What makes Jersey bounce ?

Pal Joey!

by E R Sash

MY DYNAMIC BODY was emblazoned with virility. My lats had an awe inspiring curve. My super pecs were spine tingling to behold and my muscle pump needed a ring job. In short, I was a finished product, a product manufactured by "Oh Masterful One," Joe Weider. And now I wanted to meet him, give him thanks, bless him Godspeed in his noble mission and at the same time see what manner of man it was that had led me along, no, virtually driven me to the very pinnacle of muscular glory.

I had made reservations to spend a few days with him and now in preparation for my journey to Mt. Olympus I packed all the things Joe had recommended to me on my climb to massive success. I dutifully folded into place form fit T shirts of every hue and color; black, ebony, charcoal, navy blue, midnight purple, jet and royal coal compromised my cherished lot. Then into a special valise went my sunglasses, pose briefs, Hawaiian Wrap-around, eye patch, short shorts, levis, mineral oil, body shaver, two measuring tapes, one steel and one cloth to be used depending upon who I was going to measure, myself or others. Next went goat milk pills and also a few badly taken, poorly exposed photos of John Grimek which I planned to sell to Joe for his magazine. Reluctantly I decided to leave my complete set of looking glasses behind for the house of mirrors still owned more of them than I did.

My heaviest trunk, containing Togof, was called for by two husky bronze Adonis-like porters with life-guard shoulders and ballerina waists (obviously Weider pupils). However, before they could trundle it off to the station I measured their arms at 19¾ pumped, for they were curling the trunk in cadence as they marched to the door so as to retain their championship form. And thus with soul aflame I departed.

Upon my arrival at the modest offices of Weider Enterprises I stated the nature of my business to a receptionist. After I was carefully searched and my bags torn asunder the drawbridge was lowered and I crossed the moat with a sure foot and a steady hand. I was home.

Upon gaining entrance to his office proper, I thrilled to the marrow as Joe strode toward me, the picture of power, agility, grace, speed, strength, virility, health, athletic well-being and confidence. With a remarkably well coordinated movement, as if it were poetry in motion, he offered me his hand. I licked it appreciatively and groveled. "Mr. Weider," I sighed, "Mr. Weider." "Please," he said, "let's not be formal, you may call me Sire." Then I drew myself up and gazed upon this wonder of nature. His titanic shoulders surged majestically as I looked him up and down. Not only was his body a statue-like creation of his own making, but it wore well the natty clothes he had draped upon it. His manly torso was encased in a tailored leotard, his Roman sandals gleamed and he wore wristlets of pure gold with a manly grace seldom attained by mere mortals. His superb legs did justice to full length tights. His princess tiny waist midsection was almost invisible to the naked eye. Having just finished his days work at the publishing game we chatted amiably about this and that for a good while. Then Joe invited me to go through a workout with him.

In his complete and I mean complete gym in the back of his offices he changed into mesh stockings and with a crimson kerchief tied about his neck and a fetching cummerbund about his waist began warming up for his body building workout with a few light calisthenics. These included a set of two of 25 tiger bends, repeated free arm planches, both one and two hand presses from the hand balance position. Next Giant Swings, and Iron Crosses were smoothly executed on the horizontal bar and Roman rings. Then a few quick routines on the tumbling mat, including Baroni's, Tinsicas, Tignas, Rudolphs and a few more stunts yet unnamed because of their difficulty, brought his organism to the desired pitch for his barbell workout.

He pirouetted deftly to the weight section of his gym and began a most remarkable routine. I thrilled delightedly to see that Joe employed every principle himself that he always advocated for his pupils. Not once did his jet-charged biceps curl according to Hoyle as he super setted them. His upper back and shoulder routine was of such magnitude and the pumping principle so fully utilized that blood ran from his ears. He flushed set after set in a special room marked M E N. For his massive pecs he did 1000 flying movements and to my utter amazement left the ground, so sincere and intent was his effort. For those universal favorites, his lats, he did many many sets of wide grip chins behind neck with Leroy Colbert tied to his waist. Joe was specializing on his legs at the time and did over 100 exercises for them in his research clinic. As he has not named most of them as of yet, I am at a loss to report just what it was he did.

Finally he had done justice to his physique and he prepared to brush up a bit on Olympic lifting. Joe quickly doffed his body building attire and swiftly donned his leopard skin toga, pace sandals and iron wrist protectors, which he wore midway between shoulder and elbow. He cleverly tied the laced headband which did a magnificent job of holding back his shining lustrous coiff.

His presses were flawlessly executed with many pounds above the world's record while he braced his back against a post to prevent the slightest bend. The quick lifts were done with such amazing speed, style and form that the human eye could not follow his movements and for the record I must now make it know that if reps in excess of three were done Joe would have had to wear asbestos gloves for so fast did he move that the bar became hot. I never really learned his records in the three competitive lifts for his bar only held 475 lbs.

During one of his infrequent pauses for rest Joe asked me to demonstrate my ability at the world's greatest exercise, one which I had used almost to the exclusion of all others because of its constant mention in the various Weider publications. Anxious to make a good showing I loaded the bar to my limit. Loosened my bra and reclined on a heavily padded bench. But before I could do my third rep Joe had quickly and neatly bent pressed me, the bench and the loaded bar while I was doing my stuff. "Say, I cried, when he put me down lightly, "that's quite a stunt." He lowered his eyes modestly. To finish off his workout he sprinted two miles at a fast clip, topped this off by climbing the rope hand over hand up a 90-foot length, caught onto a trapeze bar with the agility of a trained performer and executed a twisting triple somersault into the capable arms of Earle Liederman. (Why, Mr. Sash, haven't you hear that Earle made the big switch? See page 20. Ed.)

In the locker room while we were relaxing we played a few games of scrabble, chess, checkers, parchesi, whist, monopoly, dominoes and the like. Needless to say, Joe was an expert at each one. He played with reckless abandon seldom seen in these troubled times. As he was tallying up his score for the last bridge game on an abacus, I suggested that we dine. It was then that I discovered another facet of Joe's personality, generosity. He let me buy him dinner! Over steaks, quick wate, sunflower seeds, raw unsalted nuts, sauerkraut juice, sea kelp and wheat germ oil we discussed good books, music (classical, jazz, swing, dixie, chamber, symphonic and grand opera), ancient, medieval and modern history, star gazing, literature, phrenology, economics, government and politics, welding, anthropology, logic, hieroglyphics, germ warfare, nuclear dynamics, languages, the Spanish Inquisition, slander, libel, bigotry and the publishing business. Then to the delight of our fellow diners, Joe broke into song and performed admirably difficult arias from many famous operas accompanied only by the thigh slapping of robust Doctor Frederic Tilney who had left his table where he had previously consumed copious quantities of pizza and beer. When the applause had died down we ended our meal with a gallon of orange juice, some dates which Joe had grown organically in his window box and a "few injections, compliments of the good Doctor who promptly bid us adieu and returned to his table to rejoin Dave Fig, Spencer Wheatgerm and an unsightly blob of female flesh who claimed to be the wife of one of them.

We settled back and chatted quietly. "Joe" I said "rumor has it that you make quite a bit of money at this business of yours." "Maybe, maybe not," he replied, "I'm not really sure. You see," he went on, "I hate money and all that it stands for. I'm in business to help others and that's that. If there happens to be some sort of profit left after a months time has elapsed, I simply have it loaded into boxcars and hauled to our blast furnaces." I shed a few quiet tears.

And so it was, we spoke of fools and kings, wise men and underlings. Until at length, Joe, in a magnetically compelling voice full of deep rich tonal qualities, completely devoid of twang, sayeth, "Hold! I tire of this sport, your idle frivolous chatter is as the buzz of flies about my ears." Next, with a delicate leap he sprang nimbly to the center of the smorgasbord table. His mighty feet in regal defiance were cunningly planted in the deviled ham. The powerfully molded contours of his throbbing calves writhed imperically as they thrust themselves into view from within his pedal pushers. His torso bursting with rage and fulfillment of manhood could hardly be held in the black sleeveless turtleneck sweater containing it. His courageously formed arms of steel and cable, glared with an agonizing aura of brilliance in the dimly lit room. His lionlike head was carried well upon a columnlike (Corinthian style) neck. His regal mane sparkled with shimmering highlights as it hung in a glossy pony tail, so styled with artful dexterity by QUAINTANCE, court beautician. His huge olive eyes rolled in their sockets and then sprayed forth steaming jets of oil as his righteous fury neared its summit.

Women swooned, men threw lighted matches and the room was popping furiously with flashbulbs as Vulcan and his well trained crew captured picture after picture from every conceivable lowly angle. He seized a huge platter containing sweetmeats and smashed it over the glinty pate of the maitre de (who was in reality Brother Ben in devilish disguise) thus summoning silence as he knew it would. He bellowed; "Beggars, sons of jackals, commoners, now hear me and hear me well:

Before the next full moon I demand
of your misely souls a subscription to my publication.

A workable retirement and pension fund for King Clancy.

Ten-thousand guinea pigs.
No male child or man with a body
devoid of stretch marks, under penalty of severe confinement.

Lastly I demand a set of triplets
worthy of taking first prize in our
championship "Mister Messanabie"
Contest held in the northernmost
confines of the Canadian backwoods."

At this point a pitiful wailing emanated from a man attired in a black and white checkered suit complete with derby, spats, weskit and handlebar mustache. "Master, master, grant me a boon. I am the product of old fashioned, outdated, outmoded training methods. I fear the acquirement of stretch marks will be an impossible task." "Seize that man, seize him!" screamed Joe. "Shackle him to the bench press for forty days and forty nights as an example to all others like him."

"And now innkeeper more wine for my friends and a tankard of ale for myself." I heard Joe command as I headed for the door. I was anxious to get home, my lats were shrinking fast.