I got a call from the Manwhore during work on Friday. He knows I don’t pick up my cell phone while in the office, so I let it go to voicemail. I listened to his message a few minutes later while in the bathroom. It seemed urgent, so I risked occupying the stall for entirely way too long to call him back.

Him: “Do you have a second? I have a story for you.”

Me: “Sure, what’s up?”

Here he goes into a story about one of his rival physical trainers. (Real important stuff here—I’m glad everyone in the office thinks I’m taking a shit for this).

The story is this: Friday night we had plans to go out for happy hour with a bunch of friends. One of the “junior physical trainers” from his gym planned to tag along. He wrote the Manwhore an email asking if he could bring along one of his girl friends. A dumb question, indeed, considering the Manwhore’s track record. The more girls the merrier, obviously.

A bit later, the Manwhore gets an email from evil, rival, nemesis physical trainer guy (not to be confused with junior physical trainer guy):

“Hey, I hear you’re going out with my girlfriend tonight. Hands off. Wink. Wink.”

The Manwhore, who had no idea who his girlfriend was, wrote back:

“Who’s your girlfriend? You should explain the house rules to her, big daddy. I’m not dating you. Wink. Wink.”

Of course, this led the Manwhore to gleefully speculate about what this girl must have been saying about him. After all, it must have been good to elicit such a prick-ish email.

Friday night, the girlfriend marched in and gravitated directly to the Manwhore, announcing, “My boyfriend is so mad we’re hanging out.”

The Manwhore leaned over and whispered, “What a little slut.” I left shortly thereafter but here’s the outcome:

To: Manwhore
From: Me
Subject: Re: Last Night

What happened with that chick? I forgot to ask.

To: Me
From: Manwhore
Subject: Re: Re: Last Night

The chick? She broke her BF’s rule about not touching me.