Mom’s the Word

It is no secret that I take great pleasure out of disliking quite a few of the people at my gym. At least it’s not a secret here, on my site, where they don’t know my dislike has found a voice. It is, however, a secret at the gym, because I do not voice my dislike while there. I am not rude to those I find distasteful. I just silently wish them dramatic deaths, not unlike those telepathically imposed by Carrie on her prom-going classmates and high school authority figures.
Quite a few of the people who have earned my dislike are women. Not that the men haven’t earned their fair share. One need only go through my archives to find evidence, including a lovely piece I wrote about a charming fellow named Joe. However, the women are often the objects of my scorn, just because I see oh so much more of them. And here you must envision a locker-room full of predominantly naked women in various states of bending-over-ness, tits swinging like grandfather clock pendulums, tangled bushes being blown dry to a fluffiness not unlike a Himalayan cat, ass-portals winking knowingly to let me know they know it’s all just a big joke, really, don’t you know.
So. The women. The “ladies”. Not only do they not know how to go about being undressed at the gym post-workout, they also don’t know how to dress while there during their workout. (I use the term “workout” loosely. I could tell you stories. And maybe one day I will.) I won’t go into excruciating detail about gym attire (again, that’s a story for another day), but suffice it to say that short shorts have no place anywhere, especially at the gym, where the possibility exists for “crotch foliage” (a term of my mother’s creation) to find its way out like errant ivy. That alone leaves me with no choice but to despise these people.
However, some days I think, of the older women, who are frequently the worst offenders, Hey, she’s someone’s mom. I shouldn’t be hating someone’s mom. What if that was my mom? And then I realize those women could never be my mom. After all, my mom would never do what these women do. My mom is a modest mom. No prude, no, but one who would not be so overtly nude and for such a long period of time. And certainly not while bent over, pendulating or fluffing or winking.
This leads me to think, Where are these women’s daughters? Are they not monitoring their moms the way they should? I mean, as cool and groovy and wonderful as my own mom is, and as much as she generally dresses herself quite well, even she needs a little help from time to time. Quite a few times, in fact, while shopping, I’ve had to dash across a store to save her from even daring to look at something so incredibly hideous that even her mother, my darling Bubby, a tiny quiet lady with a penchant for big loud prints, would reject with full-fledged Russian disgust.
“You need supervision!” I say in such instances. “You are not to be trusted!” And then my mom realizes I’m right, blames her own mother, and I run away to a clearance rack to sob inconsolably at the fate of genetics.
So, girls, take a tip from me, and monitor your moms before you set them free into the world. I don’t want to hate your moms. I really don’t. And if you love your moms, you won’t want me hating them.
I just couldn’t keep quiet about it any longer. So help me spread the word! (And tell your mom not to spread her legs like that. Thanks.)