And The Award Goes To ...

It's been a while children, and I apologize. But you can't force a good rant. It just comes to you.

So I was sitting in the steam room today ... minding my own business, when it came to me that I need to create some sort of award.

I need to create an award for the gentleman sitting next to me who was slowly and rhythmically beating his meat ... although no one in the room was the slightest bit interested. In fact, everyone seemed to be taking pains not to acknowledge the fact that every stroke was accompanied by a weird squeak, squeak sound. We all just sat there stone-faced, staring straight ahead, while he kept on going ... and going ... and squeaking ... and squeaking.

Hey Tin Man, get out of the steam room, you're starting to rust!

I mean, come on people. There are three simple rules for whacking off in the steam room: 1) Get in. 2) Get off. 3) Get out. It's that simple. And while I understand that marketing, in this consumer culture, is everything, if no one's willing to watch your commercial, they're certainly not buying the product.

For to just sit there and beat ... and beat ... and beat your meat incessantly, ignoring all the unspoken steam room social rules, it's just plain rude. It's like you're daring someone to call you out for being annoying. And when they do, THEY look like the asshole prude.

So sometime soon, instead of sitting there gritting my teeth and telling myself, "Don't say anything. Don't say anything. Don't say anything. He'll die of heat stroke eventually," I'm going to get up and go to my locker. I'm going to retrieve that bright shiny trophy, return to the steam room, and hand him the award he's so obviously trying to win. And the inscription will read, "Nobody wants my cock, and I don't care."

When he gives his speech, I hope he remembers to thank God first.