2002-10-14 | 5:26 p.m.

corduroy licorice wanted to drum up support for his favorite cause, so he took his bongos downtown and put out a hat to gather donations.

***

so i joined a gym because my spare tire is moving from the ten-speed variety into the mountain bike range. the gym i signed up with offers a two-part free orientation to get people accustomed to the weight machines, etc. their slightly hidden agenda is to get new recruits to sign up for personal training with whoever the tour guide is.

personal training is an expensive venture with hourly rates up there in the full body massage range (a buck a minute), so i knew i wouldn't be signing up. my gym guide was a pleasant enough fellow, but he's an actor killing time between auditions. needless to say, his heart really wasn't into counting my stomach crunches. the chip on his shoulder could have been part of his weight training regime. i think this is part of the reason he took the entirely wrong approach when sitting me down for the personal training sales pitch.

"i'd like you to come in twice a week for eight weeks," he announced while reaching for his datebook.

"i'm sorry, i can't afford it," i replied.

his voice took on an edge when he realized this wasn't going to be an easy sale.

"well, you know, i'm 34 and you're 37. neither one of us is getting any younger."

my ears began steaming just slightly less than they had when i was galloping full-speed on the treadmill mere moments ago. i continued smiling as he started digging himself ever deeper.

"in our middle-age years, it's important to take care of ourselves more than ever. what with menopause in your future, you should really be worried about losing bone density."

and 51 other things not to say to a woman when you want her $500.*

FREAKING ASS MENOPAUSE! MIDDLE-FREAKING-AGE! YOU MOTHER F'IN NIMROD!

it was at this point that i began to eye the globby yellow plastic slab of faux fat used as a science class-type visual aid to intimidate new gym goers into weight loss submission. it was next to him on his desk, reflecting an oily sheen in the fluorescent quiver of the office lights. i could reach it without moving my butt off the chair. i was thinking, poetic justice born in a bludgeoning device.

"can i think about it over the weekend?" i asked. i was refering to signing up, not relieving him of consciousness through a much-warranted fat slab attack. i promised i'd give him my verdict this week.

i'm still wondering if i should tell him how duck his sales pitch is, or if i should continue to let him take his life in his hands every time he puts the muscle on the 35-plus female crowd.

bwahaha.

*paraphrase props to being john malkovich

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