Women’s jogging groups. Really what on earth is the point in that, if not just to bug the living bejesus out of me? I can’t begin to imagine.
Girls don’t jog in England. They sit on couches eating deep-fried Mars bars belching out God Save the Queen like all good ladettes.
They have far better things to do with their time. Like get pregnant and start fights on the top deck of buses.
They do not swarth their frames in techno-lycra and pound the sidewalks, tutting loudly if you dare to walk along one.
The cunty jogging fiends expect pedestrians to part like waves for them as they thunder through, don’t you mere mortals realise that they have somewhere really important to be?
Oh, that’s right. They don’t. They do this for their own pleasure.
I think I might actually buy it if they really did look like they were having fun. But all these perfect non-fat latte girls with their Coach handbags just look so miserable. They toss their 300 haircuts and they look like they want to die.
I’d rather have my bottom and the ability to take the piss out of myself anyday.
Give me by pot belly and a lifetime of hilarity please. I wouldn’t swap these crow’s feet for the world and you can keep your perfectly manicured hands off my laughter lines, thankyouverymuch.
I think I have to get out of Vancouver and stop doing the job I do before the pleasantly cynical old lady that lives in the basement suite of my soul gets ideas above her station and starts demanding more.
So ladies, go for it. Next time I’m selfishly blocking a pavement with my damn curvy arse, feel free to elbow me out the way.
I shan’t be following you. I’m going my way.