I'm sick of hearing you brag about how tight an' muscular your abs are. So, you got quite a six-pack there, from all that working out you do. So what!

AND: I'm sick of hearing you brag about your precious Toronto Maple Leafs, and how they're gonna murder the Rangers

SO: I scored us some great tickets, practically on the ice, to see the Rangers slay...,I mean play... the Leafs at Madison Square Garden. That's it, we're going together, buddy. You make it down for a long weekend in NYC, plenty of grueling tickle challenges, plus a major tickle punishment bet that we've made on the outcome of the game. Point spread punishment.

Afternoon before the game, we're hanging out, drinking some brews, challenging each other. I whip out a brand new Rangers jersey that I bought for you. I figure, that since I paid for the tickets and I'm putting you up, least you can do is wear the jersey to the game and root for the Rangers with me. In fact, I insist on it, buddy.

"No fuckin' way", you say. You ain't rootin' against your precious Leafs.

"Wanna bet", I say?

Being the cocky bastard that you are, you accept the bet even before you hear what it is.

You're up, Tuff Guy. Time to do some inclined crunches, the kind that you always brag about beating me on. If you beat the challenge, I will wear your Leafs jersey and root for them losers. If you lose, there will be one extra Rangers Fan in the Garden tonight, yellin' "GO, RANGERS!!" at the top of his lungs.

All set? Strip down to yer gym shorts there, pal. I set up my board. It's 9-foot long, 14-inches wide, got lots of hooks and holes in it, top end braced against a series of 2 x 4's in the wall, bottom end on ground. Rangers jersey hanging where you can see it. I bet it's gonna fit you real nice, LOSER.

Lie on yer back on that board, feet at the high end.. High end only 3-feet off the ground, slant is only 35% angle. Piece of cake, right? Thick padded leather restraints are locked around yer ankles, then locked to hooks at the top end of the board. Bare feet hanging over the end of the board. Ropes go around yer upper quads, securing them tightly to board. Two short pieces of clothesline rope, one tied around the base of each of yer big toes. Other ends fed through hooks in the side of the board, and yanked hard. Forces you to pivot yer feet outward, and pulls them back, force-flexing them, toes point outward at 45% angle. You can't fucking move yer bare feet at all.

Alright, buddy. Lace yer fingers together behind yer neck. Athletic tape wrapped around yer hands, forces them to stay laced. Pressing yer wrists down close to yer shoulders, more tape tightly wraps yer wrists to yer upper arms, just on the upper edges of yer triceps. Yer hands are forced to stay behind yer neck.

I bring over a 2-1/2 foot length of 2 x 4, and slide it under yer arms, The board is tightly taped to yer elbows, tape running over yer forearms and across yer lower triceps. Both arms taped to the board, forces you to keep them chicken wings hyper-extended out flat. Board runs straight across, from left elbow bone to right one. Also puts a good stretch on yer armpits, and makes them nice and vulnerable.

All you gotta do is give me 200 crunches, and you win the bet.

Too easy, right?

Wait. Not quite ready to start.

I go over to my stack of freeweights and come back with a 10 lb. plate. Sliding it between the slant board and the 2 x 4, I securely tape it to the board that yer arms are taped to. Make it a little more "interesting" each time you try to do a crunch. A little extra weight for you to heft.

One last thing. I go and get this little silver bell that's tied to a string. I hang the bell from the ceiling above you, just a little HIGHER than yer waist level, about a foot in front of yer face.

I grab the stopwatch and we're ready to go.

Here's the drill, buddy:

You just give me 200 crunches, and you win. Of course, each crunch has to be perfect form, meaning that you gotta raise yer torso, using those back and ab muscles, to just ABOVE the horizontal line, and you gotta tap that bell with yer forehead, making it ring each time. If the bell don't ring, the crunch don't count.

And, of course, to make it a little more of a challenge for you, tuff guy, (you dig challenges, don't ya? Or you ready to wimp out now and wear that Rangers jersey?) yer BARE FEET are gonna be constantly TICKLED while you're performing yer crunches.

Hope that doesn't DISTRACT ya, buddy.

Ready?...GO!

As you flex yer abs to raise yerself for yer first perfect crunch, forehead headed for that bell, my index fingers start lightly scraping down yer flexed bare soles. You gasp as the ticklish sensation in yer helpless feet distracts you from fully concentrating on yer crunch. But you make it, no sweat, ring that bell, and relax back down on that board. That's 1, buddy. Only 199 more to go.

You figure out that with that extra weight, it's harder to start yer crunch from ground zero, so your next dozen, you don't completely relax back onto the board, but use yer muscles to stop, reverse, and raise yerself up again. The tickling on yer feet continues, you realize how it's gonna fuck up yer concentration, but you rally yer strength and press on.

You peel off a dozen crunches no sweat, but the tickling is starting to get to you. You involuntarily start to laugh and sputter as yer feet seem to get more and more ticklish the more you sweat and strain for those perfect crunches.

The combination of using yer ab muscles and having yer feet tickled might get to ya after a while.

And them the tickling DOES get to you, and as you go up for a crunch, you don't have the strength to tap that bell. YOU BLEW IT. You know how humiliating it is when you go for a shot and miss it? HURTS YER PRIDE, DOESN'T IT, DUDE? Just missing yer first one chips away at that jock pride of yours.

That's not all it does, buddy.

Going for one and missing is called a FOUL in this game. That means, YOU GOTTA PAY PENALTY MINUTES.

But you had guessed that already, right sport?

Your penalty minutes are to be paid every time you try a crunch and miss hitting that bell, meaning you didn't get yerself up high enough. And I'm listening and watching VERY closely, like the strictest fucking hard-assed REF you ever played under.

Yer penalty consists of a thick black leather belt which is attached to the slant board, on either side of yer neck. The belt goes over yer neck and buckles into place, trapping you down to the board, stretching you out flat, on that angle. The stopwatch starts, and you are TICKLED IN THOSE STRETCHED OUT ARMPITS FOR A SOLID THREE MINUTES. You can buck and strain all you want, but with that neck secured down, you aren't going anywhere. Sorta like being LOCKED in the PENALTY BOX BY YER NECK and being tickle tortured for fucking up. And with yer ankles secured to the top of that board, and that weighted 2 x 4 taped to yer arms, you are stretched out real good.

For yer first penalty, my fingertips just lightly graze yer helpless pits, so lightly that you're not sure if you can feel it. But after one minute, you DO feel it, and it begins to slowly drive you NUTS. You are soon moaning and bucking and trying like mad to protect yer armpits, but with yer wrists and arms tied like that, and that 2 x 4 forcing yer elbows flat out like chicken wings, it is impossible. You just gotta lie there and take yer penalty like a MAN.

As the three minutes wear on, you feel your abs start to shake, and the unavoidable laughter starts to slowly build up inside you. You also feel the tickling start to slowly sap yer strength and resolve, and for the first time, you have the passing thought that you MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO MAKE IT THROUGH all 200 crunches. You try to wipe that thought from yer brain, but as the tickling escalates and you start to laugh and sweat harder and harder, you can't escape that sinking feeling in yer gut. The PRIDE in your body, in your strength and endurance, has it's first crack in it. How does it feel, buddy, at that moment when yer PRIDE first begins to slip away? How tough does it make you feel?

Three minute penalty paid, you're back on the ice. strap around yer neck gets unbuckled, and you are free to start to do yer crunches again, with renewed determination and vigor. But I'm back at those bare feet, tickling the shit outta them, making you immediately squirm and laugh and once again start to lose concentration. So soon, buddy? Where is that tough-guy stamina you were bragging so loud about? You're not gonna let a pussy little challenge like this get the better of you, are ya? Geez, man, I thought you were TOUGHER than that!

You can see from the big grin on my face that I am enjoying this a lot. I am loving seeing you grunt and strain and try to keep concentration on yer crunches, all the while we BOTH know that you are beginning to lose it. Man, this is better than winning a game of 1 on 1 basketball, WATCHING YOU SLOWLY GO DOWN.

You crank out about another dozen crunches, ringing that bell each time, the sweat building up, your grunts and laughter from the merciless tickling of yer feet building and building. And I'm just standing at the end of that slant board, grinning down at you, waiting for you to fail again, my index fingers exploring and wiggling against every inch of yer exposed bare soles. You would try to move yer feet away from my torturing fingertips, but you can't move yer feet, they're tied down and stretched real tight, which frustrates the hell outta you. No, more than frustrates, it GETS TO YOU, MAN. If only I would leave yer fuckin' feet alone and stop tickling them, so you could concentrate on cranking out yer final 150 crunches. But no, the tickling goes on and on, getting worse and worse by the minute.

And then, another foul. You go up, but you don't have the strength to tap that bell with yer forehead. Time is called, the strap goes around yer neck, and your armpits get destroyed for three solid minutes. The fresh attack on yer defenseless pits startles you and sends you into a nearly uncontrollable fit of shaking and laughter. Man, I hope these penalty periods are not sapping yer strength for the remainder of yer crunches, dude.

It feels to you like three hours of non-stop tickling to yer armpits, but it's only three minutes. Then. finally, strap comes off yer neck, free to start crunches again. But man, when I attack those feet this time, they feel even MORE ticklish that they were a few minutes ago. What's up with that? Giving them a short break from the tickling makes it worse when the tickling starts up again.

As you start yer crunches again, ab muscles straining and flexing, you only crank out 4 or 5 before you go for one and ... silence. Dude, you missed the damn bell again. Foul. Penalty time.

As that strap gets buckled across yer neck for the third time, you are feel more and more of yer PRIDE been chipped away. You went for it, YOU FAILED, you gotta pay the penalty. Fuckin' KILLS a proud, cocky jock like you. You know that maybe, if you had tried a little harder, gone the extra mile, you would have SCORED. You feel fuckin' stupid. Especially when that strap is buckled tight, and you can hardly move. Yer armpits feel so stretched and vulnerable, you can't stand it when my fingers find their marks, deep in the center of each sweaty pit, and start to wiggle back and forth rapidly. You try to use yer arm strength to bust through that tape, and the tape that holds yer arms to the 2 x 4, but it is way too strong for you, I've done too good a job securing you, and all you can do is lay there, totally stretched out, yer body weight pulling you down that slant board, and suffer through the PENALTY THAT YOU BROUGHT ON YERSELF, the seemingly endless tickling of yer pits.

Penalty paid, strap unbuckled, but wait: What is happening? Dude, didn't you know that AFTER THREE PENALTIES, THE SLANT BOARD GETS RAISED TO A HIGHER ANGLE?

Yup. I grab the high end of the board and lift it up to the next crossbar, about a foot higher. The board is now at a full 45 % angle, making you use A LOT MORE MUSCLE to perform those crunches. I also raise the bell a few inches higher, keeping it level with yer waist. YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO WORK A LITTLE HARDER, BUDDY, TO FINISH YER 200 CRUNCHES.

C'MON, TUFF GUY, SHOW SOME MUSCLE.

As I go back to tickling the shit outta yer trapped feet, and you start grunting and sweating out a few more, I start to talk to you:

"HEY, BUDDY, LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE HAVIN' A TOUGH TIME THERE. MAN, YOU'RE REALLY SWEATING AND STRAINING. AND YOU STILL GOT 120 CRUNCHES TO GO. YOU SHOULD SEE YOUR FACE, BUDDY. IT'S GETTING ALL RED AND FLUSHED. AND THAT BOARD BEHIND YER BACK IS GETTING SLICK WITH SWEAT. YOU SURE YOU DON'T WANNA CALL IT QUITS AND AGREE TO WEAR THIS RANGERS JERSEY TO THE GAME TONIGHT?

I PROMISE I WON'T RUB IT IN, DUDE!

Really, man, I think you should consider yelling `I QUIT' and just resign yerself to rooting for the Rangers with me tonight. they're the better team, anyway, you know they're gonna win, and wouldn't it help to restore some of yer PRIDE to be rooting for a WINNING TEAM FOR A CHANGE??"

Between yer laughing and grunting and sweating to make your full count of crunches, you try to tell me "Fuck You, Buddy" but I can't quite make it out. I renew the tickling of yer soles, now using my fingernails to trace circles around and around yer stretched out arches, one of the most ticklish and vulnerable parts of a man's feet, and you go for one and ... silence again. No bell, only your laughing and moaning. Another foul, man. Hope you got enough strength to keep paying your penalties. Of course, you can yell "I QUIT" any time...

When the strap goes around yer neck this time, you sense the steeper incline of the board. Yer head is lower in relation to yer tied up feet, and the blood rushes to yer head a little easier, especially after THREE SOLID MINUTES OF NON-STOP ARMPIT TICKLING. You are gasping for breath, starting to get a little light-headed, but you try to hold onto what little PRIDE in that jock body and yer endurance that you have left.

I am having a blast, slowly breaking you down, chipping away at that pride, and watching you sweat and squirm:

"MAN, YOU ARE ONE FUCKIN' TICKLISH DUDE, AIN'T YOU, BUDDY?

YOU CAN'T FUCKIN' TAKE IT, CAN YA, DUDE?

YOU ARE GONNA BREAK DOWN ANY SECOND, AIN'T YA?

I'M GONNA HAVE TO GET MY CAMERA AND TAKE SOME NICE SHOTS OF YOU IN YER RANGERS JERSEY.

SHOW THEM TO ALL YER JOCK BUDDIES BACK HOME.

GOOD LUCK EXPLAINING WHY YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO THE LEAFS. I'D LIKE TO SEE THE EXPRESSION ON YER BUDDIES FACES WHEN YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN, `IT'S BECAUSE I'M TOO TICKLISH. THAT'S WHY I HAD TO WEAR THE RANGERS JERSEY AND ROOT FOR THEM AGAINST THE LEAFS'."

It's at this point, yer armpits being tickled, your strength failing you, me rubbing it in and making you feel like a worthless piece of dead meat, that you start to mentally resign yourself to the fact that YOU AIN'T GONNA WIN.

But you'd rather DIE tan show another JOCK that you're being whipped. So, you rally yer strength again, and after the strap gets unbuckled, you go for it. You crank out 7 more crunches, even harder now at this new angle, while yer feet get tickled like you've never felt it before. See, I got you so pissed off, that you are straining yourself too hard. You will find yourself paying for the stupid, cocky effort before long. You are being driven NUTS by trying to exert the strength needed to perform yer crunches, while laughing uncontrollably at the merciless way yer feet are being constantly tickled. YOU CAN'T FUCKIN' STAND IT. You feel you are close to losing it, and throwing in the towel. You have never felt anything quite this intense in yer life. You thought you could handle it, but yer jock body is failing you. AND IN FRONT OF ANOTHER JOCK! You are slowly dying of embarrassment and shame. You are showing yer weakness to another jock, and it's killing you. And the price you are inevitably gonna have to pay will be a constant reminder of yer failure FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN.

Another round of crunches, more foot tickling, another failure, another penalty to be paid. You are in bad shape, laughing more and more, face as red as a beet, muscles screaming, abs so tied and sore you wanna throw up, lightheaded from the blood rushing down, being at such a steep angle. You are losing it fast, buddy. And you know there is only ONE WAY OUT.

After your 6^th three-minute penalty, I lift the board up to the next support bar. You groan at what you know is gonna be next to impossible to accomplish. But yer PRIDE don't let you give in yet. One foot higher.

You are now at a 60% angle, and you really feel the stretch. You look up and see that there is STILL ONE MORE NOTCH to go, IF you make it that far. That last support would put the board at a 90% VERTICAL angle to the floor. You know me well enough by now, ol' pal, that WE WILL GO THERE IF NECESSARY. YOU KNOW THAT I WILL PUSH YOU THAT HARD, AND SMILE WHILE DOING IT.

That's when you finally realize that you are totally fucked and whipped. At this steep angle, you try for a crunch, feet being tickled, trying to raise yer tired and aching body so yer forehead can reach that bell which I have raised again, but you don't get anywhere near it. PENALTY TIME, DUDE.

Neck strapped down, you are in for the worst three minutes of armpit tickling yet. You are laughing and sputtering and trying not to choke in this severely inclined position. Yer face is now turning purple from the exertion. You are laughing and giggling uncontrollably, gasping desperately for a good, solid breath.

Penalty paid, strap off, back to foot tickling. Absolutely no break. No way out, dude. Ya give yet, ya wuss?

At the point of trying, muscles shaking and quivering, veins on yer neck and forehead about ready to explode, you absolutely cannot bring yer torso up even a foot off the board. TOTAL MUSCLE FAILURE. You finally collapse in a burst of sweat as yer back and arms and the weight hit the board with a thud.

Penalty time, dude.

As I am buckling the strap around yer neck for the last time, you say,

"ALRIGHT. I GIVE, MAN. I'LL WEAR THE FUCKIN' RANGERS SHIRT. JUST GET ME OUTTA HERE. YA GOT ME, DUDE. "

The strap gets buckled tightly. You ain't going anywhere yet, dude. You are gonna get a little more tickling on yer helpless armpits and feet, just to rub it in. I think you deserve about another half an hour or so of non-stop tickling, especially now that yer abs are exhausted, good place to concentrate now, to be sure you don't ever forget the MISERABLE DEFEAT you suffered at my hands today.

And what do you mean, "...that Fuckin" Rangers Shirt?" It's a NICE Rangers shirt.

C'mon, say it, buddy. "It's it a NICE Rangers shirt." Tell me how PROUD you are gonna be to sit beside me wearing it and rooting loudly for the Rangers at the Garden tonight. C'mon, buddy. We still got TWO HOURS before the game. You ARE gonna say it, buddy. C'mon, buddy, let's practice for tonight. Yell it after me: "GO, RANGERS!!"

I crack my knuckles like a piano player, and prepare to dig in for an all-out tickle assault on your drenched, wasted and helpless body. You're gonna say it, dude. I'm taking EVERY LAST SCRAP OF YER PRIDE.

This next hour is gonna be LOTS of fun!