Ever since man has been able to walk, he has been able to jump. And ever since man has been able to jump, he has been able to cripple himself by falling backwards off of a trampoline into a washing line whilst in a drink-induced stupor at 1 o' clock in the morning.
Trampolining, or "Non-Officiated Fabric Aided Jumping" as it's known to a select few, is the name given to describe when one or more people use a trampoline for purely non-sexual purposes. It is believed that such activity provides a sense of fun, and sometimes release for the participants; this bold claim is backed up by research which implies that all the bouncing and jumping kills off the memory cells in the brain, thus freeing the partakers from flashbacks to the time they accidentally had a threesome with their parents at a costume party. Not enough bleach can ever make you clean after that, you sick, sick, evil twisted individual, I hope you die.... but trampolining can make it better! (Of course.)
But now that I think about it, anyone (you) who has already just about erased that memory through a years-worth of constant hardcore trampolining will be instantly reminded of the occasion by the words in this article. Meh.
The effects of Trampolining
One person. No alcahol or drugs. Rules Strictly adhered to.
In this situation, one may bounce up and down, in an orderly fashion, not straying from the centre. People laugh at you as they walk past your house, deep-down you cry. If you find yourself doing such, you are a gimboid.
Let's take it up a notch....
Two people. No alcahol or drugs. Rules kept in mind as guidelines.
Now we're talking. You can take down your mate, get 'bouncy' with the missus or even push the boat out and do a somersault. But still, maybe after 5 minutes you'll get bored and sit down, and we wouldn't want that, would we......
Three people. A few brewskis, no drugs. Rules are thought about, then suppressed to the furthest corner of your brain (you sprinkle that nagging feeling of responsibility with some beer).
You're all beginning to get slightly tipsy. The old neighbours come out to complain but you take them down with a well aimed cyder can, you can give them the money for a replacement hip later so who cares?
Four People. A few brewskis, a couple of bottles, a pack of cigarettes and some weed. The Rules are singed with your lighter then fly into the bush soaked in alcohol, your cat pees on them.
Things are looking up, everything starts to get a little hazy and everyone starts to fall over a bit more. You're hands go for a little wander as one of the ladies present falls on to you, bringing about a mass orgy. Hooooooooooo yeah! Suddenly a thought pops into your mind, one of you, three of them. I make that Pimm's o' clock!
6 people and one dog. A number of brewskis, many bottles, a pack of cigarettes, some weed and a bong full of (something). The rules have set your fence alight, the flames slowly spreading towards your neighbour who is still laying unconscious after being hit by the can of cider.
It turns out your mother was in on the orgy, and since you did it with everyone there..... you drink some more. All six of you are now lying down on the contraption, talking about the colour of the air and similar inequities as the dog absent-mindedly licks your crotch. Good boy. Your nieghbour screams for help so, filled with compassion, you chuck her what you think is a line of rope to pull her out of the ocean that has just surrounded everyone. When in actuality you've just shot her in the forehead with an air rifle. Someone takes the mushrooms away from you. Your house catches alight.
19 people, a dog, and what some one swears is a kebab (though it seems to twitch when touched). Too many brewskis to count (so, in your current condition, over 5) You can't bounce for the sheer quantity of empty bottles everywhere, two empty pitchers of Pimms and what you suspect is vomit. Some weed, several bongs, a mouthful of pills and a drug dealer on standby. You don't have enough brainpower left to work out the spelling let alone pronunciation or understanding of the word 'rules.'
Okay, maybe you've hit a ceiling here. You're house is being looted, whilst on fire, and your neighbours' corpses are being held up by some of your friends on a big pike, a pike which you are certain was once an integral structural support in your house. You can't see straight, or sideways, you're covered in blood and are currently making love to what is either a very furry midget, or someone's dog. You can't lift your limbs and the "kebab" is biting into your neck. Sirens sound nearby, the ice cream man must've come to deliver that rum raison he hadn't ordered. The trampoline lurches dangerously under the weight of 19 people, causing the dog/hairy-midget to panic and subsequentially bite down on your nads.
One person. No drugs or alcahol. The rules being strictly adhered to.
When you wake up four days later you are lying naked on the scorched patch of earth that used to be your garden. Everyone has been arrested except for you who they thought to be dead. Your house has collapsed and your car is gone. You brush aside the sea of bottles and syringes to get to the rubble. Fixed on the only standing door frame is a notice from the council, it lists the charges placed against your mother: The possession, use and wholesale of Class-A, Class-B, and Class-C drugs. Unlicensed alcohol proprietry, being drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, unlawful incestuous relations with a minor, adultery, arson, and grand theft auto.
It seems the cops have pinned the whole thing on her.... idiots. You squint to see how many years she's been sent down for, but someone seems to have drawn a funny sideways 8 where the number should be. Miraculously, the trampoline is still in good condition. Dusting down the three inch thick layer of vomit, excrement, alcohol and dog hair from your body, you bounce up and down, in an orderly fashion, not straying from the centre. People laugh at you as they walk past your house, deep-down you cry. You are a gimboid.