My wife got me a Peloton bike for our family for my 44th birthday because stay at home dads can be trophy wives, with the slamming, tight pods to match to.
Today, my only complaint from my Peloton workout was way too much Billy Joel music during the 45-minute classic rock work session. Although, I realized the lyric, “You Catholic girls start much too late”, is about a member of my tribe, Billy Joel being very pushy Jewy about shaming a Catholic girl into losing her virginity with a pop crooner who can eat her out erect to get the party started. Also, let’s be honest, Only The Good Die Young isn’t an indoor cycling rocker and still sounds like lullaby music for eighties Republicans.
It’s impossible to not sexualize your Pelton cycling pushing trainer, especially when you’re a stay at home slut in a straight jacket dad, especially when she shares the fact how when she attended Syracuse university, she was never bothered by the 20 degree weather because she was full of hot cum. Hey, you want authentic Lord, you got it.
When my trainer mentioned her annoying mom busting her balls about not wearing enough sun tan lotion during her 2 week break in Florida, it was obvious, her mom was a yenta breath from Long Island, who was worried about her daughter getting her stomach full of cum pumped like the time in Cancun again, or maybe it’s just me.
There’s no way A Rod can really be in love with J Lo. She has zero tits, looks boyish with her hair put up in a bin and so needy for attention, she has to bang a stripper pole during the Super Bowl and put her own kids in fake news cages, just so Ben Affleck would drunk dial her again for old times sake.
But seriously, how miserable would you be married to J Lo? Could Jenny ride your joystick out of its socket? Is A Rod the Caramel Macchiato of MLB broadcasters? Still, J Lo first thing in the morning with no makeup on, is Rosie Perez from White Men Can’t Jump, minus the tits, demanding, “When I want a glass of Rose Water A Rod, it means, rose water infused water from Mount Fuji airmailed to my doorstep every morning because my hips don’t lie, which is more than I can say for that teenage looking boy body, Shakira, I refused to open for on Superbowl Sunday. You do realize I got paid 20 mill to play a maid in Manhattan, for the privilege of making out with Ralph Fiennes. You banged a tore up Cameron Diaz on the down low and Kate Hudson to get closer to his mother, but you’re no Kurt Russell dear. You’re receding hairline can’t compete. So, get me my fucking airlifted Fuji Rose Water already before I start auditioning new backup dancers, for my tag team Blond on Brown tour with Madonna, you pretty boy faggot, I don’t care how big your dick is. You don’t think Puff made my beat box swell up bigger? Now, show me a power surge like when Kate Hudson was your lucky Penny Lane, bringing your A Rod to life during the post season for a change, when you ripped the ball out it’s seams in the World Series against the Phillies in 09, bun cakes.
Howard Stern insists, “I’m all in on Joe Biden”, because he can’t deal with Trump being a wealthier New York legend, whose bedded more beautiful looking woman, more beloved than his dumb fuck, asshole audience and twice as funny cutting off the cuff, without ever being as flailing desperate to kiss the gap toothed hick from Indiana on his old show come rain or shine.
Anyone who admits to watching a documentary on racism in front a known Trump supporter, is being a passive aggressive joy kill because they’re the real white supremacist for thinking any Caucasian supporter of still your president is beneath them but not above their insufferable contempt.
Note to self, never send any of your kids to Middlebury College in Vermont because they promote riots on Instagram that broke out because the conservative author speaker there dared to call James Baldwin uppity boring and vastly overrated.