This is a true story written by a friend of their recent trip to the gym. No names or how I know this person will be mentioned to protect the sort of innocent & with that I say enjoy!!!
warm sunny wishes !!!
mrs. barefeet
It was your balls I noticed first. Big silver and chrome balls clanging to a stop at the back of your F350 as it straddled the last two decent parking spots near the entrance. I’ll admit an air of smugness as I strode into the gym behind you, but it was the “Hey faggot” greeting you threw your fellow gym-douche that convinced me I hate you. Not a fleeting hate like when following someone who signals to turn, then chickens out and keeps going leaving their blinker on- even though IT WAS A GODDAMN-ED ONE WAY STREET TO BEGIN WITH. No, I could tell already that this was the beginning of a true and passionate hatred that would likely take me all day to come down from.
I steeled myself for an hour in the gym together.
As I usually do, I grabbed a locker somewhere in the corner, and got dressed as quickly as possible, showing my junk to as few people as possible in the process- as is the unspoken covenant we men make when getting naked together. Common sense told me that anyone with balls on their truck is likely to strut around the damn locker room unaware of said covenant, so I avoided glances to the obvious places -out front where the mirrors are- but you tricked me Sir Douchealot. I wasn’t expecting to find you butt-naked on the scale, your veiney little legs propping up the ridiculous upper monstrosity you’ve ‘sculpted’ yourself into. Very clever, now I’m forced to look right at you to get to the gym. I stared at the ground and felt my blood boil.
From the treadmill I watched you toss enormous scraps of iron all around the gym- even with my headphones in I could hear your hulk-like grunts and cries. After about an hour of unsuccessful conversation with the hapless women trying to get in a little lunch break exercise, and having lifted everything deemed heavy in the place, your pee-like brain must’ve registered something about cardio being a good finisher and you took up station at the treadmill directly in front of me. I honestly would’ve wrapped up my day right there and hit the locker-room, but I foolishly figured you’d be on the treadmill longer. Congratulations though, you managed to pant-out two thirds of an eight minute mile.
I stood in naked horror in the shower while you carefully pinched-off one nostril at a time and directed little snot-missiles onto the shower tile. It was at that moment my seething hatred took resolve; I wouldn’t wait for karma to find your ticket and punch it. No no no, in the name of decency I owed it to humanity to extract something from you right then and there.
And that, Sir Douchalot, is why your iphone is in the urinal and there is a “I am dance music” sticker adorning the tailgate of your truck.
See you next time.
I steeled myself for an hour in the gym together.
As I usually do, I grabbed a locker somewhere in the corner, and got dressed as quickly as possible, showing my junk to as few people as possible in the process- as is the unspoken covenant we men make when getting naked together. Common sense told me that anyone with balls on their truck is likely to strut around the damn locker room unaware of said covenant, so I avoided glances to the obvious places -out front where the mirrors are- but you tricked me Sir Douchealot. I wasn’t expecting to find you butt-naked on the scale, your veiney little legs propping up the ridiculous upper monstrosity you’ve ‘sculpted’ yourself into. Very clever, now I’m forced to look right at you to get to the gym. I stared at the ground and felt my blood boil.
From the treadmill I watched you toss enormous scraps of iron all around the gym- even with my headphones in I could hear your hulk-like grunts and cries. After about an hour of unsuccessful conversation with the hapless women trying to get in a little lunch break exercise, and having lifted everything deemed heavy in the place, your pee-like brain must’ve registered something about cardio being a good finisher and you took up station at the treadmill directly in front of me. I honestly would’ve wrapped up my day right there and hit the locker-room, but I foolishly figured you’d be on the treadmill longer. Congratulations though, you managed to pant-out two thirds of an eight minute mile.
I stood in naked horror in the shower while you carefully pinched-off one nostril at a time and directed little snot-missiles onto the shower tile. It was at that moment my seething hatred took resolve; I wouldn’t wait for karma to find your ticket and punch it. No no no, in the name of decency I owed it to humanity to extract something from you right then and there.
And that, Sir Douchalot, is why your iphone is in the urinal and there is a “I am dance music” sticker adorning the tailgate of your truck.
See you next time.
