What the Ever Loving Fuckity Fuck?
Seriously, people, are we in Bizarro Land or something? Has everyone in the entire known multi-verse gone Full Retard? What is up with the epic levels of stupid of which I apparently have been elected Grand High Poobah? Nowhere on my extensive resume is an advanced degree in Dumbfucker Wrangling and believe me, I've gone over the thing twice to be sure.
Dear Drivers of our Fair Land:
Look, I'll be the first to tell you that, much like a superhero costume, with a driver's license comes great responsibility but let me just assure you: it ain't brain surgery. So to you, Driver of the Scion in front of me this morning, first and foremost: you drive a fucking Scion. Not only should I be prepared for stupidity by this fact alone, but it also tips the rest of the world as to just how big a douchnozzle you are. The Scion is a poorly designed, crappily constructed tribute to pretentious New Age Yuppies who like to think they're better than everyone because their car has no curves. I'm going to go out on a limb and bet you wear Buddy Holly glasses and have your straight leg chinos cuffed to show off your loafers. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm aware that the Scion may not be able to handle anything above 43 MPH and it does have the turn radius of a box of tissues scooted around on carpet by a three year old but still: if you can't manage the 45 MPH speed limit and it takes you COMING TO A COMPLETE AND TOTAL STOP ON A BUSY FOUR LANE ROAD TO MAKE A RIGHT-HAND TURN, stay the fuck off my streets, capiche?
Dear Aunt of Really Dumb Criminal Facing Something Like 15 Years In Prison or Some Shit Like That:
If you have so much to say that you spend 5.30 minutes LEAVING A FREAKING VOICEMAIL, how about just a quick, "Hey I have some things to discuss with you, please call me at this number" instead? Because honestly: this is an office and he is a lawyer. He can't answer his own voicemail if you held a gun to his head and informed him that he needs to retrieve the super secret code from a message left in his voicemail box in order to release his children from a locked room slowly filling with venomous spiders. So you know who gets to jot down your three and a half minutes of "ums" punctuated with maybe four salient points before you start rambling on about one of the people you need to visit to talk about this situation with? That would be me, the first line of defense and you are really not doing much to ensure later messages are actually listened to. Mmkay?
Dear Matrimonial Client:
We're totes aware you don't want to get a divorce and you know, on some level, I'm even mildly sympathetic. But this, dear Client, is the precise reason I personally never got married; no one is going to yank the rug out from under me by announcing after 15 years of marriage they want out and, BTW, y'all mind paying for the house I'm kicking you out of? I still feel the need to impress upon you that if you wish to speak with your attorney, you should begin by simply asking if he is in or if he is available to speak with, instead of droning on about how you were still somewhat shellshocked when you met with him and therefore, didn't ask the questions you now have for him. Listen pal, I don't care WHY you wish to speak with my boss. Honestly, I could not possibly care less if it is your dearest wish to sing him the Star Spangled Banner and tell him all about this funny picture you drew of a bird with a flower in its beak. But to ask if you have to set up an appointment to speak with your attorney- look, buddy I know lawyers like to wring you for every nickel they can, but seriously? Were you born on Planet How Fucking Dumb Are You? And look, have a little respect; shellshock is what happens to courageous people willing to go to war for their country, not spineless pussies who probably haven't said they love their wife in years. If I were married to you, I'd be kicking you out too. But not before giving you a farewell nut shot just to see if you still have them.
Dear Bossman:
Hey, you're the one who prefers coming in at 11.30. Just because you're not here, doesn't mean the phone doesn't ring and things don't get delivered. Don't give me the stink eye because there's a stack of messages and documents demanding your attention and hey maybe once in a while could you try *not* fucking up my schedule because you chose to come in late? While you were off doing whatever the fuck it is you do when not in the office, I was still here, working. Which means at 12.30, I'd like to take my lunch, like I'm supposed to, not be chained to my desk by the stack of stuff you just got around to dumping on it and certainly not because you choose to return phone calls at 12.25.
So, Thursday? Yeah, you can kiss my pasty white ass.
Dear Drivers of our Fair Land:
Look, I'll be the first to tell you that, much like a superhero costume, with a driver's license comes great responsibility but let me just assure you: it ain't brain surgery. So to you, Driver of the Scion in front of me this morning, first and foremost: you drive a fucking Scion. Not only should I be prepared for stupidity by this fact alone, but it also tips the rest of the world as to just how big a douchnozzle you are. The Scion is a poorly designed, crappily constructed tribute to pretentious New Age Yuppies who like to think they're better than everyone because their car has no curves. I'm going to go out on a limb and bet you wear Buddy Holly glasses and have your straight leg chinos cuffed to show off your loafers. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm aware that the Scion may not be able to handle anything above 43 MPH and it does have the turn radius of a box of tissues scooted around on carpet by a three year old but still: if you can't manage the 45 MPH speed limit and it takes you COMING TO A COMPLETE AND TOTAL STOP ON A BUSY FOUR LANE ROAD TO MAKE A RIGHT-HAND TURN, stay the fuck off my streets, capiche?
Dear Aunt of Really Dumb Criminal Facing Something Like 15 Years In Prison or Some Shit Like That:
If you have so much to say that you spend 5.30 minutes LEAVING A FREAKING VOICEMAIL, how about just a quick, "Hey I have some things to discuss with you, please call me at this number" instead? Because honestly: this is an office and he is a lawyer. He can't answer his own voicemail if you held a gun to his head and informed him that he needs to retrieve the super secret code from a message left in his voicemail box in order to release his children from a locked room slowly filling with venomous spiders. So you know who gets to jot down your three and a half minutes of "ums" punctuated with maybe four salient points before you start rambling on about one of the people you need to visit to talk about this situation with? That would be me, the first line of defense and you are really not doing much to ensure later messages are actually listened to. Mmkay?
Dear Matrimonial Client:
We're totes aware you don't want to get a divorce and you know, on some level, I'm even mildly sympathetic. But this, dear Client, is the precise reason I personally never got married; no one is going to yank the rug out from under me by announcing after 15 years of marriage they want out and, BTW, y'all mind paying for the house I'm kicking you out of? I still feel the need to impress upon you that if you wish to speak with your attorney, you should begin by simply asking if he is in or if he is available to speak with, instead of droning on about how you were still somewhat shellshocked when you met with him and therefore, didn't ask the questions you now have for him. Listen pal, I don't care WHY you wish to speak with my boss. Honestly, I could not possibly care less if it is your dearest wish to sing him the Star Spangled Banner and tell him all about this funny picture you drew of a bird with a flower in its beak. But to ask if you have to set up an appointment to speak with your attorney- look, buddy I know lawyers like to wring you for every nickel they can, but seriously? Were you born on Planet How Fucking Dumb Are You? And look, have a little respect; shellshock is what happens to courageous people willing to go to war for their country, not spineless pussies who probably haven't said they love their wife in years. If I were married to you, I'd be kicking you out too. But not before giving you a farewell nut shot just to see if you still have them.
Dear Bossman:
Hey, you're the one who prefers coming in at 11.30. Just because you're not here, doesn't mean the phone doesn't ring and things don't get delivered. Don't give me the stink eye because there's a stack of messages and documents demanding your attention and hey maybe once in a while could you try *not* fucking up my schedule because you chose to come in late? While you were off doing whatever the fuck it is you do when not in the office, I was still here, working. Which means at 12.30, I'd like to take my lunch, like I'm supposed to, not be chained to my desk by the stack of stuff you just got around to dumping on it and certainly not because you choose to return phone calls at 12.25.
So, Thursday? Yeah, you can kiss my pasty white ass.