SCRAWNY OLD PUNK GUYS AT THE GYM RULE. I love watching them bop around, gettin' their pump on. You can spot 'em a mile away because they definitely stand out from the gorilla juiceheads. They have blurry leg tats, ratty sneakers, and thin, worn band t-shirts riddled with holes near the collar and armpits.
Their Umbro shorts are like flour: all-purpose. They're probably the same shorts that they shuffle around the house in, sleep in, and run their Sunday errands in. Now, they're being re-purposed as their workout shorts and you can tell that they're having trouble with this new assignment because they seem like they're struggling just trying to stay up around his hips. I could probably tug 'em off pretty easily with only my pinky toe.
Scrawny old punk guys are all skinny but with a bit of a beer belly that they're trying to get rid of and they're all around the place: You can see 'em huffing and puffing on the treadmill. They're contorting their faces at the shoulder press machine. They're stretching out on the mat with crummy, blown out socks that slouch around their ankles like tiny yarn hula hoops.
I'm not sure what kind of music they get stoked to on their iPods, but if I had to bet money on it, I'd bet that they were listening to old skool albums by Minor Threat, Converge, Unbroken, and/or Snapcase. At least, I hope they are.
The only problem with scrawny old punks at the gym is that they never notice me checking them out. They are totally oblivious. And, I wouldn't dream of striking up conversation with one. They're a skittish sort anyway, add some sweaty cotton clothes to the mix, and it's a disaster. I just have to stand back and watch 'em do their thing, like they're koalas gnawing on eucalyptus at the zoo. It's for the best.