The Club

"Hi George."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Steven. We're so glad you made it. We'd been keeping an eye on you for while."

George looks around, realizing he's surrounded by only old men, like himself. "Oh my God, I'm dead aren't I. Shit, Sylvia had been telling me to lay off those damned donuts for ions. I'm so bullheaded. How did it happen? How did I go? Oh God I hope I didn't have a heart attack while farting or something. Tell me for Christ's sake."

"George, please, calm down. You're not dead. You're just in the club now."

"The club, what the hell are you talking about?"

"The club. Haven't you ever noticed that in the gym, all old men walk around naked constantly? We stretch, we scratch, we hold our towels by our sides as if to say 'I could be using this, but I chose not to.' As younger men tie their shoes, they're made uncomfortable our shriveled manhood inches from their ears. They wonder why a man would want to walk around naked. The answer: they're in the club."

"So, I get to walk around naked now? What if I don't want to?"

"Sorry, you have to. All old men must be naked whenever they're around only other men. It's not a gay thing. It's completely a-sexual. You'll find, in time, that you too will be endlessly entertained by the quickness with which the 'clothed kind' seek out the furthest sink from our naked tooth brushing. Believe me, you'll love the new freedom."

"You're weird."

"Ok, I can live with that. Now go to the gym and drop your short shorts."