Flab Tournament 2K3

Scientists have discovered a powerful biological process that transforms all fried chicken in my vicinity into lard around my belly, which means it's time to hit the gym again. Unfortunately, joining a gym is made as confusing, frustrating and painful as possible, in an attempt to capitalise on fragile egos and brains flushed with adrenaline. Gyms won't tell you their rates over the phone - you have to go in and meet with a "fitness consultant". These idiots then take you for a tour, babbling incessantly about how you'd love the Pilates class and the Pump class and the circuit and the Tae Bo class, even if you're a blind, paraplegic Hari Krishna. Then they sit you down and discuss your fitness goals, which I usually write down as "Wake Cthulhu from his evil slumber" and "Body toning", which doesn't even slow them down - they nod and smile and say "cool" and "awesome" a lot. At this stage, price has not even been mentioned, and already they're rattling off activities that will help me raise the dark god of madness, so I'm forced to stop them and ask outright what the prices are before I'm forced to kick them in face. This is the point when it all gets really annoying.

Pricing structures for gyms are designed to be horrendous, but fitness idiots are trained in sweaty underground bunkers to tangle the prices into Gordian levels of complexity with their breathless, hypnotic prattle. This isn't an explanation, it's an assault, designed to batter your brain into mush so that something inside you breaks and suddenly you'll sign anything to make the pain go away. Admin fees, monthly prices, couple deals, discounts, joining payments, pro rata schemes and bonus plans all fly about like a hurricane. Some of these are scribbled down, then crossed out and replaced with new numbers for deals that are only available to you, and only you, for today only.

Interruptions like "Wait, now these numbers don't add up!" are met with looks of bafflement and repitition of their babble, as if speaking it over and over might spontaneously cause it all to make sense. Questions of any depth are beyond these trained animals, so they jog lightly off to query a slightly more sophisticated idiot, the gym manager. Those few spare seconds of peace break the spell, and I finally get a handle on their pricing scheme. My wallet explodes in terror. They return and start to gibber at me again, but I decide that I've suffered enough. I feign a broken spine and flee, bound for a place of simplicity and joy - a place of simple pleasure. The fried chicken shop.