February 22nd, 2008

An economy downsizing from the top wipes out a lot of useless human bullshit especially when a box of oatmeal, a quart of milk, and some cheese cost about the same as a new Rolex.

Say goodbye to personal trainers. I’ll miss them . A mixed cabal of economic geniuses and hustlers in custom-fitted cross trainers, personal trainers are hand carved trinkets of the great American Consciousness Con.

What’s that?

The Consciousness Con is a methodical extraction of way not enough money from idiots convinced the only way to remain physically on-call in case the Olympic tire swinging team needs a back-up, is to hire some happy-eyed clown in skin tight posing shorts; a wonderfully-in-shape genetic mutation to instruct you on how to do dumbbell curls, exercise easlily mastered in less time that it takes you to read this sentence.

A personal trainer means you’ve never so much as played dodgeball but suddenly yearn to look like all the other clones you’re surrounded by during your trudge through the low bid swill of predatory capitalism.

Hey dipshit. Remember when you hung by your hands from the rusty pipe of iron that held your battered swingset together? Were you doing the exercise correctly? Were your hands spaced far enough apart to work your abs and triceps? Were your wrists locked properly so you could swing back and forth and work your delts?

And how bout’ those thighs? Did you center yourself first then bend from your core as you leapt from the ridge of tattered roofing on the top of your ol’ man’s garage?

Did you ride a hundred miles on your bike today wrapped in spandex? Make sure you pay good money for the ski racing helmet that replicates to perfection the tapered head of the creature in “Alien etc.”. And stay hunched over those handlebars. Buy some driving gloves with no fingers. Cut wind resistance and permanently damage your urinary tract and the gizmo that gives you a stiffy by riding on a seat designed for men with vaginas.

I value my balls. They’ve been good friends. They snuggle themselves effortlessly into a tight pair of Wranglers. My Schwinn didn’t destroy the infrastructure of my underground network of sperm ducts and jizz valves so why should I ensure an overpriced, underweight, imported $2500 rip-off road bike to do it to me now?

Put your pants back on and take off that asinine helmet. Slip into a pair of P.F. Flyers and feel the uneven surface of the earth for a change. Take the cross trainers and shove em’ up Nikes corporate ass. And put the real pedals back on, the wide ones that surf the corners and feel as good as running boards do on a Harley.

Get off the fucking treadmill. You look ridiculous going nowhere, gazing at a supermarket parking lot through big pane glass windows. Go up and down some hills. If you live on the flattened game board named Nebraska, toss some hay into the loft, run through the corn, shovel some snow.

If you need to finance the Maserati payments for someone to show you how to pick up a barbell, you’ve unfortunately leapt from the flying tin can in the sky down into dangerous terrain from which only light years of psychotherapy can retrieve you from self imposed imprisonment.

May Charles Atlas have mercy on your sorry, stupid ass.

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