Listen, gym dandies. If you have the balls to squeeze into horrifying, shiny bicycle shorts, kindly have the decency to wear a shirt that covers them. No one needs to see what is inside the package before they unwrap it.
I don’t ask for much. (Well, actually, that’s bullshit. I do.) I don’t like to complain. (Again, a lie.) I only tell you this because I love you. (Triple-decker, sky-high lie on pumpernickel toast, complete with Russian dressing, sauerkraut, and a side of homemade cole slaw.)
The ball(s) is (are) in your court (shorts).