An Open Letter to Gym Whores Everywhere

Dear Gym Whores,

I’ve been watching you.  After all, I need something to do while I whale on my quads and pound the elliptical (*cough*read magazines and eat the Timbits I’ve snuck into my sports bra*cough*).

You all seem to gravitate together, like some sort of shrill Skank Army. And as the group grows, your annoying up-talking voices seem to grow even louder. 

I’m curious: are you concerned that you’re gradually becoming invisible? Because you stare at yourself for jesusly long periods of time in the mirror. If the mirror could talk it would probably say “Oh honey, that’s enough. Less staring, more lunges. Go on now.”

I also understand that as a ho bag of the highest social standing (stripper) you obviously have a lot of VERY IMPORTANT THINGS you need to be discussing on your cell phone RIGHT THIS MINUTE while working out on the machine next to me.

For 30 minutes.

I’ve never talked to ANYONE for 30 minutes on the phone. Are you talking to Jesus? That’s the only logical explanation. Even Jesus would run out of shit to talk about at the 30 minute mark. And that’s after you discussed the weather – twice – and briefly touched upon some of your more regrettable tattoos and the soaring cost of hair extensions and abortions.

And P.S. Those rolls of paper towel and spray bottles of cleaning solution strategically placed throughout the gym? They’re for DRYING THE MACHINES when you’re done with them. You’re skank sweat is not a perfume sold at Sephora.

Also, and this is just a blanket statement: jeans are not appropriate fitness attire. This is Toronto. Not New Jersey.


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