Klaus Encounters
Over the past year The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have belonged to the local Siouxland YMCA. Mrs. G. really enjoys going – she takes several classes there, and she can whip my butt any day of the week in elliptical machine endurance.
The Y has been good for us – it’s made Mrs. G. feel really good, and for me…well, it’s given me great material to blog about. Such as this story.
Now, in the past I’ve told you about the N.O.G.s in the Y’s Athletic Club – The Naked Old Guys. You know - the older gentlemen who come into the YAC, immediately remove all of their clothing, and then stand around in their birthday suits and chat. It’s an amazing phenomena – seeing (whether you want to or not) upwards of two dozen Naked Old Guys at a time wandering around the locker room, looking for someone to discuss news, weather, sports, politics, or their latest illness/ailment with. It’s like a social club for wrinkled up and/or extremely hairy nudists, only without the tea and the little watercress sandwiches.
I’ve never understood the appeal of the N.O.G. Club – I mean, can’t these guys put on some pants and go hang around a coffee shop somewhere? I’m the kind of guy who prefers to shower, get dressed, and get the heck out of Dodge. I have no real desire to stand around in my all-togethers and discuss farming, the Today Show, or my sore back with the N.O.G.s.
But sometimes you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you’re somehow unwittingly dragged into a conversation that you can’t get out of. That’s what happened yesterday.
One of the biggest, baddest, hairiest, nakedest N.O.G.s is a fellow named Klaus. Klaus usually shows up at about 7:00 AM, about the time I’m heading to the showers. As is tradition with the N.O.G. club, Klaus immediately buys a one-way ticket to Nakedtown, then strolls around the YAC, looking for someone to talk to.
Or, in Klaus’ case, he usually ends up sitting on the bench outside the shower, waiting for people to come to him to chat.
Now, there are two HUGE problems with this scenario:
#1 – Klaus has manners that are…how shall we say… piggish at best. He likes to park his naked hairy ass on the shower bench, and then proceeds to belch and/or break wind for a good ten minutes. He then describes out loud what the experience was like for him:
“BUUUUURRRRPP! Oh, excuse me, but I feel much better now!”
“BRRRRRRAAACCK! Whew – excuse me! Too much broccoli!”
You get the picture.
Problem #2 with Burping/Farting/Naked Klaus on the Bench is this:
#2 – He likes to sit spread eagle.
Memo to self: I DON’T need to see that!
Now, I’m sure that in the outside world (where he is fully clothed, his knees are firmly together, and his bodily emissions are in check), Klaus is a nice guy. He speaks three languages fluently, and he’s always been nice to me. I mean, it’d be much worse if naked-hairy-farting-burping-spread eagle Klaus was also a jerk. So I have to give the man some benefit of the doubt. It’s just that…I don’t have any real desire to look at his nakedness and beyond every morning as I get out of the shower. I’m much prefer to just towel off, get dressed, then get the hell out of there.
But not yesterday.
I got out of the shower, and there was Klaus, naked on his bench, his knees pointing towards polar opposites, burping away. (I actually already knew he was there, because you can hear his burping from a city block away. He’d make any good frat boy weep with pride, I’m telling you.)
Anyway, Klaus was there, waiting for someone to chat with. And since I was the only one within a 10 yard radius at the time, I was the one.
As I said, if it were up to me I’d just as soon get dressed and be on my merry little way. So I tried to keep the pleasantries to a minimum, and without being overly rude to the hairy naked man who was now showing me parts of his anatomy best reserved for his proctologist's point of view, I made my best attempt to get away.
But no. Klaus would have none of that. He wanted to chat, and he was not going to be ignored, you know. Turns out he’s an instructor at the same college I attend, and last week he happened to spot me in the halls. Conveniently, we had an outside common bond that was perfect fodder for a N.O.G. conversation! So he wanted to talk about my classes. Then he wanted to talk about some of the other instructors I have had. He then wanted to discuss my future education plans.
It was 10 minutes of this – Me, Naked Klaus, and his Full Southern Exposure.
I tried getting away – I really did. There I was, half wet and not really enjoying my nudist game of 20 Questions, yet I just couldn’t seem to escape. Every time I moved closer to the doorway, Klaus would ask something else.
I had three real choices – I could be an inconsiderate shmuck and run away, I could feign illness and/or tardiness and quickly slip out and hope that I wasn’t overly rude, or I could stand there and take one for the N.O.G. team. You see, I knew that there were other N.O.G.s wandering around behind me, yet none of them offered to tag-team with me and take my place at the Alter of Klaus. Bastards – all of ‘em.
Anyway, after about 10 minutes of talk with the naked man, I was finally able to escape when someone else came out of the steam room and made the mistake of asking Klaus about what he’d been eating lately, because as he said, “the steam room smells like sauerkraut farts.” Klaus’ attention was immediately diverted to the thought of new, interesting aromas wafting from down the hall, and I was able to back out slowly. I was then able to get dressed and get the heck out of there, before anyone else was able to nominate ol’ Tommy as the perfect inductee to the N.O.G. society.
Long story short, I got there this A.M., and there was Klaus’ swimsuit and towel on his bench, waiting for him. (Old King Cole called for his pipe and fiddlers three; Old King Klaus called for his towel and a glass of Alka-Seltzer.) But Klaus was nowhere to be seen – was he in the steam room, adding to the noxious aromas?
I didn’t stick around to find out. A 30 second shower, and I was a goner. Bing, Bang, Bye. No Naked Klaus tales (or tails) today.
So let this serve as a warning to all you guys out there – athletic clubs aren’t always what they seem. If you join one, make sure you have plenty of stories ready to tell. Oh, and please bring a towel. Please.
The Y has been good for us – it’s made Mrs. G. feel really good, and for me…well, it’s given me great material to blog about. Such as this story.
Now, in the past I’ve told you about the N.O.G.s in the Y’s Athletic Club – The Naked Old Guys. You know - the older gentlemen who come into the YAC, immediately remove all of their clothing, and then stand around in their birthday suits and chat. It’s an amazing phenomena – seeing (whether you want to or not) upwards of two dozen Naked Old Guys at a time wandering around the locker room, looking for someone to discuss news, weather, sports, politics, or their latest illness/ailment with. It’s like a social club for wrinkled up and/or extremely hairy nudists, only without the tea and the little watercress sandwiches.
I’ve never understood the appeal of the N.O.G. Club – I mean, can’t these guys put on some pants and go hang around a coffee shop somewhere? I’m the kind of guy who prefers to shower, get dressed, and get the heck out of Dodge. I have no real desire to stand around in my all-togethers and discuss farming, the Today Show, or my sore back with the N.O.G.s.
But sometimes you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you’re somehow unwittingly dragged into a conversation that you can’t get out of. That’s what happened yesterday.
One of the biggest, baddest, hairiest, nakedest N.O.G.s is a fellow named Klaus. Klaus usually shows up at about 7:00 AM, about the time I’m heading to the showers. As is tradition with the N.O.G. club, Klaus immediately buys a one-way ticket to Nakedtown, then strolls around the YAC, looking for someone to talk to.
Or, in Klaus’ case, he usually ends up sitting on the bench outside the shower, waiting for people to come to him to chat.
Now, there are two HUGE problems with this scenario:
#1 – Klaus has manners that are…how shall we say… piggish at best. He likes to park his naked hairy ass on the shower bench, and then proceeds to belch and/or break wind for a good ten minutes. He then describes out loud what the experience was like for him:
“BUUUUURRRRPP! Oh, excuse me, but I feel much better now!”
“BRRRRRRAAACCK! Whew – excuse me! Too much broccoli!”
You get the picture.
Problem #2 with Burping/Farting/Naked Klaus on the Bench is this:
#2 – He likes to sit spread eagle.
Memo to self: I DON’T need to see that!
Now, I’m sure that in the outside world (where he is fully clothed, his knees are firmly together, and his bodily emissions are in check), Klaus is a nice guy. He speaks three languages fluently, and he’s always been nice to me. I mean, it’d be much worse if naked-hairy-farting-burping-spread eagle Klaus was also a jerk. So I have to give the man some benefit of the doubt. It’s just that…I don’t have any real desire to look at his nakedness and beyond every morning as I get out of the shower. I’m much prefer to just towel off, get dressed, then get the hell out of there.
But not yesterday.
I got out of the shower, and there was Klaus, naked on his bench, his knees pointing towards polar opposites, burping away. (I actually already knew he was there, because you can hear his burping from a city block away. He’d make any good frat boy weep with pride, I’m telling you.)
Anyway, Klaus was there, waiting for someone to chat with. And since I was the only one within a 10 yard radius at the time, I was the one.
As I said, if it were up to me I’d just as soon get dressed and be on my merry little way. So I tried to keep the pleasantries to a minimum, and without being overly rude to the hairy naked man who was now showing me parts of his anatomy best reserved for his proctologist's point of view, I made my best attempt to get away.
But no. Klaus would have none of that. He wanted to chat, and he was not going to be ignored, you know. Turns out he’s an instructor at the same college I attend, and last week he happened to spot me in the halls. Conveniently, we had an outside common bond that was perfect fodder for a N.O.G. conversation! So he wanted to talk about my classes. Then he wanted to talk about some of the other instructors I have had. He then wanted to discuss my future education plans.
It was 10 minutes of this – Me, Naked Klaus, and his Full Southern Exposure.
I tried getting away – I really did. There I was, half wet and not really enjoying my nudist game of 20 Questions, yet I just couldn’t seem to escape. Every time I moved closer to the doorway, Klaus would ask something else.
I had three real choices – I could be an inconsiderate shmuck and run away, I could feign illness and/or tardiness and quickly slip out and hope that I wasn’t overly rude, or I could stand there and take one for the N.O.G. team. You see, I knew that there were other N.O.G.s wandering around behind me, yet none of them offered to tag-team with me and take my place at the Alter of Klaus. Bastards – all of ‘em.
Anyway, after about 10 minutes of talk with the naked man, I was finally able to escape when someone else came out of the steam room and made the mistake of asking Klaus about what he’d been eating lately, because as he said, “the steam room smells like sauerkraut farts.” Klaus’ attention was immediately diverted to the thought of new, interesting aromas wafting from down the hall, and I was able to back out slowly. I was then able to get dressed and get the heck out of there, before anyone else was able to nominate ol’ Tommy as the perfect inductee to the N.O.G. society.
Long story short, I got there this A.M., and there was Klaus’ swimsuit and towel on his bench, waiting for him. (Old King Cole called for his pipe and fiddlers three; Old King Klaus called for his towel and a glass of Alka-Seltzer.) But Klaus was nowhere to be seen – was he in the steam room, adding to the noxious aromas?
I didn’t stick around to find out. A 30 second shower, and I was a goner. Bing, Bang, Bye. No Naked Klaus tales (or tails) today.
So let this serve as a warning to all you guys out there – athletic clubs aren’t always what they seem. If you join one, make sure you have plenty of stories ready to tell. Oh, and please bring a towel. Please.
posted by Tommy G at
10:02 AM
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