Wednesday, January 27, 2010

"A Quick Spot"

“Hey, man, can I get a quick spot?”

“Sure. How many are you going for?”

“Just a little warm up. I’ll go for a thousand.”

“A thousand reps?”

“Yeah, just let me pump them out.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“About an hour.”

“You want me to spot you for an hour?”

“Yeah. It’s just common courtesy. Gym etiquette. Come on, bro, let’s get going. I need a lift-off.”

“Wait a second. I have things to do. I need to get out of here in fifteen minutes.”

“What the hell, man. You said you’d spot me.”

“You are planning to do far more reps than I planned on.”

“Big whoop. If you can’t take the heat stay out of the kitchen.”

“What the hell? You still want to do a thousand reps.”

“Right. Come on, man, the time will fly by. Just watch the TV.”

“What? No! I’m leaving.”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’d spot you, man.”

“Yeah, and I’d be doing six reps. It would take twenty seconds.”

“What happened to manners?”

“I’m leaving. I hope your pecs rip off around your eight-hundredth rep and you die.”

“Sweet God! You are being very offensive!”

“You’re ridiculous! A thousand reps is your warm-up? What’s your workout like? Actually, don’t answer that. I have no idea why I’m still talking to you and I don’t want to hear what your insane answer is. You are like no human I have ever seen. You behave like a cartoon. I don’t care anymore for your lies or your exaggerations or your crazy workout or your crazier demands. I want to never see you again, unless it’s your photo in the obituaries. Good luck finding a spotter.”

“Right. Anyway, you still good for that spot?”

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

"Science"

“Hey Don!”
“What?”
“What are you doing up there, man?”
“I’m gonna jump.”
“All the way down here?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll die.”
“That’s the point.”
“Well, uh, don’t do it!”
“You can’t stop me now! This is it. No more miserable life.”
“Come on, man. Get down.”
“I’ll jump in ten seconds!”
“Wait!”
“Ten. Nine. Eight.”
“Hang on, Don! This is actually great.”
“What?”
“This is perfect. Just hang tight for a second, then you can jump or whatever.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m in the middle of my physics homework and you are totally acting out one of the problems. You can help me figure it out.”
“But I want to die!”
“Just let me calculate your potential energy first, then you can kill yourself.”
“Potential energy? What does potential energy have to do with my suicide?”
“Because you’re so high up there you have a lot of potential energy, like your body’s going to have a lot of energy when it slams into the ground. I just need to know your mass. What’s your mass, Don?”
“Jesus. I weigh one fifty.”
“Okay. And how many floors up are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay! Thanks, Don.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s all the data I need. I can write out this example now. See you later, Don. Good luck with the jump.”
“Wait. Helping you with that problem made me feel good.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you shouldn’t kill yourself.”
“I think that’s a good idea. Thanks.”

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Why Steven Phillips No Longer Works for the Campus Newspaper

We asked junior Tom Levinstein to predict who will be in this year’s Super Bowl. “Probably whoever wins the most games,” he said. Then we asked for an early prediction on the NCAA men’s basketball championship. He spat on the ground and said, “Probably whichever team does the best in the tournament and then scores the most points in the championship.” We began to feel agitated with Tom’s answers but asked for one last prediction. Which country’s team has the best shot at the World Cup? “Whoever gets the most goals, you dipshits,” he said. At that point we were offended at the way Tom had treated us. He was not taking these questions seriously enough. We threw Tom into our van and put a bag over his head. Mike hit Tom in the stomach with a crowbar to, you know, teach him a lesson on respect. We figured he was a changed man after our big show, so we asked him, “Tom, where are we supposed to drop you off?”
“Probably wherever I live, geniuses.”
We detected more than a little sarcasm when he called us geniuses since he had shown such disrespect before. I gave Tom a wedgie and then asked, “Are you done with the salty answers, Tom?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll probably be done with them when I stop saying them, you moron.”
I was absolutely fuming at this point. This young man was so sarcastic that it made me want to make him stand behind a horse and then have that horse kick him right in his face. So Craig drove the van to Briarland Farms and we got in position. I asked one last question, to give Tom a chance to redeem himself. I said, “Tom, who do you predict will win this showdown, you or the horse?”
“Uhh,” said Tom, “how is this showdown scored?”
“Whoever kicks the other one in the face wins.”
“Well in that case…”
He paused, making me think that maybe he was going to make a legitimate prediction and allow us to stop all of this violence. He continued, “I bet the winner is going to be whoever kicks the other one in the face, Einstein.”
I became so agitated in one instant that every muscle in my body tensed as tight as possible and many of my veins and arteries burst. I felt rivers of blood course through the inside of my body, eventually pooling in my feet.
I gave the horse, Maurizio, a tasty carrot. That was the signal. He delivered a sturdy kick to Tom’s face. I felt weak. I looked at Tom, who was laying on the ground, looking for his teeth.
“What now?” I said, my voice soft. I could barely stand and it was difficult to breathe. “What now, Tom? Do we continue this madness? I will be dead soon. Look at what your sarcasm has cost us! When will this end?”
“Uhh…probably when either you die or I stop making these comments, Poindexter.”
I felt death approaching and I stifled my anger. “Tom,” I said. “Tom, look at me. As soon as I die, Tom. As soon as I leave this earth, I am going to start training. I am going to go straight to Hell’s Gymnasium and I am going to train for decades. All day, every day, getting bigger and stronger, waiting for the moment you appear and I can destroy you. I will rip you to pieces, Tom.”
“My prediction for that is, uh, no you won’t.”
Was that a legitimate answer? He finally did it. Just as my final breath wheezed from my collapsed lungs. Tom Levinstein is a jerk.