I had just sat down at the tricep extension machine when an ugly older fucker asked me if he could "work in."
You have no idea how much I hate this.
"Alright..." I said, while simultaneously sighing.
"It will just be a minute." he promised.
I stood back and watched him. Immediately I noticed his bad form. Rather than adjust the seat higher, he simply sat on the four inch backrest (see photo). Obviously his "technique" wasn't doing him any favors because his triceps were flatter than newly paved asphalt.
I rolled my eyes and hoped a cable would snap and send the mechanism crashing into his forehead.
The second tricep machine became available, so I gave up and used that, cursing him for interrupting me and invading my personal space like a self-important douchebag.
Because I have a tendency to look people up and down, I saw that he was wearing black clogs. In the gym. This, for me, is worse than flip flops in the office and should be punishable by hanging.
Sometimes I was Kathleen Turner's character in Serial Mom was real - and that I had her number on speed dial so she could eliminate these people for me with one phone call.