Friday, February 18, 2005

Who Has Mind Bleach? Anyone?

I have a question.

How does one not know when their butt crack is hanging out? Seriously, how do you not know this? How how how do you not feel the breeze gently carressing your butt cheeks?

And if you do feel the air on your butt and you know you're traumatizing people with the sight of your crack and you don't bother to hike up your pants but instead let them to continue to fall further and further, exposing several of us to ever-growing vistas of your butt, then you deserve to go to hell and be subjected to looking at hairy butts for all eternity. Especially if your butt is not at all attractive.

I am still in shock.

This message brought to you by the trauma inflicted on me by the 60-ish dude at the gym wearing the teal and purple shorts circa 1980 and probably manufactured by Ocean Pacific. He was on the treadmill, doing the most ineffective workout ever: resting his arms on the rail and letting his legs just be carried along by the belt. That in itself would bug me, because why would someone cheat themselves like that? Why bother going to the gym at all if you're just going to flail about and not burn any calories? If I'm going to do that, I'd be more inclined to just stay home and do nothing.

But no, the worst part was the butt. The Hairy, Ugly Butt. As he flailed, his shorts dropped. And dropped, and dropped. I saw like, 4 inches of his butt at the maximum shorts droppage level. And I willed my eyes to stay on the TV. "Keep watching Ellen. Keep watching Ellen. Keep...oh jesus! That butt! No! Mustn't look! Abort! Abort! Back to Ellen!"

I want my mommy.