Dear Mr. Sweaty Pants,
i was not checking you out. i was waiting to see when you would take your sorry carcass, bad comb-over and inappropriate footwear to a different piece of equipment so i could use the fucking chest press.
If, however, i had been checking you out, your “Hey, Baby” come-hither smirk would have quenched any budding turgidity in my loins.
On Wednesday, i will be back abusing my upper body. This time, if you camp out on the machine for an extended period of time? i will… i will…. i will say something mean. And quite possibly trip you with my nasty towel. Or cry.
image found here
Breaking News: Have we found the culprit? He may have just ratted himself out… If not? Just a garden variety smartass…