Rastaman folk tales: About a weightlifter

Discussion in 'The Artist's Corner' started by juzy, May 29, 2009.

  1. Rastaman folk tales: About a weightlifter

    Why am I always talking about junkies? I have a story about weightlifters... So, here is a weightlifting story.

    So, here is a weightlifting story. Imagine a surly burly weightlifter at home - flushing porkchops with beer, listening to country hits then watching some martial arts DVDs. He is a weightlifter indeed - his face won't fit any non-custom motorcycle helmet and his butt would break a chopper. But the poor guy is frustrated - the life is sucks! It sucks indeed. He wants to lift some weight - he is a weightlifter, after all - no way, dude, he doesn't have any. It's not a season, man - all sport dealers are out of stock.

    So, our weightlifter takes off the couch - and goes to the sportmen's coffee shop. This place is full of frustrated athletes - some of them didn't smell any weight for a whole week! But dealers should bring some tonight - a good one! Six guys wasted themselves yesterday trying to lift one darn thing. It's so dear, too... and they really doubt they can afford it.

    Look at all those sportsmen! Swimmers are breaststroking out of the pool. Let's bum some money from them? Alas! They won't understand - they have ears full of stuff. Some of them are swimming already for a whole fortnight - how those fat cats could even afford it? How? It's easy, man - real swimmer must have friends who always would share at least a couple of dive-ins. Visit one, visit second one... look, you are already swimming high!

    Next to them, there are race-drivers meeting. They are always talking about fuels and its volumes. When I met one of them and asked to club together with us to buy a weight because we are short of cash he refused: "I am not interested anymore in this prolly entertainment. It sounds just crazy - to lift weights. If I'd have some money..." Of course, if he would have some money, he would buy some fuel with matching hardware or, at least, few spare wheels. It is all because he doesn't dig weights at all.

    Alongside, my friend runner ran by - we weren't even able to catch up with him. He is running a marathon named after the Thirteenth Amendment. Other marathoners are flashed by without even saying hello. And nobody of them has any weight. And we have money maximum for two smallest weights...

    Suddenly, from behind the corner, our good friend Nick Schwarzenegger appears - it is his sport's nick name so nobody would not suspect anything. His step is heavy, his eyes are red and his smile tells it all. And he rolls a whole huge wheelbarrow of weights! "So, guys" - he tells us - "today we gonna have a party: my Jamaican uncle sent me a parcel. Then, all weightlifters' faces are blossoming, and they go to the nearest park. They put weights on the bar tightly to make sure they won't fall away, and start taking turns lifting it. Two turns - feel so good! All of a sudden, cops appeared. They are shouting: "Hey, damn weightlifters, finally, we got you!..."

    What's next? Weightlifters beat all shit out of those pigs to ensure they won't disturb their cultured pastime. We are sportsmen, not damn junkies after all! Nobody can deprive us of our rights!

    Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke

    Ðàñòàìàíñêèå íàðîäíûå ñêàçêè :: $text[$page]

    English translation: (c) juzy

    juzy: Про штÐнгистÐ

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