Dear Woman at the Gym,
You smell like a box of garbage. And I mean that quite literally. Walking into that workout room as you’re slowly laboring your stubby little hambones across the treadmill is like stepping into a septic tank. You don’t clean yourself and you don’t wear deodorant. And every day I have to breathe in your body’s bacterial gatherings as you grin like a dope completely unaware of how foul you are.
To give you an idea of how bad you smell, try this sometime. Find an all-day, outdoor event that’s open to the public. Go there. Hang around until about three o’ clock in the afternoon after lunch has settled into the bellies of the people around you and the sun has had a few hours to really get at the landscape. Then proceed to the closest portable toilet. Shove that thick skull of yours through the toilet seat and take a deep breath. That smell is what all of us put up with every evening as we’re trying to exercise. A long series of deep respirations on air that is so choked up by your gutter stink that with a flashlight and a set of mirrors we could create rainbows through it. And it’s not simply a matter of how a workout room smells. It’s you. The body in which your very brain and soul occupies is a landfill capable of wilting flowers and causing even the grimiest of hobo’s to hunch over and vomit. Your body is pure concentrated sewage.
I tried to restrain my feelings on this matter. I didn’t want to judge you as you exhaustedly, and quite pointlessly, “work” the weight bench by simply grabbing the pull-down bar and allow your body weight to yank it down by gravity thus negating any physical benefit. And as much as it sickened me to have to actually touch that pull-down bar knowing that the human fart had perspired upon its metal surface, I didn’t say anything. But then I realized something. Why should I respect your feelings when you clearly have no respect for mine? Surely you would feel the need to say something should I come into the gym carrying a boombox blaring at full volume. And if I were to spend my entire workout punching you in the nose I imagine you would at some point ask me to stop. But for some odd reason the fact that you can’t find it within yourself to spend five minutes a day familiarizing yourself with water and lathe makes me the bad guy.
And its’ not a comfort issue either. Quite frankly, the minute you step into that room every one of us has to worry that should anybody within twenty yards light a match or cast a spark the room would probably burst into flames. Your hellish aroma of armpit, crotch, and some strange mixture of asshole and feet puts all of us in danger. You should come with a warning label.
One day a veteran detective and a rookie cop are going to find you sprawled out across your bed. The rookie cop is going to rush out the front door and start vomiting on the walkway. The detective is going to try consoling him while the rookie mutters about having never seen or smelled a dead body before. That’s when you’ll roll over, yawn, and resume bathing yourself in five-day old Tai food. And the veteran, whose seen and smelled it all, will start vomiting on the walkway along with the rookie cop. And it will just be five minutes of the veteran and rookie cop vomiting everywhere. And I guarantee you, at 3 in the afternoon after the sun has had time to get at it, their splattered mounds of upchuck will smell better than you.
Seriously, you smell so bad that if you were playing in a sandbox a cat would bury you.
The guy next to you with his shirt pulled over his face.