Dear guy in the locker room at the gym,

Hi.  You probably don’t remember me, but I was the only other guy in the locker room when you went to the gym today.  If you don’t remember that, let me give you a few details that might help.

This is just an estimate, but I think the gym had about 1200 lockers.  They were divided into three rows of lockers, with a bench in the middle and lockers on both sides of the bench.  As far as locker rooms go, there was nothing that was extraordinary or unusual about this particular arrangement.  The locker room was well lit and quiet.  It was the early afternoon when I was finishing my workout.

The reason I am writing to you is that I found your locker room etiquette to be, how should I put this, annoying.

Your greatest error was one of locker selection.  As I mentioned above, the room had approximately 1200 lockers in it.  Of those, the only occupied locker was the one that was occupied by me.  I was sitting in front of it.  It had the number 340 on the door.  The door to the locker 340 was open.  I was staring into it.  My clothing was hanging on a hanger in that locker.  I had a towel around my waist.  I had clearly just returned from the shower and was about to prepare myself for departure from the gym.  All of the other lockers in the gym were closed and pretty clearly unoccupied.

At that point, you had an option of choosing one of those 1199 unoccupied lockers as your own.  While there is no law about this, the generally understood law of being a human being is that you should begin your quest for an open locker at the point furthest away from where I sit in various states of undress and continue to work towards me until you find a locker that is available.

For some inexplicable reason, you decided to start with locker number 342, which as I noted, was unoccupied.  Finding this locker unoccupied, you chose it as your own.  You sat down next to me and removed your shirt.  Then stood up and removed your pants.  Then you turned towards me and removed your saggy underpants.  Underpants is the only appropriate word to describe those monstrosities you chose.  In an effort to avoid eye to penis contact, I looked over to the mirror to confirm that I was not invisible.  I wasn’t.

Although this too close for comfort arrangement was not ideal, I did not become enraged until you started coughing.  Loudly.  Uncontrollably.  In my direction.  That pushed me over the edge.  I hate you.  I hate your face.  I hate your phlegmy cough.  I hate your fruit of the loom underpants.  I hate your unclipped toe nails.  I hate your poor locker room decision making.  I hate that you ruined the joy I take in cooling off with a cool eucalyptus towel.  I hope you forgot to clip the emergency stop thingy onto your shirt and fell off the treadmill, you dick.

Best regards,

Rob