Only dogs like bones, tiny tiny skinny people are only good for them trying to sell very expensive little pieces of clothing.
Fat have come to stay, don't fight it, enjoy the view of plenty, you don't want the likes of Twiggy poking your ribs with her bones when making love.
Suddenly someone found that America had consumed one billion Hamburgers combined with donuts, fried chicken and beer, not necessarily in that order and Surprise! Surprise! America had gone suddenly (?) fat.
It was time to make it a carrier and made mega bucks bombarding the fat and contented people with ads in magazines, radio, newspapers and TV.
Hanoi Jane made a video about how a 5 foot 300 pounds could become a 105 pounds nymph just prancing in leotards and eating apples to get that doctor and his lovely heart coronary away.
Fat, ugly women, began to listen to the dime philosophy of a corner pimp which said “there ain’t no fat ugly women for a very drunk tourist with his wallet full of money.”
In our neck of the woods, we have been affected as the next man, the “gyms”
(they are too lazy to call it with all God’s giving letters) sprung like mosquitoes on stagnant water pond, and…we got one.
It opened not far from our prestigious neighborly bar on the now vacated Fantasy Bingo outfit that not in their wildest fantasy dreamed that skimming the top of the monies would make such a local hullabaloo of otherwise very smooth scam that trickle into the community a few bucks as a Grand Price to have the local schmucks hooked but good.
That pipe dream had run out of tobacco.
Now, mimicking that fat limey dude with the big cigar of the forties, all was for “blood, sweat and tears” to put on the altar of a Victoria Secret’s dream.
We will go by it, the “gym,” with doors and wide windows plastered with large posters clamoring the (breathlessly) impending opening of the facilities for the convenience of the local gentry to get in shape and longer a little their lives, the first aerobic day will be free of charge, say, testing the water, when they only would get like Tennessee Ernie said “a day shorter and deeper in debt.”
The impending Grand Opening had a great impact on the Royal Promenade, our local dive and billiard’s ball shaking “lounge”.
To any passer by it would seems that funny things where going on there by the uproarious jocularity coming out at full volume.
For once I had abandoned my back porch and beloved cooler with Coors to participate in the gathering announced by the jungle telegraph.
We had kidnapped a table (with the blessings of the barman, the local was bulging) from a couple of youngsters that shouldn’t had been there in the first place, which had nursed a couple of beer longer that the statutory fourteen minutes, they went holding their empty glasses more like over forty.
They were outnumbered by me, Marty, Joe and Manuel with a trailing “Little” Manuelito (unloaded for the occasion of beans supper) with 370 pounds on a towering 6.4 gave plenty of reasons to keep the mouth shut, anyway, everybody knew that the barky (ex-mob the bad tongues like to said) was pretty good with his beloved “blackjack” nested inside his back pocket.
The discussion “do-jour” if you will pardon my French, was around not the new local but who would come hopefully prancing first.
A pool was in the make, with a quarter for each bet winner takes all, if you didn’t want to be in a tie you shouldn’t be tight handed and increase your bet.
Well, any occasion is good for tie one with friends on a Saturday evening.
Sunday came to be for the grace of the church helper hanging for dear life on the rope that swings the very heavy single bronze bell up the tower where only pigeons venture, and even some of them are afraid of highs.
Well, somebody should tell that boy that if he let go the rope it wouldn’t pull him up from the floor and the damn thing will eventually stop making such a racked upon the beatific sleep of the congregation.
Some wise man said once, if God wanted the little man in church he wouldn’t have given him the mother of hangover on Sunday morning.
I was deciding on making coffee, black, strong… when I remembered the cooler on the back porch, no better aspirin than a couple of Coors.
Sitting on my skivvies on the rocking chair I was taking stock of the surroundings between burps, the orange cat was nowhere to see, neither Willard’s dog Tiger, probably sleeping under the kitchen table.
Though, I saw the black cat going slowly, looking apprehensively sideways from the trees borderline way way back.
A tenuous fog was taking off as the sun warmed the ghost like white veils from the ground, as, somewhere, a rooster starter to galling like it was at the top of the world, if it were a turkey it won’t had live past one day over Thanksgiving.
I was feeling good, so good that unabashedly I left one leg and let a warm dove fly to the chagrin of the missus growling about how disgusting it was.
So, she was up and that meant that Sunday breakfast were on the way.
I remember then, that coming eleven hundred, as we said in the Marine Corps, was the aerobic’s sanctuary opening.
With a chuckle I pulled me up from the rocking chair and was opening the screen door when another dove claimed its freedom.
By ten-thirty we were already bunching around the Royal Promenade waiting to go near as the Grand Opening hour approached.
But the ladies had pulled one fast on all of us, they had arranged with the aerobic people to come 10AM and be ready by eleven.
The local Radio and Newspaper had come with a photographer to immortalize the event.
To our surprise the entrance doors opened and a couple of scanty dressed girls came out and started to pull out all the ads banners and poster, freeing the panorama windows that would show the interior of a well equipped hall, illuminated like the birthday cake of Michael Archangel and surely well supplied of Muzak.
We saw no ladies, and as the hour approached…all bets were off, no one was going to show up?
We went like a mob in need towards the only toilette available in miles, and took position along the street by the panoramic windows.
Then, we saw them, my neighbor Jeremiah’s his more than half del, and Thomas the butcher espouse looking like an overweight heifer, boy she was hairy!
La crème de la crème of our local heavies were there, after all, the first lesson was for free, so, why not?
From a far door appeared a muscular thirty-something wearing thigh little white shorts, shining body by Oil of Ulay or Exxon, a body builder that didn’t have eyes for the two gorgeous helpers apparitions fussing around him, he only had eyes on the surrounding wall mirrors reflecting his gorgeous image.
He commanded the whales around like Captain Ahab would have commanded Moby Dick to come near.
He was standing in front of a low six feet circular trampoline and was talking to the ladies that were moving to stay around facing him.
“Good Lord!!!” someone said, the view was of covering more of less swimming suits, ocelot leopard likes and a few spandex that couldn’t spandex an inch longer before the damn burst open.
All the ladies were commanded to go up the two wooden steps that would put them in level with the stretched canvas, explaining something or other as he moved to the center of it.
After the hopeful were in place he was talking as he moved his legs up and down flexing the knees but with the feet never leaving the canvas, supposedly, I thought, a kind of warming exercise which wouldn’t put more strain on the already strained knees.
He had stopped and surely was explaining the whys and the how when one the heaviest of them all back him couldn’t maintain any longer the equilibrium on the little wooden square and…timber!!! she went.
Their unaware instructor was maybe countdown telling, because the next second he was going up like a Minuteman or whatever they use to launch the shuttle in Cap Canaveral hitting the plaster of the low ceiling with his head going through and ladies falling in and out like rolling giant melons.
That was our call to beat it back towards the Royal Promenade; we couldn’t go to church and add insult after our unchristian guffawing all the way back.
Houston, we thing you have got a problem, and it make me thing of bouncing neighbors.
Reader Reviews for
"Bouncing Neighbors # 5"
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|Reviewed by Joyce White
|Interesting point of view! A touchy subject, too many Americans
who suffer from the haves are learning now to live with the have nots. How much does one consume to be a certified "bouncer?" Too much of anything is not healthy we all know. So many of us have not found love, we are trying to eat ourselves there. Thanks for visiting my poetry. I'm enjoying your wit and words very much. Joyce
|Reviewed by Rose Rideout
|Which is worst for the health, Fat or Skinny, I've been on both sides and I think I am happier right in the middle, thanks Georg for sharing and yes for yet another smile.
Newfie Hugs, Rose
|Reviewed by H Cruz
|Sweet celulite, thats a heffer of a headline. Thank Gog I'm just a fat head.|
|Reviewed by Cynthia Borris
Too funny! And the picture fits the story perfectly. Great job.
|Reviewed by Felix Perry
|Too funny, and a great story indeed.
|Reviewed by Kathy Armijo
|It is sad to see obesity in all ages of humanity, especially children. Skinny is equally sad. Good health is the ticket to a long good life.
|Reviewed by Joyce Bowling
|Oh my! Hmm, and here I went and joined weight watchers last night! Enjoyed this my friend, brought a smile to my face!
|Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
|Oh, dear! Fat is here to stay; skinnies, move on over! If you don't like it, oh, well! It's as bad to be too skinny as it is to be too fat! Like it or leave it!
Very well penned, George, but I personally think the clothing industry ought to make more decent fitting (or better looking) clothing for those of larger than normal size! It would only stand to reason; it would also make fat people feel better about themselves! They're already discriminated against as it is!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :(
|Reviewed by Walt Hardester
Ain't yore wifey gonna get mad at you puttin up a picture of yore girlfriend on this story?