W. BRUCE CAMERON - The Dream Krusher

One of life’s great ironies is that for the first 18 years of my existence, I tried everything I could think of to gain weight, while for the most recent 18 years I’ve tried everything I can think of to stop gaining weight.

I was a spindly, spoke-like teenage boy, with wrists and thighs of equal diameter and every rib on display in my frail torso. In seventh grade, my father said I should lift weights to improve my physique, but I didn’t have a physique. I weighed barely enough to stay rooted to the ground.

Bullies took note of my frail construction, and I spent my days skittering around the school corridors like a loose rabbit, terrified I’d run into one of them. They were monsters with names like “Mack” and “Tank.” And “Sally.”

Then I spotted an ad in the back of a comic book for a Killer Karate Krusher — a ring of steel with five springs attached to it. You put your fingers into loops attached to the springs and squeezed them together, flexing secret hidden unknown muscles and building up “pulverizing force” in your forearms. After just six weeks, I would be able to rip a tennis ball in half.

Pretty Girl: Say, would you throw back that tennis ball I just hit over the fence?

Bruce: Gladly! (Rips ball in half.) Ha ha!

Pretty Girl: I love you!

To get a handle on just how strong I would be in six weeks, I grabbed a tennis ball and, grunting and straining, attempted to pull it apart. All I succeeded in doing was baffling my dog, who wore an expression of dumb amazement as she watched me wrestle with the thing. The Killer Karate Krusher ads didn’t lie, it was hard to shred a tennis ball!

That meant the rest of it must be true, too. Soon I’d be able to punch through cinderblock walls with just one rigid finger. Girls would shyly ask to hold my hand, but I’d have to wear padded gloves so I wouldn’t inadvertently Krush them. Men would come to the house to ask my Dad if I would marry their daughters.

“You’ll have to ask him,” my dad would say as he picked up the pieces of tennis balls from the front yard.

“Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t want to do that,” the men would meekly reply, leaving me gifts of cash and Beatles albums.

“I don’t blame you,” my dad would chuckle. “Frankly, he intimidates me.”

Of course, I would never hurt my dad or any member of my family except my sister. And even my sister would be spared once she realized she could no longer come into the Krusher’s room and steal his stuff with impunity.

I sent off my money and soon was working the Killer Karate Krusher, shrieking in pain as my previously secret hidden unknown muscles made themselves known. My dog watched me turn purple with effort, most likely thinking that if all children were as smart as I, my species probably wouldn’t be in charge of the food chain much longer. While I labored, I recited a list of girls who would supposedly find me attractive next time they saw me. “Kim,” I’d groan. “Susie. Laura. Cynthia.” What I should have said was “none.”

After just two sessions with the Krusher, the only way I could turn a doorknob was with my teeth. Rip a tennis ball? I couldn’t even pick up a tennis ball.

Six weeks into the program, my forearms were so tender that a fly landing on them felt like getting hit with gunfire. I could no longer write my name. Tennis balls watched me walk past with a mocking expression. I was unable to punch through cinderblock with a rigid finger — or even use a rigid finger to ring a doorbell.

I was losing weight because I couldn’t lift food to my mouth. Girls noticed me, but not in the way I wanted — even with my belt tightened all the way, my pants kept sliding low on my hipless body.

So I gave up on the Krusher, and to this day those muscles have remained secret, and hidden, and unknown.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at http://www.creators.com.

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