Dearest Dr. Chekhov –
Congratulations! Your amazing Peloton Indoor Exercise Bike (that will be delivered and ready to sweat while pushing you to new bests!) should arrive by Winter Thaw.
Our apologies for the delivery surcharge we must request however as we expect it to take at least three horses to get your Peloton up the hill to your location.
Honored Peloton –
I’ve taken the Molotov girls as patients again – they’re never actually sick but complain like they’ve been attacked by wolves. One always throws up on me, and I am at pains to see how this is possible, unless it is simply willful.
Their parents tell one boring story after another, while I (stethoscope in hand) suppress my shattered expectations for relief from the mediocracy of our pathetic, bourgeois existence.
I find this quite amusing (just my point of view), and anyway, they pay handsomely for my medical visits. Therefore, find attached a sum to cover the extra shipping.
Most Esteemed Peloton – My Bike arrived!
It only killed one horse (and that’s better than usual for this time of year)!
The seat is quite adjustable, the pedals very, very quiet.
The slate before one’s face is blackness, nothing more. A headlong hurtling into darkness. Ingenious! Now I can work as hard as I possibly can in this life and get absolutely nowhere – this seems somehow comforting to me.
Now, questions:
The manual states I am to supply “power” to the bike using the black “cord”(?)…
Is power not what the pedals are for? I stand confused.
Another section mentions motivating instructors – should they not already be motivated? What am I paying for here? When should I expect them to arrive? Please advise –
Impressively though, everything is Peloton essence – nothing is Peloton superfluous! Every promise in your advertisements is like my favorite saying, “Never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn’t going to go off.” You have delivered to me a rifle, and it has gone off!
Peloton: Promise…kept!
Dearest Dr. Chekhov –
Congratulations on unlocking the benefits of the Peloton experience! Would you kindly elaborate on your questions so that a bot may emotively answer them?
Dear Peloton –
You have crossed the line. I would insist on a duel, but you are simply too far away.
The role of the artist is to ask questions, not answer them! And I am the artist of my own life! I ask the questions! Me! I ask them…! Me, Me, Me…!
Though I can now move with the motivation™ to question the subtext of everything around me, this gives you no right to demand clarity regarding my inquiry. You just want it easy…
Only entropy comes easy. And any idiot can face a crisis; it’s this day-to-day living (waiting on you people), that’s been wearing me out: So, does your bot have answers for my questions or not?
In the meantime, I will tackle bigger goals while I show up for myself and change from my black mourning clothes into my other set(s) of black mourning clothes and decide whether to have some tea or hang myself while I await your response.
Most Appreciated Peloton –
No reply from your bot. But perhaps I’ve been hasty. After all, Peloton has re-shaped my now low-impact and high-powered life into something incredible!
So please accept these scribblings, my hoping it will help immortalize Peloton in the marketplace of world ideas:
You see, Peloton, in its immersive way, has revealed to me that writing (Yes! Writing!) is the course my life should take. Man is what he believes…and thanks to Peloton (the cardio I can’t get enough of), I believe I will be a writer.
To Whom it May Concern, Peloton –
Your reply, from some un-talent named Trigorin, clearly some junior cog in the vast machine of infectious energy and unlimited classes that is Peloton, has deemed my words unusable. Unusable!
This is deeply insulting. But at the same time, I do recognize the Peloton Powered Cosmic Reference™ to the failure to fulfill my potential that often leaves me sleepless with laughter.
Therefore, despite your rejections, I find myself…enlightened!
So much so that I intend to take the very paper upon which your insults reside, soak it in pig drippings, and walk it to the farthest side of my Uncle’s Orchard by the water, where I hope (with your stinking pages) to lure some gull or other close enough that I might strangle it by hand.
Whereupon success, I will deliver the dead bird as a gift to my dearest love and declare my new life as a comedy writer.
Your Most Humble Servant,
A. Chekhov
