Body Nazis and Sicilian soup

We are enjoying some unseasonal warm and sunny weather for the Seattle area. We've been sleeping with the windows open to try and get some of the air moving in our bedroom, which is something we hardly did in the "heat" of the summer. Not one to waste a good opportunity for some fresh air and exercise at work, I set off on foot for lunch at our nearest food purveyor.
Actually, the nearest one is our inhouse catering service, but they somehow have a knack for turning flavourfull fresh produce into flavourless mush, so I usually avoid it whenever possible. The restaurant is actually about half a mile down a very busy road full of construction traffic and Le Mans wannabees, and crossing it can be a bit on the scary side, if not competely foolish. I arrived in one piece and joined the line. Mmmm, Yakisoba sounds nice, but that Teriyaki beef and salad just passing my nose looks even better. I was in this reverie of decision making whan I realized I didn't have my wallet. No surprise there then. By the time I got back to work, I would gladly have chewed the leg off a starving Hyena, but instead, I decided to try my luck at the woefullyinadequateandandsouldestroying cafe. I opted for a bowl of Sicilian potato and sausage soup, as the least offensive option, and sat by the window nearest the lawn. I was just musing as to what  flavor could possibly be construed as Sicilian when the body nazis arrived for some lunch time calisthenics, and plopped themselves down in front of the window I was sitting at. After a brief and noisy round of high fives and other meaningless shows of self congratulating antics, they started to jump and grunt, squat and grunt, and generally flex their Lycra clad bodies and grunt, all the while looking at their reflections in the window. They seemed unaware that there was actually someone on the otherside of the window who was trying to enjoy his shitty Sicilian potato and 3 million calorie sausage soup without having to witness their narcicistic gyrations. I tapped on the window and asked, in as nice a voice as possible, if they couldn't fuck off and grunt somewhere else, preferably Los Angeles.
I didn't actually do that, as I would almost certainly have been fired on the spot, but I did think it, and I gave them a look that said "Fuck with me again and I'll shove that Yoga mat somewhere even your Mom isn't going to look." Satisfied that I had made my point, I schlepped back to my desk to stick pins in some lycra clad voodoo dolls   eat an apple I picked this morning from a tree near the ferry line and wondered why the blobby contingent at work hadn't plopped their cherubic bulk there instead. I might have even enjoyed the soup.