Why I hate the people who live in this area, #789.
We belong to a gym in the neighborhood that is nice. It tries to promote itself as a luxury country club and spa without a golf course but it is really just a big and fancy gym with three really nice pools and many tennis courts, a huge state-of-the-art gym, a gymnasium, handball courts, a pretty good dining area and great saunas whirl pools. For a fairly reasonable price, it is a great deal if you use it a lot and we do.
The problem is the members. They are, with notable exceptions of some good friends of mine, the rudest, unfriendliness, snottiest a-holes on the planet. Every day, they do not return hellos; they shut doors in other’s faces, the fill up their huge water bottles while people wait in line in back of them for a sip; they do not let others work in on their weight machine; they change channels on the TV without asking those already watching; they let their ill-mannered spoiled hyper yuppie spawn run amok, and they set the world record for long-slow-middle-of-the-parking-lot-waddlers-who-cut-dirty-looks-when-you-can-finally-drive-by-them. The list is seemingly endless.
The all-time winner was a highly surgically altered and overly tanned woman who emerged from her advanced spin class only to climb into her huge-ass Hummer that just happened to be parked in a handicapped stall.
But she may have a rival.
When they opened the gym, they posted two-by three signs about every thirty feet asking people to not use their cell phones in the gym area. That wasn’t enough. I lost track of how many times somebody would yammer on their cell phone directly underneath one of those signs.
So today, when I walked into the gym, right in front, there on a tripod was a five by four foot sign in huge letters demanding that members not use their cell phones in the gym and turn off their pagers. Who was standing in front of that sign? A forty-something woman yammering away on her cell phone.
For Borat’s sequel I want him to join in on the conversations of people talking out loud in public on their cell phones:
“Is going good, thanks for asking. No, I am not wanting Chinese food for dinner tonight. In my country of Kazakhstan, the Chinese food is coming from the leftover parts of dead rodents. No, I was not watching the Oprah. In my country, Oprah is what you catch in your testaciesicles from unclean gypsy prostitutes, which I have had fourteen times. High five.”
I know, Mark Snake, I know.