I joined the local YMCA last week. This is the first time I have been a YMCA member; before this I have always gone to the behemoth clubs of suburbia. So far, I really like it. But there are drawbacks to going to the same health club as many of the people with whom I regularly do business. For example, I have no interest in walking into the locker room and being confronted with my grocer’s meat department, the town jeweler’s family jewels, the bait and tackle shop owner’s fishing rod, the coffee shop guy’s swizzle stick, the sporting goods guy’s balls, the auto mechanic’s dipstick, the plumber’s snake, the electrician’s wire, the banker’s roll of quarters, McJunk, the Humane Society manager’s newt, the baker’s rolling pin, a teacher’s ruler, a retirement home resident’s anything, the hardware store owner’s tool, the garden supply store man’s bag of seeds, nor my doctor’s penis and scrotum, if you catch my drift. And I’m afraid I may someday run into the town schmoozer in the locker room.
“Hey Tom, how’s it hangin’? Never mind, I guess I can see for myself! Ha ha! Hey Bob, how’s things at the bank? Good? Good. Nice penis, by the way. Lookin’ good. What do you do, wax that thing? Whatever works, huh? Good, good. Jimmy, you sonofabitch! What’s new, buddy? Whoa, that thing angry today? Yikes! Might I suggest a towel? Tom, where are you going?”