2008 Woodie Awards
HUMOR: Swimming pools are like hell, just without the fire
Daniel Walters, Opinions Editor
Issue date: 10/17/06
Last Updated: 12/26/07
The classic humor column consists of the rantings of snobbish curmudgeon about something he absolutely despises. If he's smart, he mocks something that everybody hates.
"Do you know what I can't stand? Bamboo under the fingernails! Also: heavy blows to the head!"?"Yeah!" The audience says, "I totally feel ya!"
A foolish humor columnist, however, lampoons sacred cows, the very things his audience holds near and dear. "You know what really curdles my bile? Those little kittens with big blue eyes!" His body's usually found two weeks later, buried under a mountain of seething Letters to the Editor.
Guess which kind I am?
Today's Topic: Swimming. Liking it. Why I don't.
Problem numero one: The first step to swimming is stepping outside. The outdoors is a scary place full of bright blinding sunlight, itchy dust, biting gnats, bears, chupacabras and human contact. The outdoors makes me want to run back into the loving arms of my beanbag chair, as my laptop whispers sweet nothings into my ear.
To compound matters, before jumping in the pool I have to take off my shirt, lest I get my barbecue sauce stains soggy. I don't want to get all Body-Image-Show on you, but without my shirt on, I look like the secret love child of Ghandi and Wolfman. One look at my bare chest and people start donating money to third World countries. Plus, because I'm as white as Casper's albino cousin, I'm especially vulnerable to sharp pokey sunshine rays. Within minutes, my skin's goes from the color of the suntan lotion to the shade of a Communist lobster. I don't tan, I crackle. Using sunscreen strategically, however, I can make a design that, years later, will give me cancer in the shape of the Batman Symbol.
Upon arriving at your destination, you have two choices. You can gradually inch your way down the swim ladder, grimacing as the frigid water hits each part of your body. Some parts you grimace more than others. Or, more likely, you'll go with the ol' Your Friends Ambush You From Behind and Drag You Toward the Pool, as you Flail Your Arms Wildly and Try to Punch their Respective Larynxes, And They, On the Count of Three, Toss you Aloft in a Poetically Parabolic Arc …
"Do you know what I can't stand? Bamboo under the fingernails! Also: heavy blows to the head!"?"Yeah!" The audience says, "I totally feel ya!"
A foolish humor columnist, however, lampoons sacred cows, the very things his audience holds near and dear. "You know what really curdles my bile? Those little kittens with big blue eyes!" His body's usually found two weeks later, buried under a mountain of seething Letters to the Editor.
Guess which kind I am?
Today's Topic: Swimming. Liking it. Why I don't.
Problem numero one: The first step to swimming is stepping outside. The outdoors is a scary place full of bright blinding sunlight, itchy dust, biting gnats, bears, chupacabras and human contact. The outdoors makes me want to run back into the loving arms of my beanbag chair, as my laptop whispers sweet nothings into my ear.
To compound matters, before jumping in the pool I have to take off my shirt, lest I get my barbecue sauce stains soggy. I don't want to get all Body-Image-Show on you, but without my shirt on, I look like the secret love child of Ghandi and Wolfman. One look at my bare chest and people start donating money to third World countries. Plus, because I'm as white as Casper's albino cousin, I'm especially vulnerable to sharp pokey sunshine rays. Within minutes, my skin's goes from the color of the suntan lotion to the shade of a Communist lobster. I don't tan, I crackle. Using sunscreen strategically, however, I can make a design that, years later, will give me cancer in the shape of the Batman Symbol.
Upon arriving at your destination, you have two choices. You can gradually inch your way down the swim ladder, grimacing as the frigid water hits each part of your body. Some parts you grimace more than others. Or, more likely, you'll go with the ol' Your Friends Ambush You From Behind and Drag You Toward the Pool, as you Flail Your Arms Wildly and Try to Punch their Respective Larynxes, And They, On the Count of Three, Toss you Aloft in a Poetically Parabolic Arc …
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