And I learned not to throw on in the towel

And I learned not to throw on in the towel I learned to wipe my sweat with it and keep pushing!

And I learned not to throw up on my sweat towel. I also learned I had a true friend in Danny C., who bulked up by 50 lbs just for the creative limitation it offered both of us

didn't. He never listens to me. He ate and he ate and he ate until he suddenly

he was rushed to hospital and informed of his impending death-by-obesity. "You'll humour a dying man. Fetch me some cookies won't you? And to go with the cookies can you get some

ice cold frothy buttermilk? That and cookies is my dying request." He slumped back into his hospital bed, corpulant, pale, glistening. The nurse came in. "Roll over, big fella.

It's time for your high colonic, followed by one of my ass-slapping massages...if you're gonna kick the bucket, you're going out with an ass slap, same way as when you came in...

you're going out. Right through the bung hole!" Good lord I thought making for the door, the masseuses around here have too weird of fetishes for me. I ran for the nearest coffee

shop to drown my sorrows in some steaming hot, black java. I sat with my collar up and my back against the wall, ready to run out the back way in case any of those weird masseuses

came looking for me with their spiny, prickly fingers, karate-chopping heads off and shouting out, "Trump is Great!" After the coffee, I slipped out through the bathroom window.