A CorkComment360. Comedic insight, insults and/or inaccuracies in 360 words or less, designed to better serve you, the distracted, multi-tasking, short-attention-spanned--Oh look! Cows!-- Reader.
Because I worked in the Business of Show a long time, I’m a
member of Old Show Business Veterans and Geezers Center on Spielberg Drive, off
Mulholland, across from the Chix Quix.
I could live there when I’m older and feebler but I’ve
instructed my loved ones otherwise. When Elvis has Left the Building for good, I
say put me on an Ice Flow with a Barcalounger, DirectTV and a case of Maker’s
Mark.
(Thanks to the Fossil Fuel Industry and the God Wants Us to
Ruin Earth Religious Right, there’s a good chance I’ll outlive Ice. So I’m looking into military surplus rescue
rafts.)
I’m currently too old and too fat for my own good—hell, I’m
too old and too fat for anybody’s
good—and am of the belief exercise is best enjoyed in the comfort of one’s home
while watching infomercials. Nothing makes a Cheese Nacho tastier than seeing
those Insanity Idiots run around like headless chickens proving Darwin wrong.
But it hasn’t been the same since Tony Little went to
Infomercial Heaven. The last time I saw one, it was a guy with a bad hairpiece
and a Martian accent claiming people should eat Omega Oils until they poop Codfish.
Where the hell is that “Get Rich Quick by Peddling Get Rich
Quick Books” huckster or the Hair-in-a-Can guy when you need ‘im?
Anyway, my doctor commanded me to exercise and lose weight.
I nodded politely because you don’t want to piss off a guy who can order you to
turn around and drop your pants.
Because I worked in Show Business long enough for brain
damage, I qualify to use the Old Folks Gym for $10 a month. So yesterday, I
went.
I rode a recumbent bike, which, sadly, is not a Metaphor. It
sits facing a picture window looking out at the Jodie Foster swimming pool. I recumbed
for 20 minutes. My aching ankle didn’t. I got home and watched Jodie in
“Contact” on AMC.
It’s a sign. I’m going back today.
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