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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that wonders if fitness guru John Basedow ever dons a shirt or if he shows up on all occasions sans shirt and flexing his pecs?

Billy and his mother, Mildred, were minding their business shopping the shower curtain aisle at City Market, and suddenly Billy gasps, “Oh my, mother, that man’s not wearing a shirt and here it is the middle of November.”

“Billy, my little peanut, that isn’t any man,” says Mildred, bending to whisper in Billy’s little ear. “That’s John Basedow. It would be a crime if he were in a shirt. In fact, I’m quite sure he is exempt from all those signs in storefronts that read “no shoes, no shirt, no service.'”

Johnny marveled at the little man with big pecs as he sashayed down the aisle past them.

“Billy,” said a now-breathless Mildred. “How would you like a John Basedow workout video for a stocking stuffer this year? I know you are only 4, but it is never to early to start working your pecs, abs and tris.”


Onward this beautiful Monday morning: After umpteen hours of watching football Sunday morning, afternoon and evening, we have decided we would like to be cast in one of those beer commercials with all the good looking people having fun, drinking it up, throwing half-naked chicks into swimming pools and partying like rock stars. Then we pick up our checks at the end of the week and sign up for another outrageous commercial. That’s our idea of something pretty groovy. However, we have a staffer over in the corner with a penchant for pretty girls saying that sounds good and all, but if he had his druthers, he would sign up to shoot stills for the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, which appears ever so often in our corporate suites – like every four days.

“Wouldn’t that be the gig to have,” says our hopeless colleague, who has life size posters of all the Spice Girls pinned next to his cradle. Poor bugger, his biggest thrill in life is smelling glamour magazines with perfumed pages.


Scratching ourselves for want of subject matter, we ask ourselves this morning why it is rap musicians are always clad in extra-baggy sweat clothes that look as though their was never a seed of thought put into their wardrobe; and then you have the rockers – like Mick himself – wearing skin-tight red leather and a torn shirt. We don’t know if they have overpriced fashion designers who give them advice on what they should or should not be wearing out on stage. We might be in a crowd of one over here on West Main, but we think Liberace had it right with the elegant capes and rings and funky shades. Now, that guy knew how to thread himself up on any given morning.

With that rhinestone thought, we be outta here …

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