Why I hate a Gym

GUEST POST — sent by a friend


hippo sceptic

For my 52nd birthday, my wife and children presented me with a week of personal training at the local health club. Although I feel I am still in great shape for a fifty year old my family felt that the loss of a number of kilograms and the shrinking of my stomach bulge so that I could get to my own shoe laces, was the way to go. The sight of Yvette, the young and very attractive fitness trainer, also helped in confirming my desire to get fit, starting Monday…

I started my day at 6:00 am. What the hell for? I was only due there at 9 and I didn’t need to shower before the workout.

When I arrived at the health club she was waiting for me, all raring to go. Beautiful girl, beautiful smile and beautiful voice. I was sold!

The first machine was the treadmill. S**t, five minutes and I could barely breathe, my pulse was racing like an engine on steroids and it had nothing to do with standing next to a beautiful woman. Maybe the effort of trying to hold my stomach in had some bearing on it. Once my heart rate had subsided I tried the stationary bike. Ahh! Much better except that I developed blisters on both butt cheeks after a half hour of pedaling. I hopped off the bike and strode manfully away trying not to walk like I had a carrot up my behind.

The next day I was better prepared, I had applied oils and petroleum jelly to the affected areas on my delicate posterior before I left home so I could stride with the usual manliness. I went for the weight lifting machine this time because I wanted to spare my ass the pain. This was easy, I had always had good upper body strength. She put a couple of weights on and then lay back to show me how it was done. This was easy, except that I couldn’t move the bar. I got up to check what was holding the thing back, but couldn’t find anything. Back on the machine I couldn’t move the frikkin thing but a wisp of a girl could do it, so I suddenly shouted and grabbed my belly. That took the smirk off her face. Pulled muscle, had to go for ice packing at home. Cheers!

I couldn’t lift my arms up high enough to shave and it took all of five minutes to lift myself off the toilet so I phoned in sick but she said that I needed to do light exercises or I would stiffen up. So off I went to face the bloody dragon once again. The others in the gym all had knowing smiles as I screamed my way through the light exercise routine that would have put a marine in the sick bay. Staggered back to my car and sat there silently contemplating suicide.

After four days there wasn’t a muscle in my body that wouldn’t cringe at the thought of further exercise and my whole body felt like I had spent 15 rounds in the ring with Mohamed Ali.

By the fifth day I had consumed every pain pill, anti inflammatory and prescription drug for any kind of illness that I could lay my hands on and I was ready to hire a hit man to get rid of my female persecutor.

The sixth day I managed to get from bed to chair and collapsed into a ball of pain where I stayed for the rest of the day. I dared not open my eyes to watch TV because even my eyelids were sore.

Thanks for your thoughtful gift sweetheart, but let me please tell you where you can place the next one if it’s similar. Come here so that I ca thank you properly. Ow! Even my bloody lips are sore.

Categories: Guest Posts, Humor | Tags: , , , | 8 Comments

Why the hell do we have teeth

Why the hell do we have teeth

tooth fairy

Everything comes in either gas, liquid or solid. That is about all I could remember of my high school chemistry. That, and how to explode a partially dissected frog. No, wait. That wasn’t chemistry class. Silly me. Why would we have a partially dissected frog in chemistry class. That was that other class. What was it called, again? Oh yes, biology.

It seems that in this modern era of instant, super fast, supersonic everything ranging from coffee to food to the internet, it is just not cool, with it or magic to own a cell phone that does not have all the bells and whistles or a conventional stove or oven when you can cook faster in a combination oven, microwave, griller that can simultaneously blow dry your hair and burn your toast, while you wait for your coffee to boil.

Start your day in a shower that steam cleans and dries you as you walk through, like some bloody private car wash, use the toilet that washes and dries you bum, then use your electric toothbrush to clean your teeth. Why! We don’t use the things. Everything is being converted/morphed into liquids. I am not talking about the intoxicating variety of liquids here either. I can still remember soap (the hard bar variety) now when I reach for the soap in the shower the liquid shampoo burns my eyes so that I can’t see if it is the soap, hand cream, conditioner, hair remover or drain cleaner because they’re all in the same shaped bottles.

Pipes and houses would be insulated with all sorts of materials but now they just spray it on.

Sun burn and a tan came from lying for hours in the sun, now they just spray it on.

Stews and casseroles are becoming soups while fruit and vegetables are becoming juice or slushies. Even ice is being liquidized.

I take an abundance of medical concoctions, on my wife’s insistence. Calcium, iron, zinc, vitamins by the million, which were all in tablet form until our last visit to the supermarket! Now they all come in liquid form including the whole scrapyard’s worth of extra metals. Even painkillers are liquid.

Each year families spend thousands of Rands on dentists bills fixing teeth that we don’t need anymore. What a waste of money!




Categories: Humor | Tags: , , , , | 5 Comments

Wilbur Smith and the Rhino



Subject: “Artificial Insemination” : Black Rhino chuckle – from Wilbur Smith

A factual account by Wilbur Smith.

The plight of the Black Rhinoceros is, of course, due mostly to the value of
its horn and the ferocious poaching that this engenders. However, a
contributory factor to the declining rhino population is the animals
disorganized mating habits. It seems that the female rhino only becomes
receptive to the male’s attentions every three years or so, while the male
only becomes interested in her at the same intervals. A condition known
quite appropriately as “Must”.

The problem is one of synchronization, for their amorous inclinations do not
always coincide.

In the early Sixties, I was invited, along with a host of journalists and
other luminaries, to be present at an attempt by the Rhodesian Game and
Tsetse Department to solve this problem of poor timing. The idea was to
capture a male rhino and induce him to deliver up that which could be stored
until that day in the distant future when his mate’s fancy turned lightly to
thoughts of love. We departed from the Zambezi Valley in an impressive
convoy of trucks and Land Rovers, counting in our midst none other than the
Director of the game department in person, together with his minions, a
veterinary surgeon, an electrician and sundry other technicians, all deemed
necessary to make the harvest.

The local game scouts had been sent out to scout the bush for the largest,
most virile rhino they could find. They had done their job to perfection and
led us to a beast at least the size of a small granite koppie with a horn on
his nose considerably longer than my arm. The trick was to get this monster
into a robust mobile pen, which had been constructed to accommodate him.

With the Director of the Game Department shouting frantic orders from the
safety of the largest truck, the pursuit was on. The tumult and the shouting
were apocalyptic. Clouds of dust flew in all directions, trees, and
vegetation were destroyed, game scouts scattered like chaff, but finally the
Rhino had about a litre of narcotics shot into his rump and his mood became
dreamy and benign. With forty black game guards heaving and shoving, and the
Director still shouting orders from the truck, the rhino was wedged into his
cage, and stood there with a happy grin on his face.

At this stage, the Director deemed it safe to emerge from the cab of his
truck and he came amongst us resplendent in starched and immaculately ironed
bush jacket with a colourful silk scarf at this throat. With an imperial
gesture, he ordered the portable electric generator to be brought forward
and positioned behind the captured animal. This was a machine, which was
capable of lighting up a small city, and it was equipped with two wheels
that made it resemble a roman chariot.

The Director climbed up on the generator to better address us. We gathered
around attentively while he explained what was to happen next.
It seemed that the only way to get what we had come for was to introduce an
electrode into the rhino’s rear end, and to deliver a mild electric shock,
no more than a few volts, which would be enough to pull his trigger for him.

The Director gave another order and the veterinary surgeon greased something
that looked like an acoustic torpedo and which was attached to the generator
with sturdy insulated wires. He then went up behind the somnolent beast and
thrust it up him to a full arms length, at which the Rhino opened his eyes
very wide indeed.

The veterinary and his two black assistants now moved into position with a
large bucket and assumed expectant expressions. We, the audience, crowded
closer so as not to miss a single detail of the drama. The Director still
mounted on the generator trailer, nodded to the electrician who threw the
switch and chaos reigned. In the subsequent departmental enquiry the blame
was placed squarely on the shoulders of the electrician. It seems that in
the heat of the moment his wits had deserted him and instead of connecting
up his apparatus to deliver a gentle 5 volts, he had crossed his wires and
the Rhino received a full 500 volts up his rear end.

His reaction was spectacular. Four tons of rhinoceros shot six feet straight
up in the air. The cage, made of great timber baulks, exploded into its
separate pieces and the rhinoceros now very much awake, took off at a

We, the audience, were no less spritely. We took to the trees with alacrity.
This was the only occasion on which I have ever been passed by two
journalists half way up a Mopane tree.

From the top branches we beheld an amazing sight, for the chariot was still
connected to the Rhinoceros per rectum, and the director of the game
department was still mounted upon it, very much like Ben Hur, the

As they disappeared from view, the rhinoceros was snorting and blowing like
a steam locomotive and the Director was clinging to the front rail of his
chariot and howling like the north wind, which only encouraged the beast to
greater speed.

The story has a happy ending for the following day after the director had
returned hurriedly to his office in Salisbury, another male Rhinoceros was
captured and caged and this time the electrician got his wiring right.

I can still see the Rhinoceros’s expression of surprised gratification as
the switch was thrown. You could almost hear him think to himself. “Oh Boy!
I didn’t think this was going to happen to me for at least another three months.

Categories: Guest Posts, Humor, Re-blogs | Tags: , , , , | 5 Comments

Are we there yet

are we there yet

Categories: Humor, Re-blogs | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments


Winter Exercise program…

Take one Weetbix. Take an Aero chocolate bar.
Crumble the Aero over the Weetbix.






Categories: Humor, Re-blogs | Tags: , , , | 4 Comments

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