. Young people are very picky about who they are friends with. There are all sorts of requirements. They have to be as “cool” as you. They have to dress a certain way. They have to have similar interests. For an old person to be friends with another old person, there is one requirement: you need to be alive.
Old people automatically have something in common with each other: the hatred of everything else. It’s a real bond. In my studies of the elderly, I’ve noticed they talk about their health like we talk about sports.
US:
“How ‘bout those Mets?”
“Terrible! No starting pitching.”
THEM:
“How ‘bout your bowels?”
“Irritable! Blood in my urine.”
But at least old nubs aren’t so damn competitive when it comes to stupid stuff. Young dudes are ridiculous.
Dudes playing ball at the gym HATE to lose. So they HATE me. Because I just don’t give a shit! I could lose all day. I’ve got other things going on in MY life.
They yell at me: “Why don’t you hustle? Why don’t you run? Why don’t you jump?”
“Why don’t you get a girlfriend?!!”
Sh!t, I play just to MAKE them lose. I hate those bastards. It’s not all about winning. It’s about killing time.
When I play basketball, I play LAZY MAN’S BASKETBALL. We got rules. No running. No jumping. Sweating is a foul.
Whatever. Who the hell goes to the gym to exercise? I go because I love watching bims work out. “Lose that ass, girl! Sweat, baby!”
One time, I fell off the treadmill because a hot bim walked past in the other direction. Just WAP! Fell right off. It was so worth it though. Because now she's aware that I like her. And when my nose heals, I’m gonna talk to her. Okay, so I’m on a treadmill. There are 8 treadmills lined up side by side in front of a mirrored wall. All of the machines are in use. We’re all doing our thing. Then dude with headphones to my right starts singing in Spanish.
Um, what’s that about?
Then, dude to my left starts rockin’ out, “♫ CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON! THERE’LL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DONE! ♫"
Uh, what the fuddruckers?
Then this old lady belts out, “♫ PEOPLE, PEOPLE WHO NEED PEOPLE ARE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE…”
One time, I fell off the treadmill because a hot bim walked past in the other direction. Just WAP! Fell right off. It was so worth it though. Because now she's aware that I like her. And when my nose heals, I’m gonna talk to her. Okay, so I’m on a treadmill. There are 8 treadmills lined up side by side in front of a mirrored wall. All of the machines are in use. We’re all doing our thing. Then dude with headphones to my right starts singing in Spanish.
Um, what’s that about?
Then, dude to my left starts rockin’ out, “♫ CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON! THERE’LL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DONE! ♫"
Uh, what the fuddruckers?
Then this old lady belts out, “♫ PEOPLE, PEOPLE WHO NEED PEOPLE ARE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE…”
They were really getting into it too! Waving their arms like a conductor… dude was playing air guitar while running on the treadmill… old lady making strained faces in the mirror like she was trying to pass a watermelon through her ass.
What the hell is going on here?! SHUT UP!! Running was easy. Listening to Streisand combined with Classic Rock and Spanish music was making me sweat. Then. Finally. My evil looks must have paid off.
They shut up.
What the hell is going on here?! SHUT UP!! Running was easy. Listening to Streisand combined with Classic Rock and Spanish music was making me sweat. Then. Finally. My evil looks must have paid off.
They shut up.
Copious, delicious silence. A deep, fresh breath of quiet air in my lungs.
“♫ CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON!!! THERE’LL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DONE!!! ♫"
“♫ PEOPLE, PEOPLE WHO NEED PEOPLE ARE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE… ♫”
“♫ HOY HE VUELTO A CAER, NO PUEDO SOPORTAR, LAS FOTOS DEL AYER!! ♫”
They won. I left. They high-fived each other. Then one of their buddies showed up to take my place. Those bastards!
My breast experience was when this bim in the gym was bouncing on the treadmill in a sports bra. No t-shirt, just the sports bra. Her huge natty hooters were JIGGLING! Overflowing. I never ran so fast in my life. It was like her face-pillows were a carrot-on-a-stick in front of me. I imagine that’s how marathon runners do it. It’s the secret of how the Kenyans win every year. They imagine they are running in pursuit of the biggest, softest face-pillows ever. And they only have 2 hours to get to them. 26 miles doesn’t seem like so far to run when hooters are involved.
But N.E. WAY, I was staring at her bouncing bra-bubbles in the mirror. Some nubs try to be slick. They get a quick glimpse. Get in. Get out. Like a criminal. But my mental photography doesn’t last that long. I need a prolonged, lascivious stare. Sometimes I stare so hard my cornea will pop out of my eye socket.
I don’t know, it’s like I’m cheating off her breasts on a Math test. I got a lot of answers but I just want one more peek!!
NOTE: Since this story has been published, my gym membership has been revoked. I’m not sure why. Something about how I offended their gay, female, and senior members. How was I supposed to know the manager of the health club was a lesbian named Mildred?!
“♫ CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SON!!! THERE’LL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DONE!!! ♫"
“♫ PEOPLE, PEOPLE WHO NEED PEOPLE ARE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE… ♫”
“♫ HOY HE VUELTO A CAER, NO PUEDO SOPORTAR, LAS FOTOS DEL AYER!! ♫”
They won. I left. They high-fived each other. Then one of their buddies showed up to take my place. Those bastards!
My breast experience was when this bim in the gym was bouncing on the treadmill in a sports bra. No t-shirt, just the sports bra. Her huge natty hooters were JIGGLING! Overflowing. I never ran so fast in my life. It was like her face-pillows were a carrot-on-a-stick in front of me. I imagine that’s how marathon runners do it. It’s the secret of how the Kenyans win every year. They imagine they are running in pursuit of the biggest, softest face-pillows ever. And they only have 2 hours to get to them. 26 miles doesn’t seem like so far to run when hooters are involved.
But N.E. WAY, I was staring at her bouncing bra-bubbles in the mirror. Some nubs try to be slick. They get a quick glimpse. Get in. Get out. Like a criminal. But my mental photography doesn’t last that long. I need a prolonged, lascivious stare. Sometimes I stare so hard my cornea will pop out of my eye socket.
I don’t know, it’s like I’m cheating off her breasts on a Math test. I got a lot of answers but I just want one more peek!!
NOTE: Since this story has been published, my gym membership has been revoked. I’m not sure why. Something about how I offended their gay, female, and senior members. How was I supposed to know the manager of the health club was a lesbian named Mildred?!
hahahahahahahaha
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