Conclusion to An Unfortunate Course of Events.

For those of you who missed Part One: Scroll down past the picture of the chick pointing at the dude's junk and read "An unfortunate course of events."

And now, Part 2

“Pervert!” “Sick-o.” “Ass-pirate.” “Sigfreid and Roy’s personal ball washer!”

The insults ejaculated from the ladies’ mouths. They stood resolutely in their attack postures. A rumble loomed. This went beyond a cancelled gym membership. I feared for my life.

The cardio room fell quiet except for the 70’s porn soundtrack. An odor of Elizabeth Taylor Diamonds perfume mixed with chick sweat hung in the air. I had managed to step off the elliptical trainer and wander to the center of the room. The ladies had encircled me like a pack of hyenas. We were in a stand-off. I made an attempt at levity:

“Say, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?” I asked with forced magnanimity. “Nothing. She’s been told twice already.”

[I should interject that a herd of martial arts-trained women doesn’t warmly receive humor that could be construed as sexist.]

The women launched their attack. I had 2 bogeys approaching from my 12:00. From the corner of my eye I spied a clandestine flank formation. The first bogey charged! She jumped in the air with a mighty cry . I suddenly found myself on the business-end of a cardio jumping sidekick. I ducked and rolled to the side. She missed me. The Jumping-Jane Fonda caught nothing but air as she sailed past me and into an exercise bike. Jacked her shit up, too. I think she caught a handlebar in the gash.

Everyone halted briefly to contemplate my deft maneuver. I even impressed myself. I dodged that kick like a pro. I felt a surge of confidence boil my blood. After all, I wasn’t just some muscle-bound oaf. I spend a good 20 minutes with the heavy bag on Tuesdays and Thursdays (Thank you, Billy Blanks Tae Bo tape!). If these chicks wanted to rumble, I’d oblige them. I hit my best ass-kick pose and eyeballed several of the ladies. I had to show these fem-bots who they were messing with. I might just have to open myself a can of ass-whoo… Suddenly my right leg buckled like John Kerry at a gay-rights rally. One of the kick boxers caught me in the back of the knee with a sharp kick. Cheap shot, but effective. As I stumbled, a Brittany Spears stunt-double moved in and delivered a reverse punch to my solar plexus. I heaved and collapsed to the floor. I withered for a few seconds as I labored to catch my breath.

I have to admit. Brittany can pack a punch. The ladies’ morale was high. Suddenly I heard a battle cry: “Finish him! Ladies, execute Defense #7 GROIN ATTACK.” I was contemplating just lying on the floor in a ball and letting the situation dissipate. But the thought of 30 feet taking turns trampling my beanbag prompted me to spring to my feet, a la Karate Kid fight scene. The ladies’ contempt gave way to blind rage. They converged on me. I had to think fast. I darted to the wall and grabbed a cardio barbell -- 12 lbs of rubberized death in trained hands. Recollecting a scene from Enter the Dragon, I twirled the barbell in a brilliant kata. It impressed the women enough to maintain a respectable distance. I was able to establish a 3-foot radius of safety around my person with my makeshift staff. I slowly advanced toward the exit. The hyenas followed in a tight circle. They searched for the slightest hole in my defense. I had to talk some shit to let them know I wasn’t intimidated. “You want some of this, beeee-YACH?” I was taunting them now. “I can pop a silicone breasts in 3 milliseconds with this muthafucka.“ As I spoke, I made my way toward the exit.

Then I heard her speak: “I’m gonna fuck you with that barbell, you Nick Lachey looking’ mother fucker.”

Huh? I strained to see the person who uttered the threat. The voice came from down the hall, in the shadows. I peered through the blur of my spinning staff. I was able to distinguish the silhouette of a very large female form -- or else my health club was now enrolling marine mammals. I couldn’t be sure. To my horror, a woman emerged. And she was the biggest bull-dyke you ever saw, dressed in stretch pants and a polo shirt, Doc Martin’s and several sweatbands. She twirled a whistle in her left hand and held a clipboard in her right. Over her shirt pocked read “Instructor.”

Our eyes locked. I continued twirling my staff. The bull dyke instructor wasn’t impressed. She smirked at me and revealed a neglected set of teeth. Then she spoke out the side of her mouth. “Fall in ladies. Grab some bench. Today’s lesson is how to defend yourself against a pole attack, and then fuck the assailant in his punk-bitch ass with his own weapon.”

The women responded at once. The fell in along the perimeter and sat as instructed. I felt less easy against The Instructor than the 15 Barbies. But I didn’t have a choice. The Instructor wanted to snap into me like a Slim Jim. It was just like that scene in Romeo and Juliet when Tybalt and Romeo duel. Only in this case, Tybalt was a big, bull dyke with a hair lip and too much Brut cologne.

The Instructor made her move. Faster than I could notice, she flung her clipboard at me like a greased throwing star. It made a beeline for my throat. Luckily my staff intercepted the projectile. Unfortunately, the force of the clipboard upset the balance of the twirling staff. Several milliseconds later, the end collided with my crotch. Flop! Ugh. Nothing like a shot in the grapes to remind you that you’re in a death match with a man-hating lesbian karate instructor. I heard a thump. Julio had fainted. He spilled his mango-orange protein smoothie on the cardio floor. You’d swear he was the one who took a shot in the beanbag. Oh well.

Immobilized from pain, I could only watch The Instructor charge. She saw her chance. I knew if she caught me in her grasp, I’d be 198 pounds of hamburger meat working its way through The Instructor’s alimentary canal. Never! I collected myself as best I could. I had one shot. I cocked the staff behind my head and hurled it like a javelin into her sternum. My weapon found its mark. Thud! The Instructor froze. Her head cocked. Her face grimaced. She looked like she was trying to hold back a nitro methane fart. Then, she collapsed.

The room fell silent. Even the gay sailors fell silent, although not because of my amazing feat of athleticism; it was a cuddling scene. I guess gay porn has those.

I leapt over The Instructor’s carcass and darted out the exit. Tomorrow, I’m looking into a Bally’s membership.

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