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.

Sincerely,

grumpyfae

image found here

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Breaking News:  Have we found the culprit?  He may have just ratted himself out… If not?  Just a garden variety smartass…