266. Owen was miffed
© Bruce Goodman 3 July 2014

Miffed is probably the word. Owen was miffed.

For three years he’d being going to the gym, almost daily. He’d do weights and… stuff. All those things they do in a gym. He had a body on him that some people would die for; biceps, triceps, six-pack and… stuff. All those things they get in muscles when they go to the gym.

Suddenly, his gym was in the newspapers and on television. Illegal steroids were rife. Anyone could get them. Everyone was offered them under the counter. Nearly everyone took them.

Three years! Almost daily! Owen would do weights and… stuff. And not once had he been offered steroids. Not that he’d take them, but… all he could think was what the hell’s wrong with me? Do they think I’m a wimp? Do they think I’m a puny little namby-pamby; a lily-livered momma’s boy? Don’t they know I’ve got biceps, triceps, a six-pack and… stuff? Haven’t I got pierced nipples and a tattooed arm with Polynesian patterns? What’s wrong with the studs in my navel and tongue? When I’m taking a communal shower, haven’t they seen the ring in my you-know-what?

Not only was Owen miffed that no one had offered him steroids, he was miffed that everyone who had been on steroids was a sort of secret village hero; kind of a dare-devil super-jock. Owen was a nothing, a nobody, a nonentity; zero, zilch, nought. He was a miffed unsteroided muscle-bound nonentity with a pierced you-know-what, a tattooed arm, nipple rings, and studs in the navel and tongue. What more could a man do?

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