torquer
09-11-2008, 10:23 AM
First, the cycling content:
Current issue has a "Letter from Beijing" offering a view of the Olympics quite different from that on NBC; rag-tag armies of "volunteers" policing off-limit sites, clueless spectators with free tickets to obscure sports, local roadside chess players being pressured (without much success) to wrap up their game because the men's road race was about to zoom past. Good example of how most of the world probably "experiences" our sport.
Other cycling content: aboard the flight from the US with the track riders who would make headlines with their masks, the pilot announced that the women's softball team wished "Good luck to the men in tights." Were they flirting or mocking?
Sadly, this article isn't available online, so you'll have to either part with your $4.50 or hang out at the nearest Barnes & Noble. But another (OT) article is available online:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2008/09/15/080915sh_shouts_rudnick
It's "The Lord Bod", a first-person account of a woman who opens a Christian gym (named "Jesus Christ You're Fat") because, well...
We used to go to a secular gym, which was, as my mom puts it, “hoo-ha central.” The most popular spandex colors for obvious adulterers, she claimed, were electric orange, aqua, and something she called “my-kids-are-in-day-care-so-come-and-get-me” fleshtone. One morning, she glanced at a blonde in a skimpy unitard and commented, “That woman looks like a pair of panty hose packed with spermicide-flavored Jell-O.”
As for the men at the gym, well, I tried not to look, but sometimes it was like a tsunami of Speedos bulging right at me. “You know what’s inside those banana hammocks?” Mom would warn me. “I call ’em Satan’s potatoes.” Sometimes a man would come over and ask me if I needed help with my workout, and Mom would jump right in and say, “Sure, if we can help you get reborn in the Holy Spirit and stop adjusting your harvest medley.” My mom said that she could always tell which of the guys were homosexuals, because “they’re always friendly, but the minute you turn your back they’re having sex with one of the machines. It’s called Pilates.”
The (fictional, of course) gym is located in Orlando, but I couldn't help thinking a certain Alaskan fitness buff currently in the news would feel right at home there. ;)
Current issue has a "Letter from Beijing" offering a view of the Olympics quite different from that on NBC; rag-tag armies of "volunteers" policing off-limit sites, clueless spectators with free tickets to obscure sports, local roadside chess players being pressured (without much success) to wrap up their game because the men's road race was about to zoom past. Good example of how most of the world probably "experiences" our sport.
Other cycling content: aboard the flight from the US with the track riders who would make headlines with their masks, the pilot announced that the women's softball team wished "Good luck to the men in tights." Were they flirting or mocking?
Sadly, this article isn't available online, so you'll have to either part with your $4.50 or hang out at the nearest Barnes & Noble. But another (OT) article is available online:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2008/09/15/080915sh_shouts_rudnick
It's "The Lord Bod", a first-person account of a woman who opens a Christian gym (named "Jesus Christ You're Fat") because, well...
We used to go to a secular gym, which was, as my mom puts it, “hoo-ha central.” The most popular spandex colors for obvious adulterers, she claimed, were electric orange, aqua, and something she called “my-kids-are-in-day-care-so-come-and-get-me” fleshtone. One morning, she glanced at a blonde in a skimpy unitard and commented, “That woman looks like a pair of panty hose packed with spermicide-flavored Jell-O.”
As for the men at the gym, well, I tried not to look, but sometimes it was like a tsunami of Speedos bulging right at me. “You know what’s inside those banana hammocks?” Mom would warn me. “I call ’em Satan’s potatoes.” Sometimes a man would come over and ask me if I needed help with my workout, and Mom would jump right in and say, “Sure, if we can help you get reborn in the Holy Spirit and stop adjusting your harvest medley.” My mom said that she could always tell which of the guys were homosexuals, because “they’re always friendly, but the minute you turn your back they’re having sex with one of the machines. It’s called Pilates.”
The (fictional, of course) gym is located in Orlando, but I couldn't help thinking a certain Alaskan fitness buff currently in the news would feel right at home there. ;)