Recent conversation between, now adult, Brothers:
Ryan: Yeah, I know this chick who does improv and she's not funny at all. She's like not funny, not cute, and kinda stupid. Actually, she doesn't really have a whole lot going for her. Except that she's, like, well-intentioned.
Dan: How did she get into improv then?
Ryan: No idea. She's like 'yeah, I do improv'. And I'm like, "Uh, is it serious improv"?
Dan: Well, there are different levels of improv. You can join a beginning level improv class.
Ryan: No, I don't mean a serious level of improv. I mean serious improv. As in, not intended to be funny, improvisation that's meant to be serious.
(My brother proceeds to act out a "serious improv" scene.)
At the spry age of 17 my brother had a vision. A year-round hockey player then, no doubt Ryan was in good physical shape. But he wanted more. It was after I spoke with him a few weeks ago when I realized Ryan had burning in him a desire to achieve the most ambitious athletic status the south side of Chicago had ever known:
"Obviously, I wanted to be jacked".
His objective was clear. But only through the search of Ryan's own soul would he determine his vessel to achieve ultimate masculinity.
A lifestyle of rigorous exercise and a scrupulous diet, you say? This is, of course, the route losers choose and fail. No, it would be science that Ryan would eventually turn to in his quest for the eternal six-pack.
And on a frosty Chicago afternoon in the year 2000, hope manifested itself in the form of an info-merical. It was as if Jesus Christ himself had purchased the ad space: The AB-TRONIC.
The AB-Tronic is a belt that goes around the waist (or arms or thighs), and creates electronic impulses which stimulate the muscles. The AB-Tronic can shape muscles while you sit, nap or watch other people exercise. Ten minutes using the AB-Tronic is equivalent to 600 sit-ups! And the best part is no one can see it, as it's easily masked under a shirt. Ugly words like "dedication" and "hard work" have been replaced with "electric shock therapy". All from the privacy of your own home.
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Needless to say, my brother had found his vessel. Though even miracles come with a high price. The AB-Tronic was $100 (in 1997). Ryan needed another investor. His little brother Dan seemed all to easy. (See: Me, 14, sporting man boobs and low self-esteem.) My brother, the dapper salesman, approached me in his Green Day Dookie t-shirt. He was methodical with his pitch, pointing out my flaws while simultaneously painting the portrait of what my life could become. And what was most effective came in Ryan's knack for "just telling it like it is".
"Look, we both know you're never going to actually work out. We could go halves on this and both get a sweet six pack. And maybe you could finally get some chicks".
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I was sold. A few nights pay for picking up old people's dishes and I could live the dream. The order was placed that afternoon.
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It was like Christmas when the package arrived. A super secret Christmas, hidden from my parents who's outdated view of exercise had no room for a new-age machine induced six pack. They simply didn't get it. Makes sense, Humprehy Bogart never had a fucking six pack. I, on the other hand, grew up watching the biker from Terminator 2 put a cigar out on Arnold Schwarzenegger's massively ripped chest. The times they were a changin.
Any new form of technology comes with glitches, and the AB-Tronic was without exception. It was suggested that a gel be applied to the belt to form a barrier between skin and electric volts when in use. The problem: the bottle of gel supplied by the company was very small (around 8 oz.). This in turn lead Ryan to be very conservative about the amount of gel he allowed each of us to use per electro-session.
Dan: There is not enough gel on this thing, the belt is literally zapping me!
Ryan: We have to conserve. Quit being a bitch.
It was less then two weeks later that my brother and I were comparing electric burns on our stomachs in the form of a red rash of bumps. Ryan decided on a trip to Wal-mart and purchased a family-sized container of lubrication. In hindsight, I wonder what type of lubrication he purchased, which isle he found it in and what the expression on the cashier's face looked like. I suppose it's neither here nor there. The point is, we were going through those family-sized bottles of lube faster then old couples do on boner pills. It became much to expensive to keep purchasing lubrication at the rate we were using it.
It was either face repeated electric burns or toss the belt. Ryan and I decided that while we could handle 30 minutes of painful electric zapping, permanent burn rash might not be what chicks were into. Thus, we retired the AB-Tronic.
As years grew, so did the dust on the AB-Tronic. Yet every now and again, the Bush boys threw a party when thier parents left town. On these occasions, the belt would be placed on an unsuspecting drunk guest. With no need to inform them of the nessecary gel application, we cranked it up. Ryan and I would wait patiently for screams of pain as the belt pumped 600 electric volted sit-ups onto thier stomach.
