Dear Old Men Ball Danglers at the Gym,
I go to the Y because it’s cheap and gritty. I like cheap and gritty. I hate those yuppie gyms with sparkling chrome and polished leather equipment that no one uses because no one is there because everyone is terrified of their hard sell and their tight shirts and their perfect hair. I go to the Y because I like cheap and gritty. I like to see some handicap people around, giving it their all. I enjoy my conversations with drug dealers and gang bangers. It’s inspiring to see the homeless coming in; sure, I have to watch that the crackhead doesn’t steal my stuff and watch that the elderly alcoholic doesn’t spill his beer, or piss, or whatever the hell is in that gallon *water* bottle. These are my peoples. I’m like Jesus in that way. I love the street and the flotsam and jetsam that get washed in with it. I like cheap and gritty, I like the Y.
What I can not abide, however, are you, the Old Men Ball Dangler Brigade. When I’m getting dressed in the corner of the locker room, keeping my eyes on the crackhead who just wandered in and is methodically searching for an unlocked locker, and you choose to dry off right next to me and you swing your leg up on the bench and everything just comes alive right before my eyes, dangling and swinging and twisting and bouncing and undulating and pulsing I feel kind of sick. I don’t appreciate it when you run your towel up your leg and one, lone, testical escapes like an orbital, fleshy Shawshank Redemption. I don’t like that.
I don’t like when I’m working out and one of you begins stretching or performing an ill advised exercise on nautilus equipment wearing too short shorts and I’m forced to witness a pink, veiny ball of soup working its way down your leg.
I hate when I’m in the sauna, donning the appropriate swimwear as clearly indicated on the easy to read signs, and you saunter in like John Wayne, lie down and de-towel yourself, revealing a lack of appropriate swimwear and a horrific lesson in physics and gravity.
Dear Obviously Gay Guy at the Gym,
I’m not at all interested in your nutritional regime. Also, although I tend to stare at balls, I’m not gay. At all. Sorry. If you really need a blow job, you could probably work something out with Crackhead.
Dear Lottery Clerk,
Please stop asking me if I also want to play my numbers in the afternoon draw or if I’d like to play the Powerball. I’m a
gambling junkie, I can’t say no. What if I say no and the guy behind me wins and I have to come back and kill every mother fucker in the store?
Dear Bureaucrat Who Came up with the Afternoon Draw,
Dear Casey Anthony,
That was kind of a bitch move. You make me yearn for the innocent days of my youth when I still believed in heaven, hell and some form of ultimate justice. Sadly, that’s not the way things work. But, given that you still live here in Florida there’s a very good chance that you’ll die a violent and horrible death just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like a crackhouse on a Friday night or Wal-Mart on check day.
Also, if I see you I’m going to be all passive aggressive because I’m gangster like that.
Dear Michele Bachmann,
If you win and turn this country into a Christian theocracy, I’m going to be nice to Casey Anthony just to spite you. I’ll also be on the first plane to Costa Rica.