Any Day At The Deerfield B.T.F.

To the young, snot-nosed punk letting the weight plates slam on every machine,
don’t say, “Kid, keep doing that, you’re gonna break one of those.”

Say, with a smile, “Yo, dude. I think you’re stronger than that machine.”

At the gym, this gym, the pulchritudinous people — these six foot plus tall, tanned, chiseled, perfectly haired, six-pack tummied Olympian Gods, or, the toned, just-the-right-size breasted, slender legged, perfectly assed, glowingly skinned, silkily haired Amazon Queens — they don’t look at you.

They only look at the other pulchritudinous people.

And the ugly, the elderly, or the plain lookers, they’re eyeballing everybody. They’re comparing and contrasting. Or, they’re tryin’ real hard not to. This bunch, most the time, they look pissed. Or just tired. Sweaty and tired.

The pulchritudinous people, you note, they’re all smiles. They’re pulchritudinous. They’re why the word exists. And they know it. And they know, you know it, too.

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