Blame It On the Fries

So I'm at the gym, killing myself on the elliptical trainer, checking calories burned, damning those French fries to hell and back.
Work out for an hour just to burn off that generous scoop of hot salty fries that appeared next to the sandwich I ordered at a dinky diner in Fairfield? Nope, never again. Not worth it. Last weeks tasty treat is this weeks abomination of stinkin' fat.
Headphones in place, Latin Dance Club pumping, I'm breaking February in hard. No one wants to hit the trail fat and weak. Let the pain begin.

Suddenly I hold my breath. The stench is worse than a skunk's worst discharge while sitting in a pile raw manure.
There's only one guy in the row ahead. Really? Really, you're going to act like you don't smell that?He's cute, strong and working out like a fiend. He's also plugged in to head phones and making out like the air quality didn't just drop to fatal levels.
I keep working out. Maybe the dude's eating lots of veggies. Broccoli will do that to you, or cabbage.

Eventually the odor dissipates and I can raise my nose from the fan venting on my face. Holy guacamole, within ten minutes another ballast shoots my way. I frowned. He didn't look like a broccoli kind of guy. In fact, I bet he plays football and hangs at the bar. I'm going to blame his trouble on Fries, too.

Maybe that's why all these machines at the gym have fans, aimed right at your face.