2010-01-16One of life's great
ironies is that for the first 18 years of my
existence, I tried everything I could think of
to gain weight, while for the most recent 18
years I've tried everything I can think of to
stop gaining
weight.
I was a spindly, spoke-like teenage boy, with
wrists and thighs of equal diameter and every
rib on display in my frail torso. In seventh
grade, my father said I should lift weights to
improve my physique, but I didn't have a
physique. I weighed barely enough to stay rooted
to the ground.
Bullies took note of my frail construction,
and I spent my days skittering around the school
corridors like a loose rabbit, terrified I'd run
into one of them. They were monsters with names
like "Mack" and "Tank." And "Sally."
Then I spotted an ad in the back of a comic
book for a Killer Karate Krusher — a ring of
steel with five springs attached to it. You put
your fingers into loops attached to the springs
and squeezed them together, flexing secret
hidden unknown muscles and building up
"pulverizing force" in your forearms. After just
six weeks, I would be able to rip a tennis ball
in half.
Pretty Girl: Say, would you throw back that
tennis ball I just hit over the fence?
Bruce: Gladly! (Rips ball in half.) Ha ha!
Pretty Girl: I love you!
To get a handle on just how strong I would be
in six weeks, I grabbed a tennis ball and,
grunting and straining, attempted to pull it
apart. All I succeeded in doing was baffling my
dog, who wore an expression of dumb amazement as
she watched me wrestle with the thing. The
Killer Karate Krusher ads didn't lie, it was hard to shred a tennis ball!
That meant the rest of it must be true, too.
Soon I'd be able to punch through cinderblock
walls with just one rigid finger. Girls would
shyly ask to hold my hand, but I'd have to wear
padded gloves so I wouldn't inadvertently Krush
them. Men would come to the house to ask my Dad
if I would marry their daughters.
"You'll have to ask him," my dad would say as
he picked up the pieces of tennis balls from the
front yard.
"Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't want to do that,"
the men would meekly reply, leaving me gifts of
cash and Beatles albums.
"I don't blame you," my dad would chuckle.
"Frankly, he intimidates me."
Of course, I would never hurt my dad or any
member of my family except my sister. And even
my sister would be spared once she realized she
could no longer come into the Krusher's room and
steal his stuff with impunity.
I sent off my money and soon was working the
Killer Karate Krusher, shrieking in pain as my
previously secret hidden unknown muscles made
themselves known. My dog watched me turn purple
with effort, most likely thinking that if all
children were as smart as I, my species probably
wouldn't be in charge of the food chain much
longer. While I labored, I recited a list of
girls who would supposedly find me attractive
next time they saw me. "Kim," I'd groan. "Susie.
Laura. Cynthia." What I should have said was
"none."
After just two sessions with the Krusher, the
only way I could turn a doorknob was with my
teeth. Rip a tennis ball? I couldn't even
pick up a tennis ball.
Six weeks into the program, my forearms were
so tender that a fly landing on them felt like
getting hit with gunfire. I could no longer
write my name. Tennis balls watched me walk past
with a mocking expression. I was unable to punch
through cinderblock with a rigid finger — or
even use a rigid finger to ring a doorbell.
I was losing weight because I couldn't lift
food to my mouth. Girls noticed me, but not in
the way I wanted — even with my belt tightened
all the way, my pants kept sliding low on my
hipless body.
So I gave up on the Krusher, and to this day
those muscles have remained secret, and hidden,
and unknown.
►J◄
►J◄
To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at
www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about
Bruce Cameron and read features by other
Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists,
visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at
www.creators.com.
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