Monday, June 05, 2006

An Open Letter to the Dude at my Gym

Dear Dude at my Gym,

Yeah, you. In the MC Hammer-style lifting pants, and the sleeveless t-shirt advertising...what is that...a tanning product? God, you f*cking tool. Sigh.

Anyway, here's the thing. People come to the gym for a few reasons. To work out. To hit on good looking people of whatever gender they are personally inclined to hit on. To get away from their nagging wife/husband/kids. To study for their BusOrgs exam while burning off some percentage of the 1lb. bag of Mega M&M's they ate today. Whatever. The reason isn't important.

The one thing you won't notice above as a reason people come to the gym? To listen to you talk on your cell phone. WHILE you're on the treadmill. In the middle of the gym. Surrounded by people who are actually trying to workout, relax, make deposits into the spank bank, and burn off Mega M&M's.

The fact that your phone is deposited between your extra-hairy shoulder, which I can tell is ripe and sweaty, even from the Elliptical Bank'O'Low-Impact two rows back, and your gross ear, also buried in sweaty hair (you are one hairy, sweaty motherf*cker, you know?), just makes me want to barf. Seriously.

Also, you're talking on your cell phone. ON the treadmill. AT the gym. What is WRONG with you? Oh well, don't let a little thing like "social norms" or "etiquette" or "being curteous to those around you" stop you from having your Very Important Conversation. I'm sure whatever it is just couldn't wait.

Go Straight to Hell.


E. Spat.
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