snarkyblogging: Letters of Discontent

Dear Provigo Cart-ee,

Although this may come as a surprise to you, there is still a foot attached to my leg much the same as there was the last time you ran over it with your cart and I gave you a dirty look.

Firstly, you do not need a full-fledged shopping cart for your bag of chips and can of soda. Secondly, ramming into me while there are still two people ahead of us in line will not result in you shoving fistfuls of Lays into your mouth any faster.

Consider yourself warned. Next time, despite the classlessness of such behaviour, I will start a checkout lane brawl with you right then and there, and the cashier will be asking, "Vous voulez un sac?" so that you may have something with which to bandage your bloody appendages.

Warmly,

Provigo Cart-ed



Dear Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Students,

Exams are not an excuse to be flouncing about in public sporting a sweatsuit. In fact, there is no excuse to be flouncing about in a sweatsuit. Hell, its hardly excusable to OWN a sweatsuit. Leave that shit at home, you are tarnishing Montreal's reputation.

*Please note: Ironic facial hair combined with ironic sweatsuit sporting is DEMOLISHING Montreal's reputation. Yeah, I've seen it.

It's bad enough that I have to “consider” functions more than usual this week. Do not make it worse by forcing me to ponder the rate of change of the visible area of thong protruding from your Spaldings. Ach.

Sincerely,

Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Student



I had a third letter in mind but have consumed too much gin since writing the first to remember why I was snarky to begin with. I blame the gin consumption on your sweatpants.




... Ah, I remember now.


Dear Neighbours,

Write another letter to the regie, I dare you. I can't wait to hear you render the painful memories of waking up at 9 AM to the faint sound of CBC or a bloody coffee grinder, or the excruciating memories of the time I had friends over to BAKE COOKIES.

Yes, I had one loud party. And for that I have apologized profusely. That does not, however, justify trying to have me evicted for closing a dresser drawer after 10 PM on a Thursday.

If you want to talk about "frequent late night guests", perhaps I can match your woes with those of my own. Tell your creepy hall wandering boyfriend to get his own goddamn key, I'm sick of hearing you buzz him in at all hours of the night. And yeah, I can hear your music too. The only difference is, yours is CRAP. Oh, and if you're going to leave your stuff in the dryer for three hours after it's finished, clean out the fucking lint trap when you're done. What do you dry in there anyway, because the lint trap is always BRIGHT PINK! Do you have a pink pair of Uggs to match the shitty brown ones that you leave melting pools of dirty snow onto my mat?

The reason I don't report you to the building management or the regie is because when I signed a lease to live on SAINTE CATHERINE STREET above a BAR and beside a WHORE HOUSE, I realized that maybe there would be some dirt, some noise, and some questionable characters in the hallway. DUH. If this isn't for you, you are clearly too fucking boring to live here. MOVE TO LAVAL.


Kindest Regards,

#304

... you'll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

There's some stuff the Village People didn't mention about the YMCA.

It is certainly true that it is a place you can go when you're short on your dough (relatively short, compared to the new young men in town who can afford memberships at private gyms) and it is by all means a place where you can hang out with all the boys (having either a hetero or homosexual agenda), who are in turn being enjoyed by the men (this is not a lyrical misinterpretation). Most importantly, there ARE many ways to have a good time. Observed first hand, these are some of the ways that good times can be had at the downtown Montreal YMCA.



Be nude, station yourself just inside the women's locker room, and start chattin' about arthritis.

Load the thigh machine with the minimum 50lbs, position yourself in the machine correctly ... And take a nap for upwards of 20 minutes.

Place towel and/or water bottle on the only hamstring machine. This is now your personal bench for relaxation and all other desired purposes throughout the duration of your gym session. Gaze at yourself in the mirror, flex occasionally. Pick up the skipping rope and appear as if you intend to use it. Don't. Sit back down on the bench. NEVER use machine for intended purpose.

Hang out with all the boys ... Whether or not you would like to. You grab a medicine ball ... So does the boy. You find a place on the mats to stretch, and the boy finds a place beside you. You book treadmill number 6, the boy books treadmill number 7 and so on.

Have excessive, extensive cellulite? Wear brightly coloured lycra with loud patterns and use the stair master.

“Stretch” on the mats facing the glass-walled yoga studio (only applies to lurking men 50+).

Misread treadmill booking chart. Approach heavily sweating, heavily breathing user on treadmill of choice, and insist that their booking is up. Persist until they stop the machine and get off to show you that they actually still have 8 minutes left. Slouch off. Repeat.

You're a man? You have long, luscious locks? Said locks are grey beyond the point of denoting sexual prowess? Let them flow free and lope around the indoor running track, ogling the women on the stair masters and flexing as you pass. You are Fabio. You are Don Juan. You are the Harlequin hero of the everywoman.

Wash your gym clothes in the shower and dry them with a blow dryer. Create a locker room lake and wet the socks of those changing nearby.

Be the lone man in a posse of no less than 8 women on the elliptical trainers. Wear short jean shorts, pull socks up to knees.



Times have changed a great deal since that song was released. Firstly, the YMCA that the Village People wrote about was not a gym. Secondly, it was not co-ed. Finally, it was run for and organized by Christians. Despite this much of the same youthful optimism remains – You can still have a good time and, apparently, do whatever you feel. Sensibilities of other patrons aside.