After a good lunch-time work out there’s nothing I like more than balls in my face. I was sitting on a locker room bench, after getting out of the shower, smiling my smile while Sly and his Family Stone echoed in my head (twas a damn fine shufflin’ sesh today) when out of nowhere some lumbering ballsack almost clips my forehead. ” ‘Scuse me man, can you do that over there,” I asked, pointing to the other bench on the other side of the locker room area. With this, he merely shifted further down the same bench — a leg propped up on it — wiping himself with the diligence of a schoolboy tracing cursive letters on wide-ruled paper. I thought I’d wait a hot minute for him to finish so I could get through to my locker, but this fucker, oh man.

Now, there’s not a lot of space to navigate your way through this particular stretch of locker room so this Ballsack and his ballsack were starting to really piss me off. I just don’t understand why someone, be it man or woman, would want to spend more time in a New York Sports Club locker room than humanly possible. I’ve contracted diseases my diseaseologist has never even heard of .In the time this guy took to wipe himself I finished my unfinished novel, reconciled with an estranged cousin in Baltimore, decided that I should start taking vitamins and got my PhD in WHAT THE HELL IS TAKING YOU SO LONG!!!