SERVICE TO HUMANITY
Dear Shitheads and Fucking Idiots — An Open Letter
Exorcising some diplomacy
Dear People:
If you’re going to drive at freeway speeds through the supermarket parking lot …
Be prepared to slam on your brakes and come to a tire-smoking, chest-vs-steering-wheel halt when I walk in front of your car with my shopping cart.
If it was just me walking I know you’d kill me with your ‘beamer’ and wipe me off your bumper like a fly speck, but the possibility of auto damage from a shopping cart was too much for you to take. Nice job doing the insurance/police/pretend-penance time-and-money calculation as you screeched from 60-to-0 in 0.9 seconds.
You can’t really get mad at me and flip me off like you’d enjoy. Not only were you at fault, but there’s the issue of the un-child-seated 5-year-old in your passenger seat (illegally) and your “Honk If You Love Jesus” bumper sticker.
Oh, and STFD! That’s Slow The Fuck Down! And STFU.
The parking lot speed limit is 10 MPH. Even that’s too fast most days with peg-legged, partially-sighted pensioners jumping off curbs into traffic lanes.
Now be gone. But do say “hi precious” to all your ‘rescue’ cock-a-poos for me.
Please kick the back of my theater seat
Also, rub your massive jelly rolls and stench-ridden puffy coat on the back of my head as you waddle by to take your seat.
And, make several cell phone calls — on speaker — during the movie.
AND, wolf down $147.99 worth of chili cheese fries and a bathtub-sized trough of popcorn while snorting like Chewbacca with sleep apnea whose CPAP machine is broken.
I won’t say a thing.
If however, you start choking to death during the performance and ask for my help, I’ll dial 9 … and … then … 1 … and … then … just hold my finger over the 1 while I watch the light of life fade from your eyes.
JK, JK … probably.
Please pull on the back of my airplane seat as an aid to either getting into or out of your seat …
92 million times during the flight.
Then each and every time, release your death grip suddenly so my face rockets into the seat back that’s seven inches in front of me.
Then again, you haven’t smelled my farts.
After a pre-flight indulgence of crab cakes and succotash with a side o’ re-fried linoleum and Velveeta, I’ve got game.
And. You. Can’t. Do. A. Thing. About. It.
If you pay by check for anything
Ensure your moldering checkbook is lost at the bottom of the steamer trunk-sized satchel your sherpa wheeled into the market with.
Under no circumstances get out the checkbook in anticipation of completing your purchase. That little table by the credit card machine is strictly intended as your booger and drool repository and as a place to rest your elbows while chatting up the beleaguered checker who’s forced to admire your Motel 6 travel photos while awash in your halitosis.
Again, DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, retrieve your checkbook and ready a check with the date, your signature and the payee info. That would make entirely too much sense. Besides there’s always the possibility that you’ll be a lucky winner and the checker will inform you that your mountainous stash of beer, pork rinds, lard, frozen pepperoni pizzas, chocolate ice cream, diet soda, and Pepto-bismol is free today.
Oh, and, NEVER, have a pen in hand or anywhere on your person.
Thanks.
There’s 45 minutes — spent buying an apple — that I can never reclaim.
Next up
1️⃣ How to block an aisle
2️⃣ How to block the sidewalk
3️⃣ Dance like there’s nobody watching. Order your ‘special’ coffee like there’s nobody in line behind you
4️⃣ ‘Sneezing in My Face’ — With full lyrics. Sung to the tune of ‘Strangers in the Night’
5️⃣ Shower Monthly and Wipe Incompletely — The Elevator Monologues (opening soon on Broadway)
Hungry for more? ⏬
