"I know!" chirps teamliquid.net's token female, "I can't even go to the gym anymore without feeling the humid stares of a bunch of creepy men picturing me naked, picturing themselves naked, and my sister, also naked, all together in a seedy hotelroom + Show Spoiler +
talking about how much we all love ultimate frisbee!"
"NO!" says I and, "gasp!" says you, because try as I might to feel your pain, I don't think you fully appreciate what you're asking for!
I looked for 20 minutes for a picture of attractive women on treadmills, but I couldn't
find a single one that was pg-13 so here's a picture of a cow's ass
First of all, let me make it very clear, as you all knew I would, that I am not a chauvinist pig. Now that I've said that, there is no way you can misinterpret my continued insights as anything but logical trains of thought full of reason, good sense and infallible slipfondling. + Show Spoiler +
If the OP calls non-bias you can't question him, it's the rules. I didn't make them up, but if I did I would have put in a footnote about proper broomstick care.
It's a euphemism for objectiveness and rationality, look it up.
That having been said, as it had to, I must follow with this true fact: it's a right pain in the rear to be a good guy in this day and age, mate, because the good book of feminism (also known as "somewhere" because that's where people always seem to read all the bullshit they rape your ears with) states that a good guy may never take advantage of a woman in any way, sees women as human beings with feelings and intelligence rather than objects of lustful sins of the flesh of the t and the a, and if he accidentally does slip up he is to feel very, very bad about himself!
It sounds reasonable enough, but the fine print is really asking alot.
Do you remember what this blog was supposed to be about? Something about tight hotpants and advanced jigglephys- the gym, right-right-right, I was just messing around, heh, so anyway I was standing on one of those crosstrainers when I realized it was friday and, uh...
Not significant at all to the story
Actually before I tell you about that, have you noticed, if you're a city-dweller, how the train or busride home from work is extra pretty on fridays? That's when all the women dress themselves in their best and paint their faces to look like somebody they're not in the hope of going to a club and completely ignore my advances, telling me it's "just me and my hand tonight" and that they don't want men (which up until this point may have had a shred of self-confidence left) ruining their good time.
So you -that is to say, me- go home after a long, hard day's work and you'll be pretending you don't see all the short skirts and full blouses, see-through tops and skin-tight jeans, and you'll realize just how hard it is to type with one hand.
Getting back to the gym, I was standing on of those crosstrainers. There's a picture of one a few paragraphs up. Did you see the picture? My mom has one just like that.
Getting back to the gym, I was standing, as you should know by now, on one of those crosstrainers, when I realized it was friday, and that most of the beautiful women I usually see on the train seemed to all have collectively gotten it into their heads that their thighs were a half of a quarter of a ridiculously small measurement larger than last week or something and decided it was time to get onto a treadmill in front of me at the local gym and flex their buttcheeks.
Five minutes of pleasure, five hours of tear-choked gasping for air on the treadmill
Is it sexist of me to assume women imagine they're fatter than they are? Because I imagine I'm fatter than I am all the time. At least I hope I do.
As four or five of what must have been Stockholm's most fit women were running on treadmills in front of me, I, being a gentleman (that is to say, pussywhipped), decided I couldn't look. I mean, I'm pretty sure I read somewhere or heard it on a show somewhere, or something, that when women go to the gym they don't want to be ogled. Least not by me.
Right, there was that commercial in What Women Want starring Mel Gibson where the sum of what he had learned about women boiled down to the fact that they don't want to be bothered when they're exercising. I hear he's a loony now.
So the longer I stared at the monitors up on the wall the more aware I became that I had seen that particular episode of The Simpsons before. I also realized that while doing something you don't want to do (such as going to the gym) is hard, not doing something you want to do is also hard.
I mean, I could tell myself that there were plenty of breasts on the internet, and that most of those breasts probably came with a body including an ass that at the very least closely rivaled the ones that were present at the time right there in front of me, and by God I did! Over and over. But in the perifery of my vision there were breasts that surely had to have been larger than my own head, bouncing up and down like abnormally big and fiercely territorial spidermonkeys inside one of what must have been a long line of tank tops that had all been fighting a losing battle ever since their owner entered puberty!
tl;dr: there were large boobs on display. Hurr!
I realize you must feel ogled when you go to the gym, teamliquid.net's token female, and I suppose it must be a chore to always have to wonder if someone is staring whenever you stretch your creamy, tanned thighs, but please consider how hard it is for you to not savagely gorge yourself on chocolate, delicious chocolate, whenever it is available. Then you might have an idea about how hard it is for single men not to look at your ass when you work out. It's not fun for us either.
+ Show Spoiler [Disclaimer] +
Most of this blog was purely intended for cheap laughs.
+ Show Spoiler +
+ Show Spoiler +
Here's a picture of a hamster in a toy car