Not fit. (As if fit actually still meant fit for something). Too much body in the body. Too much flesh in the flesh. Too little shape. Too little containment. The form is amorphic. It isn't even interesting in its lack of shape.
Someone once told me he kept surprizing himself by how profoundly average he was.
What argument against it? Self-awareness? That's pitiful. I say, tie him up with a thin red line. Make him dance like a ham. Make him squeek, make him laugh. Now, cut the line.
And see how the marks fade away.
Ever so slowly.
The charming picture is by Alison Brady.
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