Dear Racquetball Dickwad,
I'm terribly, terribly sorry you have to wait for the court to be free. I'm shocked; shocked, I say! that this guy is overstaying his court time. You're quite the humanitarian to wait patiently for Old Man Douche and Friend to finish their game. You could have made a huge stink, but no.
While you're waiting, have you noticed that the room is very quiet and dark? There's soft music playing with some chanting over it. An instructor is speaking quietly in a soothing voice while a bunch of people stand on mats with their eyes closed and their hands over their hearts in something of a praying position. Hey! It's yoga class. So, of course, this is an excellent time to get your phone out and start chatting with God knows who about something that I am certain is very, very important.
GET OFF THE PHONE, ASSHOLE. Or at the very least, couldn't you step out into the hall? Please? It's bad enough that we have to deal with Racquetball Fuckstain every week (apparently, he called our instructor a bitch a couple of weeks ago). Not to mention the little fucking martial arts kids yammering after their class. Oh, and running around uncontrolled, unsupervised and barefoot all over the locker rooms and around weights. Don't you dare bitch when your precious baby gets knocked over or ends up with broken toes.
Anyway, I'm really sorry you can't be alone with the thoughts in your head for five minutes and you must validate your existence and popularity by calling your friends while you wait to play racquetball. If you could just do it elsewhere so as not to fuck with my zen state of mind, I'd a appreciate it.