Sirent, but deadry

As a recent Manhattan resident-turned commuter, I've been forced to adapt to a new lifestyle, for better or for worse.  Nowhere is this more apparent than my gym regimen.  For years, my routine has been based around the philosophy that you go home, change, go to the gym and go home to change; this came to a screeching halt when I moved out to the boonies with no car or gym for miles.  So now I gym bag it, with all of the other gym-going commuter douches.  Through trial and error, I've learned the ropes of locker room etiquette.  Unfortunately, nothing could prepare me for Tuesday's "initiation".  Here's how it started:  Get out of work on time - check.  Find a locker not surrounded by 20 dudes - check.  Change - check... sorta.  While tying my shoes, I caught a nasty whiff of something fierce, like "holy shit, what the eff is that?!"  Being the inquisitive person that I am, I turned to check my area (bad idea).  As my luck would have it, some shit-farting ninja had snuck up, strategically placing his dirty ass and wiener about a foot away from me.  In an attempt to avert my eyes from the Rocky Horror Johnson Show, I ended up cranking my head into my own locker door - it was like I turned on my TV to "2 girls, 1 cup" and the only way to change the channel was with my face.  mr Miyagi found this quite hilarious.  Well I'm never falling for your fart-flashing move again.  But fear not effers, I was handsomely rewarded with a pole-dancing class in the main studio.   Whammy.