Bonzer Words!: The Hallelujah Gym
Can Trevor resist the invitations to join the Hallelujah gym?
Wendy Ogbourne tells a most satisfying tale.
Trevor stretched, yawned and slouched down the hall, as he heard the mail fall with a soft thud on the doormat. Though he wasn't sure why he bothered—it was rarely he received a written letter anymore. Maybe a few Christmas cards. His knees creaked as he bent to pick up the small pile. As he thought, three bills and a flyer for a new gym which had just opened down the road.
He glanced at it, and had to admit it was eye-catching—a picture of a very fat goose, standing beside a dining table, laden with Christmas fare. The goose was not looking happy.
Christmas is coming; the geese are getting fat … it said.
Don't be a goose this Christmas. Get down to the Hallelujah gym and weight loss centre. Open 365 days a year.
Clever advertising, that, he thought. He smiled wryly, as he caught sight of his silhouette in the full-length mirror in the hall. Yes, he could do to lose a few pounds—he knew that. But on the other hand, he wasn't exactly FAT, not like so many people you saw around these days. He flipped the flyer into the kitchen bin, as he finished the croissant he had been eating.
From then on, it seemed that advertisements for the Hallelujah gym were everywhere. Talk about 'in your face'!
Outside the Hospital Maternity Department—a picture of Mary, hugely pregnant, riding a donkey, hands protectively on her protruding abdomen.
A bit overweight? What's your excuse?
On the gate of the local Working Men's Club—three traditional Eastern kings, approaching the manger, carrying gifts.
Be a wise man—get down to the Hallelujah gym. It won't cost you any gold, frankincense or myrrh.
A huge billboard on the side of the road into town—an enormous star, shining down on the new Hallelujah gym building. Crowds of people approaching the doors.
Let the star guide you. The gym that's heaven-sent.
Just down the road from the evangelist church (but carefully not on church property)—a choir of angels, led by Gabriel.
Hallelujah, hallelujah! Good news for all mankind.
You could almost think the church had put it there.
Church members wrote letters of complaint to the local newspaper. But nobody was breaking the law. Lots of free advertising. The signs stayed.
In the supermarket carpark—an attractive frieze depicting dozens of people of various races, Europeans, Aboriginals, Africans, Arabs, Chinese.
Not into Christmas? At Hallelujah we accept everyone.
On trees around the Medical Centre—posters showing a rotund Santa Claus in the doctor's surgery. His face is woebegone.
Afraid of getting stuck in a chimney? Hallelujah is the place for you.
And all over town, under windscreen wipers, in shopping trolleys, inside newspapers, wrapped around lamp-posts—little cartoons of the twelve days of Christmas, with all the characters enjoying some aspect of the gym facilities.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my truelove gave to me …
a Hallelujah gym membership …
and a partridge in a pear tree.
On Christmas Eve, Trevor walked through the door of the Hallelujah gym and weight loss centre.
'OK,' he said to the receptionist, who was sporting a pair of reindeer antlers on top of her curls. 'You've got me—I couldn't hold out any longer.'
The girl smiled. 'That's what we like to hear, sir,' she responded sweetly. It's never too late to lose a few pounds, while we just love the sound of our bank account getting fat. It's a win-win situation, wouldn't you say?'
**
Wendy writes for Bonzer magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au
