Kylie, Pot Plants & The Great Escape
Signing a gym contract is a lot like signing your soul over to the devil, only worse – the devil doesn’t rape your bank account every month via the strange, foul, dispicable medium named Direct Debit.

The gym I was at was officially shit. It was called Life. And its since – unsuprisingly – closed down. But before it closed it went through a transformation in a desperate attempt to claw back a bit of trade, it went trendy. It started playing Kylie tracks, which made me angry. Granted, I’d love to get hot and sweaty with Kylie, but not in this sense. They even introduced pot plants – fucking POT PLANTS!!! Seeeshhhhh!!! One time I quipped: “It’s Life gym, but not as we know it,” and made everybody in the changing room piss themselves laughing. OK, I was the only person in the changing room...

I went through my twice-weekly gym routine for a few weeks, but frankly I couldn’t stand it anymore. To add insult to injury they’d moved the multi gym away from my weapon of choice – the lateral trainer – so I couldn’t have a good, decent, honest perv over any lady who happened to be toning her inner thighs, watching as her growler slowly ate her crotch fabric with each and every groaning, straining, sweaty crunch. (There were times I felt like going over and giving these ladies a cigarette when they’d finished).

So, after I’d officially had enough, I visited the reception and told them I’d like to cancel my membership. They asked me why, I explained I didn’t like the new MTV ethos behind the place, Kylie’s voice went through me like nails down a blackboard, and that the pot plants were – quite frankly – scaring the bejesus out of me (spider plants are fucking nightmareish, horrible, terrible things).

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off.

I told them, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off too.

And I left, cancelled my direct debit, and forgot all about Life.

A couple of months later I start receiving letters. One a week, then two a week. They started off pretty tame, but after a while they got to the legal equivalent of ‘give us our fucking money or we’ll break you’re fucking kneecaps.’ Now they’d pissed me off. I mean really pissed me off.

So I decided to go back to the gym – one last time, and have it out with them. I called my mate Nicky, who’s a great big brutish fuckwit from Essex who looks like Shreks uglier, bigger, harder brother, and went down.

The look on the face of the girl behind the reception desk was great, she looked like she’d just been entered by a particularly nasty and well endowed incubus who had a penchant for buggery. “Can I help you, Sir?” she asked.

I explained I wasn’t going to be using the gym anymore. I explained I didn’t like the place, we talked about Kylie and the pot plants, I flashed her my ID membership card. She went to get the manager – when he turned up, the incubus appeared to move onto him, using whatever ethereal mighty cock power to playing havoc with his sphincter. He let out a little yelp. He looked round at the other patrons; a scene, apparently, was being made.

So, as you have to with large companies, village idiots, and fuckwits in general, I explained my situation again. Kylie – check, pot plants – check, didn’t like the place anymore – check.

He took another look at me. I drummed my fingers on the counter, my mate Nicky stood behind me looking all hard and menacing, and the manager said: “So you just don’t like the gym anymore? Is there… any other reason…erm… you can think of… errr…..” I remained silent. Eventually, he agreed to cancel my membership. On the spot. No questions asked.

“Thanks,” I said. “Nicky, you can wheel me back to the car now,” and Nicky did, grasping two great hands like sides off beef round the handles of the wheelchair and pushing me back out the lobby and to freedom outside. You could’ve heard a pin drop as we went. Though in my head the theme music for The Great Escape was playing on a continuous loop... On the way back to the car I started to hum it, Du-Dah Du-Du-Da-Du-Dah, and Nicky joined in, after calling me a cheeky twat a few dozen times.

(My girlfriend works with kids with cerebral palsy… if she ever finds out I ‘borrowed’ one of the foldable wheelchairs she occasionally has stowed in our flat, she’d fucking kill me)…
( SpankyHanky, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:19, 6 replies)

Abolutely
cocking superb.
( gareth_alien will be human again at, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:34, closed)

You
evil, clever fucker.

*click*
(berk, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:41, closed)

Oh God yes.
Many times have I had to endure Kylie or Ricky-twatting-Martin or Macy-cunting-Gray when trying to concentrate on not falling off a treadmill.

Here's to sticking it to the man...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:47, closed)

confused?
yesterday i saw this reasonably fit bird, in a wheelchair.

she had HUGE tittybags that looked most suckable
however, she didn't have any legs to speak of

so, i asked myself if it would be a good or a bad thing, not having the legs

obviously the stockings and what not would be out, she wouldn't able to go on top, unless she had great balance, the whole, 'legs around the neck' malarkay, footjobs will also be out, as would a host of other things

benefits include easy access for oral, vaginal and obviously, anal. you could just lift her up and stake her onto your by now, shuddering, hard on. she could hang onto you and you would bang her stumpy torso.

i decided it would be a good thing and in fact would really like to cum on what was left of her ruined limbs.



she also had her own wheels, which would be nice
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 15:23, closed)

Please let this
be true
(CheatingRabbit, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 16:01, closed)

Quite excellent, mate
I've heard all sorts of horror tales about trying to get out of gym memberships - next time I need to do it, I may just follow your lead.

*click*
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Tue 14 Jul 2009, 16:45, closed)