Funny You Should Say That!
Well, here I am... It's almost an hour past midnight and I can't sleep. Reuben, my trainer from the third compartment of Hell made me do a bunch of new exercises giving the impression to repelled onlookers of me being transportable in a Ziploc bag. Uhhh.. My belly hurts... And now for an equivalent of the Sunday Morning Protein Shake; a little dream sequence into the harsh world of personal training according to a select few. I'm just a mere pawn in their well dumbell curled arms. I ain't nothing, NOTHING! Where most misshapen humans are considered degenerate maggots, products of rotting filth, and the healthy muscular generation emits divine ooze and sensuous sleaze with every passing breath...
The stage was set. I'd just finished me fourth round of a superset and good ol' Reuben went to get a drink of water. I was catching my breath and guess who walks by!?! Yes, the distressing duo consumed by the dynamism of their deadliness. Paul and Lady Paul. I guess Lady Paul was beaming today. Must be the T-X testosterone coupled with some nail polish. And Paul, the muscle was really bulging upto his reputation. I bet the guy's so tough, he calculatively shits five pound steel ingots that go 'kapah-klunk' each time they hit the ceramic bog. Lady Paul on the other hand must have the capability to purge like a jet engine. Atleast she gives that impression. Tough little lady, this!
Umm, did I mention the other trainer dudette? For now let's just call her C. That's because if she finds out, I would be the protaganist of a new action thriller flick called 'Close Encounters with the Barbell Kind.' Me not taking any chances. She walks by you like God personally took the redeye Southwest Flight outta Las Vegas and gently placed her with both hands into the gymnasium to assist you in becoming a better idiot. Just for that day! You smile out of courtesy and all you get in return is a whiff of wind and a 'humph!'
C is somewhat of a trainer slash ass-kicker. A peculiar component in her training consists of cardio-vascular convulsions for the victim in question and then about twenty minutes of kick boxing. She speaks very loudly when this part ensues. I guess the first half of training has the victim's heart pouding loudly like a mating call drumroll for Tarzan from Jane. The tiny victim in question swings, kicks, punches and jumps around like he accidentally stepped on a bull-ant ziggurat, while C instructs him on the finer points of doing it right. "Your kick should be like a yoyo; let loose, contact and drawn back!" "Think! Think of yourself as a mouse that's just made eye contact with the quickest of cats!"
A few more jumps, spins and kicks; he realizes that he looks like a neanderthal kicking and gasping for air while sliding down a waterslide without prior knowledge of it's purpose. Come to think of it, I must've missed the part where she accidentally kicked him in the nuts. The numbness that followed must've blown a fuse or two and interfered with his ability to comprehend. One straight, well placed sock can do the trick! Most guys know that. She'd asked him to express each action vocally. He did let out a short, sharp, squeak as if an entire Wehrmacht battalion had stomped his foot collectively. The area where the sock made contact with the soft dangling contents of his gym shorts must've been still smarting like a light bulb flickering under low voltage. By the time he was done, the poor fellow was shaking like a plate of jello on a science lab shaker table. I can only sympathize. Anyways, the captain's going to call it a day, my fingers are sticking to the keycaps like my nails were oozing epoxy. YAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn.. Ahem, G'nite!
The stage was set. I'd just finished me fourth round of a superset and good ol' Reuben went to get a drink of water. I was catching my breath and guess who walks by!?! Yes, the distressing duo consumed by the dynamism of their deadliness. Paul and Lady Paul. I guess Lady Paul was beaming today. Must be the T-X testosterone coupled with some nail polish. And Paul, the muscle was really bulging upto his reputation. I bet the guy's so tough, he calculatively shits five pound steel ingots that go 'kapah-klunk' each time they hit the ceramic bog. Lady Paul on the other hand must have the capability to purge like a jet engine. Atleast she gives that impression. Tough little lady, this!
Umm, did I mention the other trainer dudette? For now let's just call her C. That's because if she finds out, I would be the protaganist of a new action thriller flick called 'Close Encounters with the Barbell Kind.' Me not taking any chances. She walks by you like God personally took the redeye Southwest Flight outta Las Vegas and gently placed her with both hands into the gymnasium to assist you in becoming a better idiot. Just for that day! You smile out of courtesy and all you get in return is a whiff of wind and a 'humph!'
C is somewhat of a trainer slash ass-kicker. A peculiar component in her training consists of cardio-vascular convulsions for the victim in question and then about twenty minutes of kick boxing. She speaks very loudly when this part ensues. I guess the first half of training has the victim's heart pouding loudly like a mating call drumroll for Tarzan from Jane. The tiny victim in question swings, kicks, punches and jumps around like he accidentally stepped on a bull-ant ziggurat, while C instructs him on the finer points of doing it right. "Your kick should be like a yoyo; let loose, contact and drawn back!" "Think! Think of yourself as a mouse that's just made eye contact with the quickest of cats!"
A few more jumps, spins and kicks; he realizes that he looks like a neanderthal kicking and gasping for air while sliding down a waterslide without prior knowledge of it's purpose. Come to think of it, I must've missed the part where she accidentally kicked him in the nuts. The numbness that followed must've blown a fuse or two and interfered with his ability to comprehend. One straight, well placed sock can do the trick! Most guys know that. She'd asked him to express each action vocally. He did let out a short, sharp, squeak as if an entire Wehrmacht battalion had stomped his foot collectively. The area where the sock made contact with the soft dangling contents of his gym shorts must've been still smarting like a light bulb flickering under low voltage. By the time he was done, the poor fellow was shaking like a plate of jello on a science lab shaker table. I can only sympathize. Anyways, the captain's going to call it a day, my fingers are sticking to the keycaps like my nails were oozing epoxy. YAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn.. Ahem, G'nite!
posted by Shaking Shenoy at 4/28/2005 12:44:00 AM
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