Ladies and gentlemen, I read the newspapers. I know what this new health care thing is really about. Go ahead, read to the bottom: there’s a section at the end that they’ve been trying to hide, from all of us. I call it TTOTS: The Tax On Tanning Salons. What Obama didn’t tell you is that the next time I take the ferry to Staten Island, hang a left on Father Capadano Boulevard, get a slice at Gino’s, and then get my weekly tan on in Caribbean Delights, Il Duce will be taking his 10 percent.
This is problematic for me. Summer is coming: if I don’t get my brown going, then the clubs might as well be closed. And then my new tight white t-shirt and hair gel would go to waste. I won’t even start about the months and months of Muscle Milk virtually flushed down the toilet.
Recently, after calling my Mom and getting a good lift in at the gym, albeit with minor annoyances (I’m looking at you, sweatpants—don’t go sleeveless until you bench 250, and that’s an exact figure), I realized that there was a stopgap solution: I could tan outside.
It’s great. It’s cheap (still have to have my Banana Boat oil—$8.50 when you buy in bulk). It’s healthy. I even got some reading done, now that my Sports Illustrated came in. The bulbs in Caribbean Delights were too bright, and sometimes they lit the pages on fire.
I saw all these people there too, which was funny, as if they didn’t know they had just opened a Sun-tastic in the Garage. I was like, guys, I’m in college, I can’t afford the high-end stuff, but let’s be real—some of these people looked like they could splurge.
Honestly, I would say I don’t mind the outdoor thing. I might say I love it. But I’ll go back inside soon; I’ve got some coupons to finish off.
PREDATORY HUMORA great annoyance to readers of library books is to find margins and type itself covered with humorous inscriptions. There
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