Well, there's a new fella in the showers over at the Y, and I like to call him "The Hummin' Hocker." Charming gentleman -- he hums as he lathers up his sundries, and every time he gets to the chorus of his tuneless little number, he snargs up some primordial, from-the-toes chest-chum, and then expectorates it out... somewhere.
I've never actually witnessed his lathery-loogie-launch because my back is either turned, or I'm in the process of GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF THE GODDAMN SHOWERS SO I DON'T GET SLIMED!! I'm hoping the shithead at least aims for the drain, but I'm not holding my fucking breath -- I'm thinking of trading my flip-flops in for a pair of moon boots... and hip-waders.
I swear to shit, if I ever plant my foot on one of his motherfucking lung-oysters, I will personally rip his upper-respiratory system from his body (through his ass, mind you) and stuff it down the drain myself. And, of course, this dude's a swimmer, so you know his fucking sputum is floating around in that goddamn cesspit of human excre-mung they pass off as a pool.
Okay... I just threw up in my mouth a little. Good thing I just ordered some new swim/shower togs: