I Am A Failure As A Physical Trainer the commune's Rok Finger doesn't want to hear your body talk
Monday, Oct. 29, 2001
It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent
exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish
Harlem have all failed in the past. But I have to begrudgingly admit
that like a Nazi eating a ham ‘n’ Russian front sandwich, I’ve bitten
off more than I can chew. I am a failure as a physical trainer.
In my brazen youth of two months ago, I volunteered to help my nephew
Camembert, a scrawny wire-thin nerd for whom the very word “wormy” was
invented, get back into top peak physical condition, like yours truly.
It was an embarrassing incident to say the least, for both myself and
poor Camembert, who to this day is still checked into a clinic for those
with critically poor self esteem, listed in stable but serious condition.
Camembert, son of my wife’s sister Gretastock, was recently in a severe
car wreck and had been milked like an attractive cow by the insurance
company during his stay in the hospital. On top of everything else, now
they wanted him to hire some expensive physical trainer of vaguely
Swedish descent to get back into shape. Ha! I’d rather him die than
be taken advantage of like that! Camembert wasn’t ready to go quite
that far, but through arrangements with my wife, Arvelyn, I put myself
in charge of his physical recovery.
Well, needless to say the first few weeks are better left unmentioned.
It was nobody’s fault, to look at it objectively, Camembert was way too
eager to please and I rushed in a little uninformed. I still say he
walked a good minute like a veritable stallion, even if the doctors
with their all-powerful “medical science” say the spine is broken and
he’ll never walk again. I was disappointed, sure, but I could still do
a lot for upper body strength even if he was paralyzed for life. Still,
you should have seen him walk for that minute, it was quite a sight.
As most of you know, I don’t like to work out with fancy gym equipment,
I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my jock. So I was damned if I’d let
Camembert do the same. The first step was to lift my car, just like I
used to keep in shape. And let’s be fair, people--it’s a Volkswagen, it’s
not a Cadillac or anything, I’d say it’s fair game and definitely not
“cruel and unusual punishment” like the Geneva Convention says in
that quote the judge cited. But, admittedly, perhaps Camembert was a
little out of practice to start so big. I say if you can do it there’s
hardly a greater confidence booster. I surmise with his legs all floppy
thanks to Mr. Toothpick Spine that fiery little Camembert couldn’t quite
get the leverage he needed. I assure you when I set it to neutral I was
only trying to help him in his effort and of course I wouldn’t have done
so if I had any inclination the car would roll on him, but I guess that’s
why they give you a driver’s manual, to detail these sorts of things.
I was at my most desperate by this time, as you might guess, and I had
basically given up on my proven methods of training. And knowing me, you’d
probably say, “Rok, acupuncture?” Yes, acupuncture, you precocious,
smarmy bastard. And when did we get on the first name basis all of a
sudden?
The eastern art of applying needles to pressure point seemed like a sure
shot to overcome Camembert’s numb legs and now-broken arms. I thought I
might at least stimulate the muscles and keep them in shape while he was
incapable of moving them. Let me tell you now, good people, acupuncture
is the biggest Chinese put-on since that papier maché wall they
constructed. It’s clearly just a scam to earn back from gullible
round-eyes the money they lose in their restaurant buffets. Either that
or a specific kind of needle is required that they keep secret, because
I can tell you the crochet needle is not an effective replacement.
Camembert forgives my well-intentioned mistakes, at least while the
demoral fills his bloodstream. Whether or not I’ll ever forgive myself is
another story.
Okay, I did. Phew. It was hard to live like that, but it’s taught me a
lesson. There are just some things Rok Finger isn’t cut out to do in
life. But I’ll always know I should try it first just to make sure it
is or isn’t one of those things. Who knows? Maybe there’s still a
carpenter, beer distiller, opera singer, or astronaut in me still waiting
to get out.
Milestones
the commune's scratch 'n sniff look at last year's office potluck
Opportunities
Pants a Capitalist
Free Virus Baggies
Take a Kitten, Please
the commune book selections
the commune's Bear in Rearview
the commune's Big Book of Duke
Faces of the commune
the commune 100: Leaders and Revolutionaries
the commune 100: Traitors and Noodledicks
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Site Map's Somewhere in the Glovebox |
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Terms of Gary Busey |
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