is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?

Dear COW-worker:

Fuck you. If you ever again drop an enormous file full of medical bills onto my desk and imperiously demand that I photocopy all 2000+ (and for once, I'm not exaggerating) pages as soon as possible, adding that “I asked [manager] if you could do it since I’m so busy”, I will take that file and shove it sideways up your ass. It may take a long time, but I don’t have anything better to do...and apparently neither do you, since you spend all day talking on your cell phone and reading magazines.

Die in flames,
me

---

Dear Man in the Silver SUV,

Fuck you. I got to that pump first, so don’t wedge your SUV in anyway, mere inches from my poor tiny Cavalier, and give ME a dirty look. Plus my car may be old, but at least it doesn’t cost $60 to fill up every two days, and it’s not raping the environment every time I drive more than half a mile. What does that enormous piece of shit run on, anyway---baby harp seal fetal tissue? And don’t give me yet another dirty look when I pull away blasting “Intergalactic”. The Beastie Boys rule, and you’d best recognize. Hear me, fool? Recognize!

May you come back as a spotted owl in your next life,
me

---

Dear Teenage Boys at Borders,

Fuck you. Seriously, stop whistling tunelessly. Some of us are trying to read. And I don’t want to overhear sordid details about the “bitch” you “drilled” at a party last week. And stop calling each other nigga; if you were any whiter, I could ski on your puny asses. Your momma needs to slap the sass right out of your mouths.

Eat a plate of dicks,
me

---

Dear Temp,

I’m not going to say anything mean to you, because you’ve only been here a day and you don’t know any better, so you get a break this time. But just so you know, you are never, ever to interrupt me when I am eating a piece of lemon meringue pie unless it’s to tell me that the building is on fire, there’s a streaker running through the parking lot, or a disgruntled coworker in army fatigues is marching down the aisle with a suspicious bulge hidden beneath his jacket. There are few things I love more than a good piece of lemon meringue pie; inane conversation about the ornery photocopier is not one of them.

Just so’s you know,
me

---

Dear Neighbor,

I’m not going to say anything mean to you either, because you don’t know any better and you are a genuinely nice guy, plus I can tell you’re lonely. And I’m more than willing to stop and chat for a few moments if we run into each other on the walkway or around the complex. But please, when I’ve just gotten back from work and my hair is plastered to my scalp with sweat and my feet are swelling up from the heels I’ve worn all day, and I’m carrying four trash bags---one of which is overflowing with particularly odiferous dirty kitty litter, and weighs eighteen pounds to boot---to the dumpster, please, I beg you, just say hi and let me go. Seriously, let me go.

Come on, man, let me go!
me