Friday afternoon: it's hottt as the blazes, but I'm determined to run around the ol' track-and-field for some American-style exercisin'.

So I'm running - listening to somes tuuunes on my portable Compact Disc Player (TM) - and yes, it is very, very hot. I take off my shirt to cool down. Hot shit!

As I turn the corner of the track, I sees me a car - on the other end of the track, outside of the fence. And wouldn't you know? That sonuvabitch is slowin' down.

And it becomes clear to me that... yes, this automobile is goin' tortoise because the driver and passengers want to catch a glimpse of the fast-action Paul-bod. Hot-blooded teenage girls dropping the speedometer to 10mph, so they can witness a well-oiled machine in action. These voyueristic-girly-girls know one thing for sure: you can't experience biological perfection when you're goin' 35 in a 25.

And I'm thinkin'... that's right. I maybe scrawny - a body of bones and wires, but some girls - some foxes - dig this sweetness. This is a skinny-boy revolution. "Bones painted the color of skin" is the new Pumping Iron. Shoulder-blades and rib-cages are the founding blocks of Ladies-in-the-Mood Headquarters.

Up ahead, outside the fence, I see that despite its inconceivable slowness, the Teenage-Girl-Mobile is steadily reachin' its stop-sign (and consequently, their departure from the track). So I speed up my runnin'. I want them to get one close look at a masterpiece before the state's driving laws force them away. I owe that much to him. Besides the faster I run, the more I sweat - and damn, these foxes are thirsty.

Sweat and stench and spit and skin. American Hotness, not Old and Busted.

But then... I see...

The car is being driven by an elderly, married couple.

You see, old people drive slower, so they don't get in accidents and die.

I turn my head, wipe the sweat from my brow, and finish my laps.