It reads the New Yorker and paints abstracts with oil. It hates both Demi Moore movies and the first half and last fourth of the IM. Breaststroke, we suspect, enjoys a martini now and again. (Contrast this with the alcoholic butterfly, which pounds Budweisers from cans, shoplifted from a 7-11).

It soothes the inner beast and acts as a gentle tonic on a troubled heart. In fact, whenever we use our upgrade coupons to fly first class, just thinking about breaststroke drowns out the moaning of the rabble back in coach.

Breaststroke, you see, is in harmony with the universe; its pull and kick chase one another in playful symmetry. And if that weren't enough, breaststroke also boasts the crown jewel of competitive swimming, the pull down. Comprised of a long sinewy pull followed by a spry frog kick, the pull down is a holy moment of shrouded watery silence. Breaststrokers go to chapel during the pull down, (often giving thanks that they are not backstrokers), and break to the surface only when their brave lungs are nearly burst.

Breaststroke is Yin and Yang, Rum and Coke, and the Captain and Tennille.

Man does not go to breaststroke, man waits for breaststroke to come to him. Amen, brothers and sisters. Breaststroker's recommendation: Join us.