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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March
2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
February/March 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
A Tale of
Forbidden Fruit
By Wayne Chan,
California
As a service to our readers, I have taken
it upon myself, in a never-ending quest to unravel the secrets of Asian
culture, to seek out and uncover, at some personal risk to myself, the
mysteries of Asia’s forbidden fruits.
That’s right – I’m here to tell you about all the weird fruit they have
on sale at my local Asian supermarket.
Now, it’s fortunate that I’ve been able to travel to Asia frequently and
I’ve seen the variety of fruit available over there. There’s nothing in
the Asian markets here that I haven’t seen for sale over there. Still, I
can imagine the initial shock of anyone walking through the produce
section of an Asian supermarket for the first time.
Let’s take the pomelo, for example. A pomelo is the largest fruit in the
citrus family. The term “large” is an understatement.
How big is it?
A typical pomelo is roughly the same size as a full-grown golden
retriever. I once saw a pomelo fall off a fruit stand and roll down a
grocery aisle forcing women and children to flee in horror from the
marauding citrus boulder rolling towards them. A family of four could
live off of one pomelo for a week and a half. In some countries when you
file your taxes you can claim your pomelo as a dependent.
It’s that BIG.
Rambutan is a fruit from Southeast Asia that has a very pleasant taste
and is shaped similarly to lychee, except that the outside shell is
round and covered with soft, crimson red tentacles. I don’t know how
else to describe the look of rambutan except to say that it seems oddly
perverted. When holding rambutan in your hand at a local Asian
supermarket, I have a tendency to look over my shoulder to see if
anyone’s looking in my direction as if I’m doing something seedy.
The few times I’ve purchased rambutan at the market I’ve discreetly
asked the bagger to stuff them into a plain, brown paper bag.
Then there’s the durian. A durian is about the size and shape of a
football covered with sharp, spiny, green thorns on the outside, looking
a lot like a grenade on steroids. Cutting a durian in half, you see two
sacs, each filled with a grayish yellow gelatinous mass that looks a lot
like the forensics scene from the movie Aliens.
Let’s not forget about the famous durian smell. Encyclopedia Britannica
describes the durian smell as a “pungent foul odor.” How would I
describe it? Take one pair of dirty gym socks, stuff them with some
moldy cheese, drive them to your nearest dairy farm during the warmest
time of the day, and voilà! Pungent foul odor.
Despite the fact that the actual taste of a durian is sweet and creamy,
what puzzles me is that some point at the beginning of time, one of our
ancestors came upon this ominous looking fruit for the first time with
all it’s spiny thorns, alien-like innards, and locker room smell, and
was still curious enough (or desperate enough) to wonder, “Sure - it’s
scary looking and smells like my feet, but I wonder what it tastes
like?”
Maybe he was so famished and exhausted from lugging around the pomelo he
found that he was ready to eat anything.
www.trooce.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Britney and Beijing Accord
By Wayne Chan, California
It turns out that the fashion police are alive and well in China, and
they have set their sights on Britney Spears.
Pop star Britney Spears is scheduled to give a number of concerts in
China next year, but in light of the furor over Janet Jackson’s breast
baring performance at the Super Bowl, China’s cultural officials have
taken great care to eliminate any potential “wardrobe malfunctions”
during her appearances. As a start, they have demanded to get a first
look at her performance and her wardrobe.
According to one official, “Every aspect of her tour will have to
undergo examination and approval. That especially goes for the clothes
she’ll be wearing. The requirement is that they don’t show too much.”
As a Chinese-American who would like to contribute whatever I can to
ensure a positive relationship between the U.S. and China, I have taken
it upon myself to draft a set of standards that might help address the
situation. It is called “The Britney and Beijing Accord.”
#1 Chinese cultural officials must approve all song lyrics in advance of
the performance. However as a general rule, songs pertaining to anything
of a sexual nature are prohibited. Songs addressing topics like the
weather, beautiful scenery, fresh fruit, or China’s entry to the World
Trade Organization are generally acceptable.
#2 Songs featuring androgynous, half dressed male dancers moving
provocatively on stage are prohibited. However, having government
officials standing at the back of the stage clapping in unison is
acceptable.
#3 Dancers should refrain from grabbing any other part of their body
during the performance. If a “body part grab” is an intrinsic component
of a particular song or dance routine, performers should restrict their
grabbing to areas such as their head, shoulders, knees, and toes. As a
side note, one fully acceptable maneuver is if the performer should
choose to place both hands on their knees and bring their knees together
repeatedly while simultaneously crossing their hands to the opposite
knee. This is formally known as the “Hey, look what I’m doing with my
knees!” routine.
#4 Removal of any article of clothing by oneself or by another performer
(outside of a hat) is strictly prohibited. Stage managers reserve the
right to apply super glue to any article of clothing should said
clothing appear to be nothing more than a prop.
#5 Suggestive words in otherwise acceptable songs must be altered for
the performance. The word “baby” should be replaced with the word
“infant.” The word “lover” should be replaced by “husband” or “wife”,
and the word “fondle” should be replaced with “look”. Use of the word
“loin” can only be used for songs addressing cuts of meat. Likewise,
words like “ache” or “throbbing” are to be used only for songs
recounting a recent sports injury.
#6 Stage costumes must conceal every inch of skin below the chin.
Chinese formal silk qipao’s are acceptable, full-length body armor is
not only acceptable but encouraged.
The trouble is, after following all of these guidelines, Britney’s show
might only run for 20 minutes.
www.trooce.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dear
Diary, Matt Damon Is At “It” Again
By Gordon Chapman, Georgia
I
never really felt much empathy for Jimmy Kimmel when it was reported
that Matt Damon was procreating with his girlfriend. But as TV becomes
reality, I now understand how foolish it is to assume that the
Kid-Hair-Cut Matt Damon is anything less than Demonish.
Matt Damon is sticking his tongue in my girlfriend’s ear too. And it’s
apparently been going on for years.
Maybe it’s all those emotionally distant, tough guy roles Matt-Attack
played that formed the underpinnings for the sexual escapades he and my
girlfriend have been sharing. Perhaps, it’s the shiny-object theory of
female DNA, the twisting of chromosomes somewhere during the cave man
era that made women love things that stand out, be they hair or club or
man. Or, at the brass tacks level, maybe the fact remains that were it
not for sex, men and women would have killed themselves off millions of
years ago and evolution keeps us “doing it.”
Whatever the cause, Mattish seems to have tapped into this phenomenon
with astounding accuracy.
I never really suspected anything in the early years. Our first date
movie was carefully picked out to keep her thinking “when can I get out
of here and get naked…I am so bored”. And so I picked a golf movie for
our first date.
The Legend of Bagger Vance isn’t anything one would consider an arousing
moving. I was always told not even Freudian slips could penetrate the
sheer boredom of spending the day frollicking around the grass holding a
stick and moving balls around, wildly performing acrobatic acts in order
to make it to the hole.
But as I look back at it, the first time we had sex was a three-way. And
apparently I was the un-aware boyfriend Kimmel was. Matt Demon had found
his way into the back of my pick-up truck on that fateful night. I
should have known he was there when she screamed…
“Come on Junuh! Make the shot!”
I just figured she was drunk.
Over the years, our love life has been filled with Matt-isms that never
really made any sense until the devil of retrospect became my companion.
There was that screening of the movie Oceans 11 followed by a night in
Vegas where she kept on and on about how I was so "sleuthish" to have
used magic dice to get 7’s on the craps table. I never made it away from
the slot machine the entire night but I figured whatever worked for her
when it came to foreplay, I’m game.
And then….only a month after watching Bourne Identity, there was that
crazy European trip she booked. It took all I could do to prevent her
from attempting to turn my expired US passport into something highly
suspect. It wasn’t so much as the name she chose, “Mikael Namastrata”
from “Russia” that had me worried. Nor was it the fact she spray painted
the passport red and the pages were stuck together with seepage from the
Elmer’s Glue canister.
It was her insistence we keep an airport locker full of pictures from my
childhood to “remind me.”
What was worse, one half of the trip she spent trying to pick fights
with strangers so I could “re-remember” my fighting skills. Luckily, the
other half was spent naked in various alleyways, whispering that “she
understood I needed do things differently to avoid a pattern.” I thought
she just wanted to mix it up a bit.
But as the years went on and as Matty Boy continued to produce more
movies, the pattern became too much to overlook. If it wasn’t her
insatiable desire to hide in the backyard and pounce on me while yelling
“Fix me Good Shepherd! I am your baaadddd sheep!”, it was her silly
attempt to throw mirrors at me from the roof of the house while shouting
“You cannot steal my youth Mr. Grimm!”.
At some point I had to confront her.
“I’m not Matt Damon. I am Russ, your boyfriend.”
“Honey, you are so funny. I know that you silly goose…now would you
please shut up and handcuff me to the bed for helping the police?”
As I think about it now, even as I type this, I don’t reckon there’s
anything wrong with having Matt Damon around the house. I just hope he
continues to stay away from the dorky roles Ben Affleck plays. Suicide
would be imminent if I was treated like that.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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What
Will They Stink Of Next?
By
Burton
Cole,
Ohio
Play-Doh is the sweetest smell in the world this side of chocolate.
But it never occurred to me to wear it as a cologne.
Now I can, without even wrapping Play-Doh snakes around the backs of my
ears.
And there’s perfume in the scents of dirt, wet garden, mildew, paperback
and condensed milk.
Well, you don’t want to smell like jasmine or lilacs ALL the time, do
you?
Ah, yes, the smell of condensed milk always reminds me of that time that
... uh ... well, I think I baked some cookies with it once, but I’d
rather smell the cookies. Yes, Demeter Fragrance does offer fragrances
in chocolate chip cookie.
Demeter also offers colognes and perfumes in bonfire — which smells like
burning maple leaves — birthday cake, cucumber and several flavors of
Hershey’s, Jolly Rancher and Jelly Belly candies.
I suspect the junk food perfumes were created on the adage that the
fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. The problem is that
if he’s nibbling on your neck, maybe he’s just hungry.
For men, Burger King has its own fragrance — Flame. It’s a body spray
that lets you ooze with the aroma of flame-broiled burger. What woman
could resist a man who smells like that?
If you want cheese with that, the Stilton Cheese Makers Association
launched Eau de Stilton to ‘‘re-create the earthy and fruity aroma of
Blue Stilton cheese in an eminently wearable perfume.’’
Is it any wonder that obesity is such a problem? We even smell fat.
But man does not live by pizza alone. There’s also football. Masik
Collegiate Fragrances is concocting lines of colognes and perfumes that
stink of your favorite university, perfect for wearing to the big game.
The fragrance of the University of North Carolina is a mixture of fresh
Sicilian lemon and bergamot, lavender and white pepper, and white amber
and tonka bean. Why? I don’t know. And I thought Tonka was a truck.
Penn State University’s scent is Italian bergamot and chilled gimlet
accord, with blue cypress and cracked pepper vapor, ending with black
amber and cool moss.
Coming soon is a fragrance for The Ohio State University, though the
recipe has yet to be announced. Perhaps the waxy chocolate and peanut
butter of buckeyes candy? I hope it’s not based on the collegiate
fragrance of dorms I knew, which was dirty socks and empty pizza boxes.
If you are a political beast, Nature’s Garden has fragrance oils for
Republicans (‘‘well-grounded earthy notes of fresh sage and McIntosh
apple ... rose and apple blossoms’’), Democrats (‘‘very fresh greenery
base of clover, ivy and aloe’’) and independents (‘‘refreshing crisp
citrus notes of fresh orange slices, lime and lemon zests ... with a
smooth musky background’’).
See, politics DO smell.
Some perfumes even are made with ambergris — whale vomit. The peculiar
sweet, earthy odor comes from stuff produced in the digestive system of
sperm whales.
We are a nation so obsessed with odoriferous glory that we need whales
to throw up so that we may die an aromatic death of nectar asphyxiation.
It’s a wonder our noses aren’t blowing up from overstimulation. Then we
wouldn’t be able to stop and smell the Play-Doh on each other’s necks.
www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Observations
Of A 30-Year Married Man
By
Terry Dawley,
Pennsylvania
Because women don't possess the physical
strength of men, they've evolved with a gene that more than makes up for
it. I believe the gene's scientific name is ( The Badgering Gene). It
started way back with Eve. Poor Adam didn't want nothing to do with that
apple, But Eve badgered the hell into him; and Adam,looking Heavenward
muttering "You call this Paradise", took a chomp out of that forbidden
fruit just to shut Eve up. ( The Badgering Gene) rears its ugly head
whenever a woman wants to get a man to do something, (Which basically
means, its always reared).
Fortunately, men have evolved with their own defensive mechanism to
combat (The Badgering Gene). This mechanism is a hidden ear-flap, deep
inside the ears of men that closes the ears off automatically whenever
it detects the sound of (The Badgering Gene), which basically means, men
are deaf.
However, once ( The Badgering Gene) is defeated by ( The Hidden
Ear-flaps), the battle may not be over. If the women's objective is
something she wants really bad; (E.G., Vacation, roof fixed, underwear
picked up), she will employ her most powerful weapon. Women know, men
have no defenses against it. The mere mention of it will cause ( The
Hidden Ear-Flaps) to pop open like spring-loaded hatches....."WANT
SOMETHING TO EAT DEAR?"......What were you thinking?
Women are extremely jealous of men's superior car radio operating
skills. As my finger blazes, ( almost as fast as my wife's does flipping
through a clothes rack at Kohl's), non-stop, through all available
stations, until about the ninth cycle when, My wife, eyes bulging,
spittle spraying, bellows " JUST LEAVE IT ON SOMETHING". Patiently, I
explain how men's brains process things much faster; and
how........OUCH!!!...This always seems to end with domestic violence.
Only women are capable of multi-tasking is simply not true. We men can
drive a car, cycle non-stop through the radio stations, scream every
known obscenity ( and a few made up ones); and flip off every other
driver on the road.... All at the same time.
Examples of why women should never be in control of the remote: Real
Housewives Of Orange County, What Not To Wear, Nineteen Kids And
Counting; and some dumb cake making show, that I can't remember the name
of. How can anyone with half a brain be entertained by that stuff? I
mean, she came in and changed the channel in the middle of my favorite
Spongebob Squarepants episode.
Men should never attempt to open a sealed jar after just applying hand
lotion.( Yes, I said hand lotion). Living in N/W Pennsylvania, where the
weather is comparable to Antarctica six month of the year, if not used,
one runs the risk of developing the dreaded "SPLITS". ( Not to be
confused with "Splitters", which is an altogether different affliction,
unique to the male sex. If your a man, or a women who cleans bathrooms,
you'll understand). The "SPLITS" form on the tips of your fingers; and
though tiny in stature, they rate high on the pain scale, they are also
magnetized to all known substances and will literally pull themselves
into any object within reach, causing eye-watering, obscenity filled
collisions. I had one of these "SPLITS" when my wife was going through
labor; and she had the audacity to complain to me about her pain.
Wife: "Ahhhhh, ohhhhh; eeeek, @&#$!%#, GIVE ME MY EPIDURAL!!!"
Me: "What are you complaining about? Look at this" ( Presenting my
finger with the SPLIT).
I don't remember much after that, as I was struck in the head with a
piece of medical equipment.
God help you if you develop multiple SPLITS. Last year I had SPLITS on
fingers of both hands, causing me five days of self-imposed
constipation, and the discovery that there are limits to my wife's love;
and thus, forcing the installment of a Bidet.
Anyway, due to my extreme fear of the SPLITS, hence, the necessary use
of hand lotion, I've recently suffered a horrible experience; ATTENTION
MEN!!, do not attempt to open a sealed jar after applying hand lotion.
As my fingers spun around the cap like a top, my wife, watching my
struggle says "Give it to me", In which I say "When Hell freezes over".
She snatches the bottle from my slippery grasp and to my horror, with a
slight twist comes the crackling of the seal, and her smug expression of
superiority.
God help me if it lasts another thirty years!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Wii-njuries
By Cindy Largey,
California
“Mom! Are you busy? Do you want to play
Tennis?”
“I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. I have wii-njuries.”
“What?”
“wii-njuries. You know, carpal wii-nal, wii-plash, wii-knee, wii-atica –
wii-njuries.”
“Oh! I see. Well mom, really, if you weren’t so competitive, you
probably wouldn’t be in pain.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not me. It’s the wii. It’s
wii-ked. It lured me in with its fun and folly and injured me. It
shouldn’t just ask my name and if I’m right or left handed. It should
have a body chart that can be check marked for weak areas for anyone
over 45. It shouldn’t come with just a mat and a balance board. There
should be safety gear. Or, I should be able to at least get a wii-sage
from it. Hey, maybe they could offer wii-nsurance to help with the
doctor bills.”
“Oh mom, you’re so silly. If you could just relax and play and not have
to win so badly, you’d be fine.”
“Don’t be wii-diculous! You’re just jealous! You – all of you – hate it
when I beat you. I can’t help it if I’m good at games and win a lot.
It’s the playing I enjoy, not the wii-nning. I just happen to win a
lot.”
“WhatEv…..”
“I don’t have to win!”
“Mom, you made the kid next door cry. It was worse than the
Scattergories incident of 2008. It took Justin 2 months to come back
over after that. Most of my friends are afraid to come over because you
challenge them to wii games which would be fine if you didn’t fight to
the death. They hate to see you gloat when you win, but are scared to
beat you because you go nuts.”
“That just isn’t true. You are totally exaggerating. They’re just poor
sports. They can’t stand the old lady besting them. Age is just a
number. They really need to get a grip. They are forgetting it’s just
supposed to be fun.”
“I love you mom, even if you’re totally in denial about being psycho
competitive.”
“I love you, too, even if you stink at tennis and have wimpy friends.”
“Can I get you an ice pack or the heating pad?”
“Ice would be great sweetheart. And why don’t you bring a deck of cards,
and we’ll play some Gin Rummy just for fun to pass some time.”
“Sure mom. I can handle losing at cards tonight.”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Actuarial
Family Theater
By Barry Parham,
South Carolina
(Risk management, food chains, neurotic
rabbits, and evil sea aliens)
I'm a single guy. But I do have married friends. And some of those
friends have children. And this week, I waded across that border, into a
birthday party for the daughter of a couple I know. A lovely couple,
with two lovely children named Tierney and Kit, several pets, a high
deductible, and nerves of hammered steel.
I had no idea.
Amazingly, nobody died. And by evening's end I'd gathered some critical
intelligence:
1. I'm not ready for a family.
2. On Planet Children, one plus one does not equal two. The energy
envelope generated by two children is affected by some kind of mystical
energy multiplier.
3. You simply cannot trust magic sea-monkeys.
Living alone, I'm used to a state of quiet. In my house, there are
almost never any altercations involving fauna eating other fauna. I
seldom invest in bags of what look like dirt particles, expecting them
to magically morph into underwater primates. Sugar ingestion rarely
results in psychotic behavior, undersized humans don't don TRON outfits
and wheels to break indoor speed limits, and I can't even recall the
last food fight. True, there are weekend poker games that sometimes
present some unexpected surprises, but I own a broom and a gun. Problem
solved.
When viewed with Single Guy eyes, a home with kids and pets in it is a
black-diamond slope, navigated in the dark. An extreme theme park ride,
sans seat belts. A Marx Brothers finale, but with live ammo.
As someone clever once said, "Same planet, different worlds."
Witness:
I drove over, parked, ran through sheets of rain to the front door, and
rang the doorbell. A large, moist dog materialized out of some alternate
dimension and attempted to smell areas of me that I don't generally
present for public inspection.
After the dog and I agreed to an annulment, I tuned to a growing rumble
inside the house. One of the children answered the door, wearing
pajamas, a helmet, knee- and elbow-pads, and inline roller skates. He
looked like a psychotic Munchkin.
"Is that for me?"
"No, Kit, this is Tierney's birthday present."
"Mmm."
Kit reversed and rolled away. I stepped into the hall and tripped over a
real rabbit.
In my house, I almost never collide with small forest animals.
The damp dog shot through the door and, in a tender protective gesture,
attempted to hide the whole rabbit in its mouth.
"KIT!" a voice boomed from the kitchen. "THE DOG!"
Kit glared at me with that "wonder if he'll leave soon" look, grabbed
the dog, wrenched it back outside, and shut the door.
Over the next few hours, I learned a great deal about kids, pets, and
perpetual motion. I learned that food fights can get really interesting
when the ordnance is birthday cake squares, with the candles still lit.
I learned that parents have an acutely-attuned sense of hearing. During
the evening, we'd all hear thuds, howls, and other oral effects straight
out of the Spanish Inquisition. Sometimes the parents would leap into
action, sometimes not.
In my house, one blood-curdling shriek sounds pretty much like any
other.
Eventually, Tierney completed her excavation of Gift Mountain,
unearthing her own pair of inline roller skates, assorted books,
clothing, jewelry, some fish, an arcane-looking Magic Sea-Monkeys Castle
kit, and another live rabbit. The dog, observing from outside, grinned
at the new rabbit, mouthed "make your peace, lunch-meat" and then went
back to picking the lock.
I spent the rest of the evening edgily watching kids on wheels race from
room to room, caroming off countertops and other sharp objects. Every
few seconds I would instinctively leap up to steady a skewing skater, or
to dodge a dog, or to extract a rabbit. Occasionally, I'd hear faint
chanting, and thick green smoke would boil out of the sea-monkeys' magic
castle.
After a time, the kids deserted the house to skate outside. In their
pajamas. In the dark. In the rain. And, no doubt, armed with scissors
and cake-square firebombs.
Some 87 lifetimes later, the cavalry finally arrived. Bedtime.
"Tierney! Kit!"
I shot up to find a towel, but suddenly my Single Guy ears adjusted.
"Oh. Sorry. I thought you yelled 'tourniquet.'"
And parents do this every day.
I had no idea. Before crossing the border, I should have sent in drones.
As someone clever once said, "When you're in enemy territory, never get
out of the boat."
Especially when there are sea-monkeys.
http://www.pmWebs.com
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You
Can Go To Health
By Ed Welter, Oregon
America is getting fatter. There’s nothing funny about that! Or is
there? If you take a close look at the whole concept of exercise, it’s
really pretty hilarious. Consider the health club; these places seem a
bit goofy to me.
“Hey Bob, where you going?”
“Running”
“Why are you getting in your car then?”
“I’m going to the health club”
“I thought you were going running”
“I’m going to run at the health club”
“Why don’t you run to the health club, then you wouldn’t actually have
to go there?”
“Because I run on the treadmill”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I have fitness goals”
“But aren’t treadmills those devices that go nowhere?”
“That’s how I’ll achieve my goals”
“By going nowhere?”
Sure, you can see this conversation happening. The problem with exercise
is that it’s just not fun. Consider outdoor exercise, for example.
Invariably you get rained or snowed on and risk getting hypothermia for
most of the year unless you’re in a “warmer” climate area, in which case
in the summer if you don’t finish your exercise by 5am before the sun
gets too high, you’ll be out there with the road kill along the side of
the road waiting for “buffalo jerky” guy to come along and turn you into
more jerky profits at his roadside RV business.
Perhaps you like team sports and want to play in a league. Of course
then you subject yourself to psychotic overzealous competitors screaming
and threatening to take you out with an injury. Team sports are injuries
waiting to happen. When you’re young, bending a finger backwards hurts
but you shrug it off and the pain goes away after a day. When you’re
older it’s a broken bone and six weeks with a cast forcing you to wipe
your posterior with your left hand. That’s just wrong.
This brings us right back to the health clubs. Now I’ve been to these
places. I’ve seen that Stair Master with its endless stairs that go
nowhere. Of course, I opted for the Elevator Master instead…but alas,
they haven’t invented that one yet. Why not? Elevator master would be
brutal. You can’t talk in them and you must always avoid eye contact.
That takes training! Nevertheless, I’m stuck with only Stair Master.
Just the term ‘stair master’ confuses me. I thought it was for those
that wanted to check out the hot bodies at the gym without getting
caught but their management informed me that was a different type of
“stair.”
I also checked out the treadmill with its endless walking that gets you
nowhere. The Club Enforcement Officer (CEO) didn’t think kindly when I
strapped the water ski rope to the front and got on with my inline
skates and cranked it to full speed. Come on, where’s the enjoyment?
I did take great joy in those machines that have a “+” or a “–“so you
can increase or decrease the weight of each rep right from your
fingertips. I liked to do 20 curls with only 3 pounds and then just
before I got off, I upped the weight to 180 pounds so the next guy could
clearly see how buff and strong I was. I would then laugh at their
inferiority as they had to set the weight back down to something mere
mortal.
They wouldn’t let me stay on the indoor basketball court with my circus
bounce boots because apparently there was no sitting on the basketball
rims. There was also a rule against bouncing over people with them. I
think they made that up on-the-fly though.
They didn’t like my motorized self winding machine that I attached to
the indoor rock gym ropes so I could climb the hardest routes by having
it just pull me up while I pretended to strain and groan through one
armed pull ups from a hold the size of a nipple.
The CEO suspended my membership for several weeks for filling the squash
court with those Chuck E. Cheese plastic balls and then diving in from
the upper observatory.
Apparently there is also a limit to the amount of “guests” you can bring
in to their outdoor hot tub and hosting unsanctioned “Wild On” parties
there violates the membership bylaws in some way. Oh, and promoting it
as Ladies Night is also a violation of some human resources fairness act
they have.
Like I said, just where is the fun in fitness? No wonder America is
getting fatter.
http://vehow.blogspot.com
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