Any guy that has been to a fitness center has had to deal with one of these pricks. We know, and you know, who you are—the balding fuck stick that goes into the locker at the busiest time of day to take a long shower, then spreads all your crap out on the bench, allowing your feet to air dry while you upload business cards on your cell phone—when the sign behind you clearly states cell phones are forbidden. You then pull out your assortment of artisanal herbal ointments, rubbing the creams thoroughly into every nook and cranny with that goddamn smirk on your face telling the rest of us you know damn well what you’re doing: making the rest of use wait as you savor the moment. You are still that same little shit that had his ass taped in the junior high locker room, and you are now gleefully exacting your revenge. We’ve outgrown our teenage angst, but tragically, you haven’t been able to mature along with us.
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