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Archive for the ‘Douchebaggery’ Category

Dear Clueless Ex-Manager,

I just wanted to thank you for spreading the rumor that I was screwing another jewelry store’s manager. That made it so much easier for me to find a job after you fired me because I was selling twice as much as anyone else in the store (including you).

I just wanted to let you know that I was sleeping with my co-worker…the only male in the store. Remember that afternoon that you thought he came over to help me “move furniture” on his lunch hour and wondered why he came back so sweaty? Wonder no more. And yes, we screwed on the clock.

Your Faithful Employee

P.S. You really should think about having those carpets cleaned. Especially by the watch counter.

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Dear Neighbor with the really loud truck who leaves each morning at 6:30 am-

I am really so happy for you… It is so very obvious you are in love with your truck- the way you round out each of the gears before you reach a tenth of a mile to the stop sign at North and Pine is really impressive!!! I’m sure the huge surge of testosterone you get from rattling every neighbor’s house foundation each morning is just an added benefit of owning such a HE-MAN truck. We (all of your neighbors from your house to highway 35) are truly blessed not to have to rely on our alarm clocks because each and every morning we have you to wake us out of our deepest, sweet slumbers… where we are mostly likely dreaming of having such a thunderous truck as yours.

We indeed, are too fortunate, you know, we should have to share your harmonious and peaceful alarm system with your neighborhood homeowners to your right. How would they ever be able to experience the abrupt interruption of each blissful morn, the way we do each early break of day, if you never take a right out of your driveway?? Sure, there is a big hill that may prevent you from getting up to SIXTY miles per hour on our subdivision streets but it’s just not fair for us to keep up you all to ourselves.

I must also commend your on your cat-like reflexes. It must take a great deal of skill to be able to get your truck up to such high speeds in a 25 mile an hour zone without ever hitting any animals or God forbid- children. I just hope everyone who speeds through our neighborhood like you do has the same lightening fast reflexes to prevent injury or death. Maybe you could give driving lessons at the local high school? I’m sure your skill is in great demand. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed!

Yours,
Grateful Neighbor

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So, like, wow, you have a myspace.

It just warms my heart to have you send me links to it, where I can see photos of you in various poses, pouting and finally being the fabulous international model you always hoped you would be.

And the blurb about you! The ingenuity! You say all these things that are witty and insightful, notions about life and pop culture, interspersed with things you love that make you somehow more unique and interesting than the 2 million plus other fools on the web right now. It is as though you are pointing that telescope right back at yourself, not taking yourself too seriously, when really you are just trying desperately to be cool so that you can get 15 more people to be your “friend” and litter your page with their equally inane comments on life and how hot your hair is right now.

Don’t forget to include a few well-chosen videos of yourself doing things and laughing, so that people will know how much fun you are to have around. And most importantly, have a music player that gives the website visitor no choice, but blasts out a song at high volume. It is akin to aural rape. It is downright rude.

After all your efforts to make yourself appealing, individual and hipster on your little slice of the interweb, you just come across as self-obsessed, self-absorbed, over-rated, desperately unfunny, shallow and – terribly sorry to say this – average.

Enjoy your mediocrity!

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To my rude neighbors (and any other parking impaired dirtbags),

The lines are painted perpendicular to the curb for a reason… It’s to guide your sorry, oxygen burning, completely distracted, lazy excuse for a human being into the parking spot. Why must you park diagonally in a straight pull in spot? Are you that self-important that you can’t take the extra .7 seconds and additional steering effort to put your car STRAIGHT IN to the parking spot?

Do you think that because you managed to somehow dupe the driving examiner into giving you a driver’s license, you are entitled to park anywhere/anyway you want?

And for the guy (or girl) that can’t park in the middle of the space… What in God’s name is wrong with you? How utterly impossible is it to split the difference between the lines? Yeah, I know how important it is for you to get to where you are going and how world peace will somehow be affected if you take a couple extra seconds and put forth the 0.0002% extra effort it would take. I do realize that it’s all about you, but come on, show the rest of us that you have at least an inkling of respect for others.

I think I’ll trade my 2003 Ford truck for a 58 Willy’s, you know the kind with the really sturdy doors… and the next time your sorry existence encroaches on the empty spot… Whack! I’ll make sure you get that lovely door ding that you are so begging for!

Sincerely,

DingBringer

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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 Overweight Customers Who Consistently Go to the Bakery I Work At:

Every morning I make blueberry and raspberry muffins, delicious sticky buns, braided breads coated in coffee and sugar, assorted cookies and golden pies. I see what goes into these desserts as I make them by scratch, and will admit to eating a cookie or two during my lunch break more than once. However, coming into this store and requesting “one of each kind of cookie” is absolutely absurd. Sure, they look harmless lying on their bed of wax paper and a shiny metal sheet pan. This does not mean that they will not contribute significantly over time to your growing crotch fat.
A plate of almond cake samples sprinkled lightly with confectioners’ sugar is extremely tempting—please, take one, that’s what they’re there for. Hopefully, you’ll buy one and contribute to the growing economy of America. Oh, a second is fine. I hope you enjoy it, they’re on the rack directly behind you, and though they are quite large I’m sure you’ll have no problem eating half on the way back home. No, please, a third is not necessary. I am here to provide you with free food so you’ll buy some more, not to give you your third lunch. Your continuance in getting up from your large bistro-style coffee with four sugars and heavy cream to grab “just one more, they’re so delicious!” is entirely not necessary. You have now eaten the equivalent of one third of a cake whose first ingredient is a cup of margarine and the old lady behind you is struggling to contain her grandson, who continues to grow antsy at the sight of a poppy seed muffin.
How do I work at a bakery and stay so healthy, you ask? Why, just because I work here does not mean I need to eat every meal here. I am here to serve you, nonetheless, and would love to give you a suggestion: we do offer such options at oatmeal bread and dinner rolls; you should give it a shot.

Most Sincerely,
Your Ever-Smiling Baker

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Dear Painfully-Idiotic Coworker,

I would really like to know exactly how people like you are born. So I could put a nationwide ban on the procedure. Honestly, we’re going to be seniors in high school now, you’d think you could have absorbed a tad more knowledge than you actually have. Does it ever seem like a good idea to throw rocks at dogs? Does it? Because really it’s just going to make them pissed off and (hopefully) claw your eyes out and bite your arm off.

We work at a dog kennel, where there is ALWAYS work to be done. So while I slave away cleaning kennels does it seem the best idea to chat on your cell phone for a half an hour? Really, the more pressing question is: do you like getting bleach sprayed in your face?

And bossing me around when I’ve worked here a year longer than you and happen to have an IQ double yours is probably not a good plan, sweetheart. I didn’t get a 34 on the ACT to have you try and tell me how to give a dog a bath (which, by the way, you do poorly – I didn’t even think that was possible).

And another thing… I don’t think it’s a coincidence that half the dogs here growl at you as you walk past. Just saying, I don’t think it’s the dog that’s the problem and yelling at them to stop is definitely going to help. Oh definitely. Let me bow down to your amazing and ingenious tactics.

I’m Sorry St. Francis,
Laura

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