I’ve been hitting the gym here in New Mexico. It’s intimidating.
The massive sweaty bodies, tattoos, piercings, anti-Trump tee-shirts, and bulging muscles are pretty damn scary-looking.
And that’s just the women.
The place is full of women in skin-tight yoga suits that look sprayed on. Hips, bones, boobs, and bombshell backsides seem to be the rule. I’ve never seen such women. We didden have women like this when I was young. If we did, they would have been on “WANTED” posters, or Big 80’s record-album covers.
At the gym, practically all the machines and heavy weights are “taken,” by the women. Men—it seems—are restricted to sitting on certain other machines, or standing around talking. High-fiving. Bragging. Making threats. Stuff like that.
There’s this one woman who is older than she looks. I think she’s about 43, but from behind she appears to be about 23.
I will swear that when she walks there’s music. I hear symphonies. Or sometimes James Bond themes by the London Philhamonic.
There’s this tiny, sweet, little babe who works out heavy and bad on the big machines. She wears the regulation S&M yoga suit which goes up her butt and highlights her thong. I don’t know how they can stand those thongs up their butt.
Anyways, she’s perfectly coiffed, smells great, is fully powdered, and wears these long eyelashes.
Actually, she might be a boy. I dunno.
These days, some of them could be former boys. (Can I say that?) Or former women?
Since it no longer comes down to how many X or Y chromosomes one has—these days, one must be careful. One must use the right words to describe them—or thems?
One must be more careful-er.
Facebook lists 58 choices of sexually-oriented pronouns “officially” chosen As usable.
What the hell is a pronoun?
Another thing. I never really noticed the mons, before. You know, that structure at the bottom of their front? The so-called, “camel toe,” or whatever?
The new outfits really seem to show those babies off. I never noticed them before—at the gym—because the older outfits did what they could to hide those. Now they’re all the rage.
But women don’t want them “grabbed.” Because of something Trump supposedly once said. So I never would touch them, and nobody else should either. Don’t grab those. Or ever touch them. Or pet them. Or stroke them. Or anything else.
“Nobody zey better not grab thees Pussy. Thees Pussy she bite.”
“Je vais te manger à mort mon ami.”
Oh. And forget about maybe getting a date with a New Mexico woman. Unless you’re a full-scream Liberal, and voting for Hillary, Beto, Liz, Biden, or one of those.
If you’re a guy, then you have to talk like a liberal, socialist—a “sensitive” woman. Or act like one.
If you’re a woman, or variant thereto, then you have to talk about the imprisonment, impeachment, or death of Donald Trump. That’s all the rage.
If they could—these wimmins—they would re-elect Obama.
New Mexico women are so liberal they still have 2016, “HILLARY” stickers, and, “I WANT OBAMACARE,” on their SUVs and F-150s.
A “Native” told me she felt the Muslims in Afghanistan were “just like” her. But the Jews aren’t.
A “Mexican” told me she often stops and talks to “homeless men, to get their ‘take.’” And that the USA should “let anybody in who wants to come in,” because, “then the world could be soooo nice.”
I know this nice WASP who told me Trump should be killed and eaten by wild horses.
I never met a New Mexico woman (except for you—and you know who you are) who did not think she was a psychic, saw dead people, was a drug addict, a white witch, or had been a tribal member in some past life.
New Mexico women are special.
But if you’re a conserv’ guy and you want a date with a woman, you will have to move.
Maybe to North Dakota.