Hey you... yeah you. Don't act like you can't see me breaking my neck trying to confront you with my accusing stare—YOU FARTED!!! I've seen you put in countless hours on the same machine for months now, with little result. I'm here too, exercising, wafting in your whispered excrement. Something's not working, and based on this exaggerated dutch oven, I'd say it's your diet. Smells to me like an imbalanced intake of fermentation and death festering in your bowels, begging for more roughage and a colonic flush. Perhaps if the fan wasn't strategically placed behind you, oscillating your intestinal protest to the entire cardio section, I wouldn't be spending my time away from the gym recounting the horrendous smells leaking from your overworked gluteus. Now, I'm not saying my farts don't stink—I'm sure they do. But yours linger like New Orleans post-Katrina. So, PLEASE, fix your levies or buy your own equipment and take your chatty ass home!—Anonymous
Elliptic Fart Machine
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