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Published on January 8th, 2014 | by Richard Black

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Trampolines, Hangovers and Barfing in Public

For those parents looking for a thrill, or at least a little attention, I highly recommend an activity that involves other toddlers, their parents and approximately 3,500 square feet of trampolines at 7:00 in the morning.

For an added bit of excitement I would suggest attending the aforementioned trampoline zone after a night of heavy drinking.

I’d heard of these places before, these havens of disease and trophy wives with their perfect little children all bouncing around in anorexic splendor and $500 track suits. Still, in a rare moment of weakness, I thought it might be fun. And really what wouldn’t be fun about running around an area the size of Belgium, covered in trampolines?

After seeing our neighbors install the attractive nuisance/trampoline last year Darcy has wanted to have a go at them and I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for trampolines. My emotions are undoubtedly due in no small part to a babysitter I had as a young boy on the brink of puberty who asked me to join her, quite innocently, on her parents’ trampoline.

The young girl, let’s call her Carrie, and her bosom flipped and jumped and cart wheeled around for a good thirty minutes as I did my best to remain seated having experienced a…phenomenon common among teen boys that rendered me unable to stand upright without any embarrassment.

I never saw Carrie after that day. I’m certain the fact that I didn’t take my eyes off of her breasts for the entire afternoon had nothing to do with the matter.

My newest experience was nothing like that time so many years ago.

For starters my three year old daughter was present and most of the women in the room were swathed in enough Lycra and Spandex to make Twiggy look a little chunky.

For seconds there was, in no way ,any possible chance that this experience would be erotic. I haven’t had an erection in three years, largely because I’ve seen the end game of sex. Add 37 toddlers to the mix,  a gaggle of mothers who look like Iggy Pop’s sister, enough trampolines to cover Delaware and its a safe bet that I won’t have any interest in sex for the next three or four decades.

Darcy, my daughter, had a great time flouncing around, flouting the rules about running and climbing and pretty much anything any reasonable toddler would want to do when confronted with enough trampolines to cover a small state.

While keeping Darcy from tackling the other children I spent the bulk of my time scoping out the various trash cans throughout the area for a good place to barf. It turns out that jumping up and down vigorously during a hangover when one is prone to vertigo is conducive to nausea.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for the sake of our story, I did not projectile vomit on any small children or even their parents.

Once my stomach had settled I scoped out the room and played a game of my own devising called  “Bang Me, Bang You, and Sex After the Apocalypse”.

For those of you mouthing the words as you read this post I’ll explain the details. The world has just ended. A planet killer asteroid, super volcano or Kathy Griffin’s next world tour has annihilated all life on the planet aside from the airport, mall, bus station, or public restroom I happen to be in.

After squaring up the talent and the competition I then calculate my odds of setting up a harem, repopulating the earth with my progeny and setting up a new world order.

It all sounds like a nice idea but, for the most part ,I’ve found the exercise to be a real soul crusher and not just because the world has ended. Even in fantasy it turns out that I’m still something of a screw up. Despite being locked in an enclosed space with the only man in the continent I believe that most women would take vows and devote themselves to celibacy or become reluctant lesbians.

Now before anyone gets upset let me lay your fears to rest. I have no intention creating the apocalypse or being in any way unfaithful to my wife (God rest her soul).

Still it’s nice to be noticed.

It’s been five years since I’ve been hit on by anyone. The last time I got any attention was when a homeless guy dressed as a Leprechaun asked if I wanted to see his “lucky charms”.

Sadly the women at the Bounce and Barf trampoline factory weren’t all that interested either. Perhaps they were more interested in caring for their children, making certain that the latest bunch of crotch fruit didn’t break a nail or losing a limb. It may have been the overpowering stench of stale booze and cigarettes I carried with me as I blithely bounced around the room with my daughter that kept the ladies at bay and running for the exit.

I prefer, however, to think that each and every one of these women grabbed their children and fled whenever I came within 20 feet in an effort to maintain their marital vows. I’ve been known to produce an orgasm in women simply by staring at them for more than five minutes and I commend these young mothers for staying faithful to their husbands despite my overpowering, raw animal magnetism.

It is a blessing and a curse and one, I’m afraid, my daughter will carry as well.

 

 


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