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Archive for the ‘Crying’ Category

Dear Stupid Cashier at the Clothing Store,

I know you don’t remember me, seeing as it’s been 6 months since the last time I entered your store, can you blame me?! Last time I was there you tried to make small talk (which I hate enough as it is) and I had to, very politely, explain that I was going to be late for work if you continued with your sob story about how you are just working here temporarily to make some extra cash and they don’t pay you enough, on top of that they keep moving you from location to location and blah, blah, blah…

You must have mistakenly thought that I was inviting you to continue our (and by “our” I mean “your”) small talk, just on a different subject. WRONG! Now, when you asked me where I worked I didn’t know what hell was going to be unleashed when I answered, if I had known I would have said something like “the morgue” just to keep you silent. “I am a salesperson at the local dealership”, I told you. Then it began. I could see it as soon as the words left my mouth, your eyes got real big and the “OOOOOOOHH” that formed on your lips indicated that I must’ve sparked a memory that I SO wish I could’ve left hidden away in the very dark corners for your teeny weeny brain.

You start rattling off some random question about how much it would cost me to have an extra key made for your 2005 Toyota Rav4 because you let your best friend borrow your car and his 4 year old son swallowed the key. My smile (and I say smile, but really I mean evil death stare with a grin that could kill) must have interrupted your story. I smile, not because I think you’re cute, nice, funny, smart and definitely not because I am enjoying our conversation (or your company for that matter). I smile because right now I am imagining myself reaching my arm out as far as possible and bitch-slapping you across the damn face.

I WANT to tell you to go kill yourself and how much I despise “your kind” but instead I contain myself, give you the number to call and demand that you ask for yourself. This must’ve made you very sad because you finally decided to shut the hell up, give me my merchandise, and let me go on along my merry way. You obviously missed the part where I said I was a SALESPERSON not a CUSTOMER SERVICE GRUNT RESPONSIBLE FOR MEMORIZING EVERY PRICE FOR EVERY MINISCULE ITEM IN THE ENTIRE DEALERSHIP just in case I run into some curious bimbo that’s too lazy to call and find out themselves. Give me a break lady.

Note to self: next time someone asks where you work, lie, just down right lie.

Very sincerely,

The rude annoying customer that hates your guts

P.S. Thanks for making me late to work, by the way.

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Dear Hateful School Nurse:

Many, many years ago, when I was but a wee blonde tot with a penchant for the Dukes of Hazzard and a mad, crazy love of macaroni and cheese, I suffered an embarrassment on the playground that required a visit to your office.

It began on the swings. Once again, I prepared to amaze the crowd of third graders with my afternoon performance of leaping from the swing at it’s apex, but this time, instead of landing to cheers of applause, I was met with jeering laughter.

It seems my explosive landing had created a split in my pants, thereby affording the crowd ample view of my flowery underpants. Oh, the ridicule! Quickly, I ran inside to tell teacher, who, barely disguising her laughter, sent me directly to you, school nurse.

When I showed you the gaping hole in my pants, fat tears spurting from my eyes, you stood staring without expression. “Please, please, call my mom, I want to go home and change!”

Instead you sized me up, pulled some pants from a box in your office and told me to put them on.

I’m not sure what was more embarrassing that day, having everyone see my flowery underwear, or, having them see me in those pants you made me wear…the bright, plaid, bell bottom pants that were two sizes two big and  smelled like pee.

I hate you school nurse.

Yours truly,

Still Embarrassed

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Stephanie, not an Oprah fan, I’d take it

Was it really necessary to cry for three days when I shaved my head at age 17? Did you have to be all dramatic when every I expressed a teeny, tiny individual impulse? Well, screw that I guess. I learned how to hide my freak flag. It is a skill that serves me well.

And to this day, you still don’t understand me. You don’t know my hopes and dreams. Heck, you don’t even know my goddamn JOB! You truly suck because of this. And I know I should be all, ‘you did the best you could’ and all ‘Oprah vagina forgiveness’ about it. But, no. I still think it sucks when you can’t get your self past the tattoos to see the glory of me. Dumbass.

But lets try a tiny step here. I am NOT a physicians assistant. I am a PSYCHIATRIC NURSE PRACTITIONER.

Big difference between the two. Just like us.

I still love you though. Your grand-kids love you more. See you next week.

Rantasaurus Says: Steph, I get you. I get you. When Mr. Perfect Dumb Billasaurus was off stomping skulls and making Mamasaurus proud, I was reading in the corner, learning Milton, Thoreau. Who do you think got the Caveasaurus when Mama passed away?

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Dear over-privileged student,

I understand that your internet connection in the FREE housing you’ve been provided is not operating correctly at the moment. Trust me, our IT department has been working on it. In fact, they were already working on the problem when you called me. They were still over there when you then came to my office to ask about it twenty minutes later.

Yes, I did give you the correct extension for the girl who runs our help desk so you could call back to check on it. The fact that “she didn’t answer” is no reason for you to call me and tell me “she didn’t say her name on the voicemail.”

Let me give you a couple of tips:

  1. If someone doesn’t answer their phone, it’s probably wise to leave a voicemail. People do not have endless bladder capacity and, therefore, sometimes must leave their desks to go to the bathroom. That is exactly where she was when you called for the third time today.
  2. Since the outgoing message on the IT Help Desk actually says “You’ve reached the IT Help Desk”, you can probably bet that you were calling the correct number. Just because I said the actual name of the person who runs the Help Desk does not negate the fact that I also said the actual phrase “the person who runs the Help Desk.”

You apparently lack key listening and critical thinking skills.

Also, giving the Help Desk girl attitude when she tells you that they’ll look at the problem tomorrow is NOT a good idea. She leaves here at 5:00. You called her at 4:30. The problem is on our ISP’s end, and there is no way they’re going to get anything done in thirty minutes.

So, since people have been dealing with not having internet since, say, the dawn of humanity, I think you can go less than 24 hours without your precious wireless access.

Stop Whining,

The Student Wrangler

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Joe Bauer, real estate humanitarian 

Things are so bad now for real estate license holders ( which everyone and their brother is) with homes not selling for years and sellers refusing to accept that the home price gold rush madness is over and ignoring their realtors pleas that they should start dropping these laughed at asking prices…

That I think it is time to start real estate salesperson soup serving kitchens in the most crashing areas.

I mean these people are devastated. The most depressed group I have seen in years. Many practically have tears in their eyes when I see and ask them how it’s going.

Can’t someone get these started?

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Dear C,

Seriously dude, do you not have the balls to just tell me you don’t want to see me any more? I know the relationship was casual, but c’mon, would a little courtesy have put you out that much, say maybe picking up the phone and letting a gal know the whole thing is over instead of just leaving me wondering what happened to you.

I could understand the duck and dodge response if we had only gone on a handful of dates, but after two months of seeing each other almost every day, I expect a little more.

Even though I do not understand how it’s possible for you to blubber on Wednesday “you don’t understand how much I really really like you” and on Thursday decide that you never want to talk to me again, I don’t care why. I knew the whole thing was doomed from the beginning; I just would have appreciated the courtesy of a phone call to let me know you were done with it.

Grow some balls,

A

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Georgia J, too late for the dating Rantsplosion but just as angry

Your ranting topic got me thinkin’ about worst dates ever. And usually it’s the guy talkin’ about some psycho-ass girl who would either talk too much, wear too much make-up, question him about his ex-girlfriend or hide outside his window at night. You know, crazy shit.

Well, I take offense. I’m always cordial and wonderful on a date. It’s the men you gotta watch out for. They’re straight-up-and-down freaks.

So here’s one for the ladies.

One time I went out with a 35 year-old dude who still lived at home. If I had known this, mind you, I wouldn’t have gone out with the guy. He brought me flowers, which I thought was cute, until he admitted five seconds later that he worked for his Daddy’s flower shop and they were “today’s rejects.”

Um… cuuuuute? We went to dinner at Fresh Choice (!!!) where I paid for myself (!!!!!!) and he spent literally the entire time making pyramids of soft-serve and bread pudding and pizza and mixing them all together. Turns out he’s got the IQ of a very dumb three year-old.

At the end of the night, with the reject flowers wilting in the seat next to me and cheap macaroni and cheese still on my breath, he moved in for the kiss. Just as I was about to decline the “kindness” of his offer, his tongue was down my throat like a freakin’ pipe snake, digging for my tonsils!

I pulled back physically laughing/gagging at this point and this, this is when he admitted to me that this moment had been his FIRST KISS EVER and that he was awfully hurt that I was laughing. There was maybe even a tear glinting in his eye.

Instead of cleaning up that emotional mess, I walked right into my apartment, locked the door, opened a bottle of wine, watched a rerun of the Price is Right and had the most fun I’d had all evening.

Rantasaurus Says: TV and wine? Sounds like my kind of date. Crying and tonsil hockey? Sounds like Rexie in high school

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