Friday, February 01, 2008

Lycra

I'm back! No – I didn't run away to join the circus. Realise that a skill is probably required, and I'm scared of heights, and don't think being the Incredible Shopping Woman would be much of a draw-card.

Oh – about the missing penis. Should point out here that bike-shorts are not for everyone. While riding a bike is a very good form of exercise, I am not convinced that full racing gear is necessary (or appealing) apparel for non-athletes.

Mrs L and I were sitting, having a glass of wine on her verandah, escaping from the furnace blast of the afternoon sun, when Mr D rolled up on his bicycle (must come up with a better system for naming people. Think I might now have multiple Mr Ds). He was wearing an ensemble fit for a fatties version of the Tour de France. Tour de Fattie ha ha! He looked very surprised by my presence, I by his penis' absence. I could not stop staring at his groin.

The tight lycra pants had smeared his genitals into a flat, barely undulating mass like a hot knife on beurre. He had – dare I say it – a camel toe. Did you know that men could get camel toes? I didn't. Amazing. Perhaps the circus has a position available for the Incredible Camel Toe Man.

He stopped long enough for a beer, then cycled off again. I thought little of it (apart from pondering his smeared penis), until the same thing happened again yesterday. Given that he has been 'cycling' for some time now, without any discernable difference to his girth, I suspect these bike rides are much shorter than he is telling his wife. Indeed, for various reasons, I strongly suspect his two-hour bike rides take him no further than once around the block, with a prolonged pause for aerobic activity of a different type.

By the way – the herd of Hollywood types that rushed through our diminutive isles over the last month caused a nauseating amount of activity on the social front. The number of people who suddenly decided to dash off to Waiheke in hopes of bagging a Charlize Theron or a Jack Nicholson was embarrassing. When members of the herd were spotted in the Coromandel, or at the car races, the hunters swung their sights that way with remarkable alacrity.

I have no interest in famous sorts… I have met heaps, and the most I can say about them is that they are A. very short. B. fairly dull. C. have surprisingly bad skin. My cleaner could be thus described, and I wouldn't rush off anywhere to see her.

4 comments:

Fritz said...

I had no idea people actually looked unless things are especially obvious. I'll have to give that some thought. Maybe Mr. D needs some red bike shorts.

vdog said...

Not that I'm defending his lack of obvious genitalia, but those bike shorts have fairly hefty padding in them that does have a tendency to mask what's there and generate a bit of a cameltoe... Also, if you didn't notice the rear: they can make a person look and walk like they've soiled themselves. Hilarious as long as you're not the person wearing them. =)

Lita said...

How does your short cleaner reach the dusty bits up high? No wonder her skin is ugh.

Mrs Smith said...

My goodness, Fritz, I praise the Lord Mr D's were black.

I recall fondly a man I once had a small crush on - once I saw him in bike shorts, it turned to unadulterated love, so think bike shorts are only cruel to those with little to flaunt. Although - he was in the pre-bike phase. Perhaps if I had seen him after his ride I wouldn't have been so impressed.