Why I Hate Exercise

I was in the locker room at the gym just now, putting away my clothes, when a woman came over and opened one of the lockers in the upper bank next to me. The door promptly fell off its hinge, nearly squashing her.

"See that?" I said. "Exercise is bad for you."

"Actually, if I hadn't been working out so much, it would have fallen on me," she said. And then she applied stupid little weight-lifting gloves to her stupid little paws and toodled out into the gym in a high odor of sanctity.

This is my problem with exercise, and it's the same one I have with the Grateful Dead and Jesus: I can't stand the fans.

News of the Obvious

I just received the following text from a friend:

"Just got called a fag on 17th steet and 8th ave."

For those of you who don't live in New York, this is one of the gayest streets in America, for sure. Storefronts all along the street are filled with pictures of naked oiled men holding lubricants. Seriously, the local deli has a poster up of a dude in tightie whities. It appears to be advertising sandwiches. There's a connection somewhere, but I couldn't tell you what it is.

I feel that the only appropriate response in my friend's position would be to say, "Doy."