Monday, January 17, 2005

Pat the Magic Stripper

The owner of my gym is, as Fiddy would say, a motherfuckin’ P-I-M-P.

In my estimation, Pat has done himself pretty well. He successfully launched a risky fitness business that tailors itself to the beautiful people inhabiting one of the richest areas of the country, while spinning himself into a local legend in the process.

And he has the hottest ass I have ever seen. Let me tell you, I might be a virgin for life, but my blues have appraised a lot of hot asses in the last 22 years.

Pat’s puts them all to shame. His ass is a technical knockout of every ass that has ever been.

Pat was born in Australia. Moved to New York. Somehow ended up in our little corner of the Midwest as a tweener. Ditched his crack-addict mother. Was homeless. Joined a gang. Witnessed the death of a friend in a drug-related shooting. Quit aforementioned gang. Straightened punk ass out. Enrolled in prestigious art school to study dance. Dropped out of aforementioned prestigious art school. Learned how to box. Became sweet at boxing. Became a professional boxer. Had undefeated record as professional boxer. Retired to nurture his aforementioned humble little gym into the best place in town for rich bitches to mold their Buddha bellies into six-pack abs so firm that Anna Kournikova would weep with jealousy.

This is what the articles plastering the walls of the gym claim, anyway. If I found out that Pat was a near-sighted pastor’s son who grew up playing competitive kickball in suburban Cleveland, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least.

Well, maybe I’d be a little shocked. Only because, in getting the gym's other instructors to divulge the goss' as only Meg knows how, we have learned that Pat dabbled in exotic dancing.

If what one does when he becomes notorious around the stripping circuit can be labeled as dabbling, that is.

Pat is a two-time champion stripper.

At one point in time, Pat was the reigning Mr. Goldcoast or Mr. Goldcock or Mr. GoldAssToDieFor. Whatever. Mister and Gold were definitely embroidered on his sash.

Yes, boys and girls, there are stripping competitions. And if I ever get up the nerve, I’m going to ask Pat if stripping competition has judging controversies like in figure skating and gymnastics and poetry slams.

Until then, I’ll let Pat concentrate on what he’s good at – sculpting the bodies of the beautiful people while masking the pain with techno music and disco lights.

And I’ll focus my energy on staring at his championship ass.


Constance said...

If it's that good it ought to be on a poster!

Plantation said...

OK. Help me out here. I"m confused. Are you gonna wait 'till you get married? This post would indicate no.

A said...

I'm not particularly waiting for anything. Up to this point, situation (or lack thereof) has dictated circumstance, I suppose.

paige said...

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