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Jess Webb

Jess Webb

Jess Webb


Cursed to Eternally Use the Exergizmo

I first climbed aboard an exercise contraption resembling a wrecked motorcycle several months ago (nine months, three days, and 32 minutes ago, actually). I was inspired to this extreme by the increasing frequence of fat jokes in my immediate vicinity. A grandson in second grade Spanish had begun referring to me as “El Blimpo”, and my doctor blurted the subtle comment, “Exercise or die.”

Now, I would like to report that ,after using this machine faithfully for twenty minutes per day, I have achieved the Adonis like figure of those people in pink tights on TV.

I would like to report this very much, but it would not be the whole truth. It would not be even the partial truth. It would be a big fat lie. All that pushing and pulling has given me upper arms and thighs like a Russian weight lifter. Adding this to my original pear shape makes me look like a sack full of basketballs, and I haven’t lost a single pound.

I’m told that my fat is being converted into lean, mean, muscle. This might be OK if I were scheduled to star in a beefcake movie (aimed at the mature audience “Rocky XXIV Grandfather Rocky Conquers Mars”). Although this is not totally impossible, it seems a little unlikely, so why am I doing this? I already had enough muscle to lift a fork, bathe myself, put on clothes, drive a car, and hand out money, which covers nearly any situation I come across in daily life.

What am I to do with all this excess muscle now? It makes my clothes look lumpy and hang funny. Moreover, the experts tell me, if I quit exercising, unused muscle will turn soggy and hang on my extremities like a wet tortilla. Simple walking would make me flap like clothes on a line, and a strong wind could turn me into a flying squirrel. Am I doomed to ride this machine forever?

Needless to say, I am not totally pleased with my exercise advisors. They said exercise would add ten years to my life, revive my dark curly hair, and make shapely young women quit calling me Sir. This seemed a little odd because my hair used to be blond and straight, but who was I to question the experts?

I considered getting ten more years, dark curly hair and enough money to buy a full tank of gas all at once, and agreed to the program immediately. I would have agreed to anything short of a lobotomy. Now, I find the extra time is added on the end. It only seems like ten years because it’s spent in a rocking chair of a nursing home.

I was at the Mall when I realized one can’t mess with Mother Nature. Leaving the sporting goods store, a shapely young security guard smiled seductively at me and laid a hand softly on my arm. She looked at me with melting eyes and gently said, “You can’t leave without paying for all those basketballs, Sir.”

Letters to Jess Webb may be e-mailed to deepsouth@reporters.net.

Copyright 1997 Deep South Syndicate

Email: deepsouth@reporters.net

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