Today, as I drove to work in bright sunshine under clear blue skies, my windshield was pelted with droplets. This would be merely unusual and not cause for a face of horror and concern were I not driving directly behind a Honey Bucket truck.
The name Honey Bucket alone in reference to a port-a potty makes me want to (a)retch and (b)never consume honey again.
Suddenly, Winnie the Pooh makes sense.
AND IS SO GROSS.
Dear Douche Who Has Been Breaking Car Windows At My Apartment Complex,
Your life has brought you down such an interesting career path! I am certain that petty theft and vandalism have netted you far more financially and morally than forty hours a week of working as a french fry cowboy, so kudos to you! If you make your way around to my vehicle, I would like you to note a few things:
*There is nothing of value in the car; the stereo system is stock and all of the junk on the floor and in the backseat is actually junk. If it were valuable, I wouldn’t be leaving it in my car with crowbar jockeys like you roaming around.
*I am not entirely opposed to vigilante justice, and, in fact, feel that individuals who render ‘services’ such as yours are wastes of resources, even cyclically-replenishing ones such as oxygen.
If you still feel you must enter my car and take a look around, perhaps you may want to try the door first; given that I drive a quality American-made vehicle, I have been unable to lock it for the last year as the alarm system randomly sounds throughout the day and night when the door locks are activated.
We live in a world where few traditions are reverently upheld; however, if you’re a purist and must break a window, may I suggest that you go for the plexiglass window instead of the safety glass? It’s much more likely to slice your arm and hit an artery, whereas the safety glass was truly intended for my protection and not yours.
In conclusion, eat a dick. Or nine of them at once.
Love,
Mellzah
It’s ‘bring your obnoxious brat to work’ day. If I wanted to work in an environment with screaming children, I’d still be at Legoland, thanks. Or I’d apply at Chuck E Cheese to experience the more vibrant, resonating, ear-piercing indoor scream.
I sort of wish I could get them to chase a ball out into the street.
What’s the point of today, anyway? What with all of the running down the halls, destroying my work on the whiteboards, and shitting on the floor, all it does is turn the office into a goddamned daycare and they view work as a big playday. If you’re going to bring them here, at the very least, you can start the process of crushing their spirits for the eventual soul-sapping office-job drudgery they’re destined for.
When I’m dictator, I’m going to be an advocate of child labor–why shouldn’t they sew and make handicrafts? Their eye-hand coordination will never be better, and their fingers will never be more nimble!