lundi, novembre 12, 2007

Hey, You!

That's right. I'm talking to you. I'm calling you out. All of you.

To the co-worker who drank my Go-Girl Glo: Yeah, sure. You make fun of me for drinking an energy drink with Aloe Vera and Vitamin E, sweetened with pomegranate and star fruit, and then you drink it behind my back. This is worse than the time you laughed at the idea of girl pants, and then I caught you staring at my sweet cheeks. I don't know which one of you drank it. But you didn't deserve the mildly carbonated lift. And by the way, if you're a man, I'm more man than you in girl pants and a go girl in my hand. If you're a woman, then, well, I'm not more woman than you. That would be biologically impossible. But I am more in touch with my feminine side. Deal with it.

To the guy with the giant hairy butt-crack who crossed the street in front of me with his shirt off whilst I was waiting at a red light: My first thoughts were, PUT A SHIRT ON YOU DISGUSTING WHITE TRASH SLOB! What do you have against clothing? When did it become O.K. to parade around half naked? If a hot girl can't do it--if our society has decided that there is something morally askew about perfect breasts being exposed to the public--then your bloated, hairy belly and shaggy/saggy man boobs constitute a capital offense against our democratic republic. Shirtless people are corrosive to society. Shirtless people whose larded front side prevents their pants, (or acid washed jean shorts) from covering their hairy backside are surely a sign of the apocalypse. YOU WILL PERISH IN FLAME! YOU AND ALL YOUR HIRSUTE ILK!
These were my first thoughts. And I would have made them known to you out loud, except that my second thoughts were: I should get a picture of this! Unfortunately, by the time my inner screed ran its course you were too far away to get a good picture with my phone's crappy camera. How bittersweet for you. Your crack can practically be seen from space, and yet my phone can't capture it. And if you're curious as to why I didn't roll down my window and give you what for, well, just consider yourself lucky that red lights turn green.


The guy who was vacuuming at the car wash just before me:
I didn't see you, but the fifty pounds of fetid kitty litter you must have vacuumed into the canister filled my nostrils--and the interior of my car--with an unbearable smell. Thanks for the stink, friend. It makes me wonder. I mean, I don't know what it is about poop, hair, and dander that you "pet" people fancy, but it mystifies me.
P.S. Until you get rid of those cats, we're through. Whoever you are.

I'd go on. But the remainder of my helpful advice is for my family, and can be handled face to face.

3 commentaires:

Kate a dit...

I guess we can't be friends anymore on account of the cats. Too bad.

James a dit...

I'm with you on the "pet people" thing. What is the appeal of having a filthy, smelly, messy, walking poop factory sharing your living space with you? I suppose you could say it is a "pet" peeve of mine.

(Although I am grateful that my wife allows me to live in the house)

pssst a dit...

So many things to love about this post:

Mention of your sweet cheeks
The phrase "Hirsute Ilk"

Personally, my cats manage their own filth, same as fit, groomed, and fully clothed people do. They are quite elvolved. Accept it.