From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
April 17, 2000

GYM DANDY

Three times a week, the Celibacy Poster Child drags his endomorphic frame out of his lonely California King bed and heads to the gym. There I ride bikes that go nowhere, jog (okay, walk) on the treadmills, and repeatedly pump heavy weights in hope of eventually pumping something else. I have been doing this for over a year and no one can tell. That hurts.

I go to one of those fancy pants Santa Monica gyms that cost 50 bucks a month. It has the luxury of being two blocks from my house. I could have joined Bally’s for like 20 bucks a year and a bag of rice, but it is a 20 minute drive. I read a research study that says if the gym is further than 10 minutes from your residence, your odds of going are roughly the same as FOX having a hit sit-com. Plus, the idea of letting 50 bones go down the drain guilts me to the gym whenever I stray.

It is probably safe to say that I am in the worst shape of anyone at this gym. There was one other “husky” fellow there when I began, but he’s made some serious lifestyle changes, and has long since passed me by. A more motivated man would take this as a challenge, but...I like beer. So congrats Tubby and wipe down your machine. They say chicks dig a man with six-pack abs. I say why go for a six-pack when you can have the whole case!

The prospects of meeting a Ms. Poovey here are long. For one thing, whenever I workout my eyes turn a bright red color. That “just left the opium den” look might work in India, but here it is second to leprosy as least desirable traits in a gym mate. I thought about wearing a headband, but it makes me look like John Candy in “Splash.” That look might work in India, but here...never mind.

One benefit of the upper-scale gym is the abundance of beautiful women. I guess they pay the extra scratch to avoid being stared at by the riff-raff of the lesser gyms. Now they can get stared at by me. Money well spent in my book. Today, there was an angel in spandex on the treadmill next to me and my compliments to her plastic surgeon. I don’t recognize this girl, but she has to be a porn star or a stripper. One of those large-mammaried vixens with an alliterated name like Melanie Melons or Wendy Whoppers, or even Tiffany Toppers. The kind of girl whose breasts appear around a corner a full second before the rest of her.

Hard as it is for some to believe, I think that you can go overboard on the breast enhancements. I subscribe to the saying on the rum bottle, “Enjoy in Moderation!” Of course, anyone that has ever seen me with a rum bottle knows that while I pay lip service to the saying, I am usually paying mouth service to the bottle.

Occasionally, you run into the celebrity element. Once Mark McGwire was there lifting more weights with one arm then I can press. And it must be the soap opera actor gym of the Westside. There are so many citizens of Port Charles and Genoa City at this gym, that a couple of well-placed explosives could end LA daytime drama as we know it. Don’t worry I’m not going Klebold on anyone.

Despite my lack of progress, I trudge the two blocks and sweat every other day. As if I am building up my physical karma tickets, like in skeeball and, before long, I will get to turn them in for the Kewpie Doll prize.

Wow, all this talk about working out has made me a bit hungry. Hostess Dunkin’ Sticks anyone?

till next time....Poovey call me..

cpc

From the Celibacy Posterchild ArchivesApril 17, 2000

From the Celibacy Posterchild ArchivesApril 17, 2000

GYM DANDY

From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
April 17, 2000

From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
April 17, 2000