I’m a perfectly reasonable person. But this last week has been filled with so many rude people (post-Christmas rage?), that the gloves have come off and I really need to sit down and write a few heart-felt letters.
Dear Medicaid Counter Woman with the Attitude who Last Month Announced I wasn’t Disabled and Changed my Paperwork without Permission: Always a pleasure, Loretta or whatever the hell your name is. Do I care what your name is? Doubtful. Why? Because you don’t care what my name is. Or who I am. Or why I’m there. Or the importance of getting my paperwork done correctly SO I HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE IN JANUARY. Do you think I like coming and seeing your sorry, sour-ass face every month and being treated like a booger hanging out of Osama bin Laden’s nose? No. I’d much rather be getting my leg sawn off by a serial killer with a rusty, dull saw than seeing you honey, but unfortunately, I have to come to your window and have you glare at me. Mumble with your head down. Act irate when I can’t hear you. Rip the papers out of my hand that need to be copied. Go over the the copier and slam the lid of the copier all 5 times you make copies. (Yes, yes, yes, I know….consistency.) And then shove everything back at me and have them go flying all over the floor. Of course, I’m not even sure if everything has been done correctly, although the fact that you’ve rolled your eyes so many times during our brief interaction, I thought you were having a fucking seizure, must surely indicate something. Right? Anyways, thanks. And I’m just counting the days until I see you again in January. Tootles!
Dear Nice Rich Person Who Gave the Food Pantry Your Old Pasta-Roni for us ‘Po Folks: Gosh, that was so nice. Especially around Christmas time and all. Pasta-Roni, the San Francisco treat. Toot toot! But can I ask you one teeny tiny favor? The next time you load up a bag of goodies for the pantry, can you please try not to get it mixed up with the food that Bush wouldn’t even feed the Al Queida at Guantanamo Bay. You know, the pasta-roni that expired in March of 2000, almost 8 years ago. Thanks. 🙂
Dear Asshat with the Large Truck and Georgia Plates Who Doesn’t Know How to Park: I don’t quite know how you boys down South are taught to park your big-ass man-trucks in parking spaces, but I sure don’t think your parkin’ learnin’ trips down to Walmart with Pa taught you this…
I mean, WTF? When I came out of lunch with my mom yesterday, you were parked so damn close to my car, I couldn’t get in. I had to get in on the passenger side and climb over the frickin’ gears. And then when I was backing out, you were so close my mirror almost snapped off under your wheel well. Of course I was a little frazzled from my brief encounter with…
Dear Bitch Who Almost Made Me Punch a Yuppie: Okay, so I’m going into a pizza restaurant with my mom. The same one where I had my one and only Date with the Village Guy. Ahhh, memories. Anyways, my mom is getting pretty slow these days. So I held the door open for her. Suddenly, Ms. Thang (you) comes tearing through the door I was holding for my mom. You know the type…the ones who push their carts so fast and aggressively in grocery stores, that you feel like you want to scream”ramming speed” or something, since they’ll just run you over if you’re standing in the way of their favorite Chai Tea. So Power Yup practically pushed my mother to the floor walking by and I rather innocently said, “You’re welcome”, all kinda friendly, you know like Andy Griffith and Aunt Bea might say to each other on Sunday mornin’ before Church. And then suddenly she snaps over her shoulder, “Are you being sarcastic?” Oh.my.god. I was like in total shock. Me? Sarcastic? And then a sudden flash of anger. Because for a split second a whole vivid jail scenario flashed before me….life behind bars with my Jail Girlfriend, Bertha, if I were to punch this botoxed bitch right in the kisser. Because it wasn’t WHAT she said, but HOW she said it. Like a bitchy room mate on a reality show. So its a good thing you kept walking ya stupid Jennifer, otherwise you would have heard me call you a “Bitch”.
Dear Asshole Driving Like a Lunatic Wednesday Night: Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know who I’m talking about. YOU! The idiot who sped up out of nowhere on our main 40 mph thoroughfare and started flashing your lights for me to go faster because there was a bus in the lane next to us. Flash. flashflash. Flassssshhhh. flash-flash. fl-asssh. FLASH!! flash. flash. Who knows. Maybe he was doing Morse Code or something. But you know what? The reality of the situation…DUUUUUDE (I could see a young kid driving) I’m in front of you. So again, he gets right up on my ass. Flash. flashflash. Flassssshhhh/ flash-flash. fl-asssh. FLASH!! flash. flashity flash flash. He was so close, in fact, to my bumper, that his headlights were not visible. So since he was thirsting for some communication, I then did some of my famous Ethiopian hand gestures, which roughly translated means “William Shatner rules the universe and defies all rules of gravity”, of course. Little did tiny-penis also know that my car is actually a lethal weapon, you know since my gas tank leaks and one step on my brakes could mean he wouldn’t be getting laid by the girl sitting in his passenger seat. I also tried to convey that with some more intricate hand signals, but to no avail. Finally the bus on my right side stopped and he could have easily gone around. What does he do? He takes off around me into oncoming traffic and nearly smashes the front of my car and then slams on his brakes. Ha ha ha. Yeah, it was really funny. Fortunately, I wise, like Glasshopper. I crazily slammed on my brakes too to avoid dying. Wasn’t that fun? Lets do it again! Please!!!
So those have been the people in my life just since Christmas on Tuesday. If you want me to send them over and make your life as enjoyable as mine, just drop me a line.