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Yabba Dabba Doof


Guess what?  I am now the proud owner of an Ab-Rocker.  As seen on television!

You've probably seen the infomercial for the Ab-Rocker, which generally airs between infomercials for the Ab-Roller, the Ab-Doer, the Ab-Glider, the Ab-Hurter, the Ab-Honker, the Ab-Abber, and five hundred million other fitness devices that promise to a) give you powerful and sexy-looking abdominal muscles, b) take up only five minutes of your time, and c) fit under your bed.

Fitting under your bed is a major selling point for these devices, although there's a commercial for an even smaller ab-workout device called the Abslide, which is so small, you can take it with you wherever you go, provided you own a gigantic purse.  I'm not sure why you'd need to take it with you, since you only need to use it for five minutes a day anyway, but I guess if you only get three and a half minutes done at home, you can take it to a friend's house and put it under their bed or something.

But the thing about the Ab-Rocker that sets it apart from the others is that it's part of the Body-By-Jake system.  You may have seen Jake on his infomercial, where he shows off his professional knowledge of personal fitness as well as the fact that he is a complete moron.  Jake has specfic rules for working on your abdominal muscles, and he calls them his "Abba-Dabba-Do's" and "Abba-Dabba-Don't's."  It would seem that the first "Abba-Dabba-Don't" would be to never, ever use the phrase "Abba-Dabba-Do."  But that's Jake!  He's a retarded oaf!

You may be wondering why I would spend money on an Ab-Rocker, something I am clearly skeptical of.  Well, I didn't.

I found it in a Dumpster!

I was taking a cigarette break at work, wandering around in the alley outside the building.  I looked at the Dumpster, and there it was, the Ab-Rocker, in all its Ab-Rocking glory, and I thought, "Hmm.  I want that.  That should be mine."

(I need to note here that the Ab-Rocker was on top of the rest of the junk that was filling the Dumpster, so it's not like I went digging through piles of stinking refuse to find it.  Really.)

Of course, this leads to a much deeper question, such as why would I even touch something in a Dumpster, particularly something that I am clearly skeptical of, and something that someone was initially not skeptical of, but is now skeptical enough of to huck it into the trash.  I mean, it could be broken, and even if it isn't, the fact that it's sitting in a Dumpster isn't exactly a ringing endorsement for the product.

The answer:  I wanted it.  I thought it should be mine.  So, after work, I moved my car over near the Dumpster, and stopped, leaving the engine running.

The problem with pilfering garbage near work is that you really don't want anyone from work seeing you do it, or they will tell everyone in the office about it, and everyone will laugh at you and call you "Garbage-Picker."  I would, anyway.  So, I had to be careful, since it was quitting time and people were trickling out of the office.

As I found out, picking crap out of a Dumpster isn't any easier in front of complete strangers, and it seemed to be rush hour for meandering teenagers, elderly sightseers, and other passersby.  Four boys walked slowly past my car, pausing to have a smoke in front of the very Dumpster that held my prize.  When they finally left, I got out of my car, but an old woman in hospital scrubs was walking her cocker spaniel a few feet away, so I quickly popped the hood of my car, pretending I had car trouble, which isn't hard because my car rattles and wheezes more than the Tin Man with emphysema.

I pretended to scrutinize the engine while the woman's cocker spaniel had what must have been the longest and slowest bowel movement in canine history, and then they left.  I started for the Dumpster again, but just then, three girls moseyed by.  They were just cute enough for me to worry about looking stupid in front of them, a problem I solved by leaning back over the engine and slamming my forehead into the corner of the raised hood of my car, digging a nice furrow into my head just above my receding hairline.

I somehow remained conscious and standing, and finally, the girls left.  No one seemed to be coming out of the office, so it was time to get my free discarded Ab-Rocker!  Blood slowly Abba-Dabba-Dripping down my forehead, I hurried to the Dumpster and yanked the Ab-Rocker out of it, causing the lid of the Dumpster, which the handles of the Ab-Rocker had been holding up, to crash down on my head, in roughly the same spot that was already throbbing and bleeding.

Moments like these are why I rarely, if ever, leave my apartment.

I angrily wrestled the Ab-Rocker into my trunk, managed to close it, then looked up as my supervisor's Mercedes slid by.  I'm not sure if she saw me scurrying around, bleeding and stealing trash, but I was beyond caring due to the multiple head traumas I had sustained, which, as far as I can tell, have entirely obliterated my memories of grammar school.  This is probably a good thing, because I'm guessing I got beat up and cried a lot.

The Ab-Rocker is still in my trunk.  I'm waiting until it gets much later and the streets clear before I sneak it up to my apartment.  I've also realized that if it is broken or doesn't work, or both, as I suspect, it'll be just as embarrassing throwing it in another Dumpster.

I mean, stealing it from the trash is one thing.

I just don't want people thinking I paid for it.*

*Doof Update!

Last week I stole an Ab-Rocker from a Dumpster and brought it home.  I've used it faithfully every night since.  The results?

Well, I know why it was in the Abba-Dabba-Dumpster.  It's an Abba-Dabba-Piece-Of-Shit.  Doesn't work.  By which I mean, it functions, it doesn't fall apart, and I can sit on it and make rocking motions and work my abs, but it doesn't actually do anything.

Not that I was expecting rock-hard abs in just one week or anything.  I thought it might take two or three.  But it doesn't even seem to be exercising my abdominal muscles.  Or any muscles.  Try to understand, if I have to jog briskly across a four-lane street to beat the light, I can feel it in my legs for a week.  If I super-size my meal deal, the added weight of the extra French fries makes my arms ache for the rest of the night.  I'm in really poor shape here.  So, an exercise device with even minimal muscle-working potential should make me feel something the next day.  With the Ab-Rocker, I feel nothing.  If only real exercise were this painless!

Of course, karma took care of me on Sunday.  Gambling isn't legal in this town, so for kicks, I sometimes try to eat seafood from a fast-food restaurant.  I took a chance on a fish-sticks meal from Jack-In-The-Box, and the house won.  I spent most of Sunday periodically vomiting.

Talk about an ab workout!  I can hardly move today, my stomach is so sore.  Yarking works all the muscles of the stomach!  The upper, middle, and those hard-to-work lower muscles.  Supporting my weight over the can did wonders for my arms and shoulders, while running to the bathroom worked my thighs, calves, and buttocks!

You know, we always hear about how supermodels are sticking fingers down their throats to lose weight, but has anyone considered the muscle-toning benefits of bulimia?  You heard it here first!