Jerry Springer came on, no sound, two feet from my face at the gym. Dumb show, but I didn't want to look around at the sadsacks there with me, nor did I wish to hole up inside my thoughts. That's why I'm there pumping senselessly anyway -- not to get a killer bod, but to get AWAY from a killer brain. So I watched two white floozies take off their heels and attack flailingly, sometimes pulling up their sundress so no boobies come all the way out. Then the half-black nerd comes out and appeared to not want either of them, and so they went after him. Jerry looked embarrassed. All the players were lame except the bodyguards. They seemed so sincere, so unflappable. They simply stood between the fighters. They did not appear concerned that they could be hurt. They were so tall with no flab or hair or jewelry for anyone to get ahold of, so what did they need fear anyway? No facial expression. How silly was anyone else in comparison. The bodyguard is the axis of all action. Action is so senseless in comparison to none. I know that's the opposite of all I wrote before. I changed my mind.