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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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Mark S, happy with his manhood 

How many more times will I get a variation of the mail-box clog about improving my manhood? I find it quite a bother to be continually told that nature forgot to endow me with the package that would make it difficult to wear a normal pair of jeans, let alone walk without a pirates peg-leg limp and that some monk sitting constipated has come up with a solution just for me.

I mean, how do they know I need help? Did the cybergeek Star Trek addict that formulated this and and other mind-numbing delete-key-deserving drivel somehow spy on me in my shower with an infrared telephoto wi-fi webcam bought at spysrus.com?

I fully understand the concept of mass advertising. But when an e-mail arrives at my mailbox, addressed to me specifically and my name used in the greeting instead of, say, an impersonal entry such as “Dear joke of a man,” I take insult.

The spammer is one of those dog-butt-sniffing, child-molesting porno star wannabees who needs to be neutered so that his progeny who will no doubt be born with less than the one brain cell and will never breathe the same air as us higher life forms. The spammer’s instrument is the one that needs recalibration, not mine.

For had he checked more thoroughly my curriculum vitae before adding me to his mail clog list, he would have known that I don’t need male enhancement. Had he surveyed the many women I known before, he would have gotten a response that would have made him seek me out for advice on how to use his tool more effectively. From the first to the latest, women who have experienced me, recall me with a returning glow of fond memory.

Rantasaurus Says: Oh, Mark, those were beautiful April nights in Paris… er…. yeah. Spam sucks.

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Dear Honey,

I know you want to treat me special, and apparently this means that we have to go out this suggestion”on the town” and have dinner in a restaurant every once in a while. I truly believe that sucks. And you don’t seem to understand that.

Why? There are so many good reasons:

I was a waitress for years and years and years. If I never step foot in another restaurant again, I would be fine. I know what the kitchens of those places look like. I know that most restaurants hire 15 year old kids or retards to wash their dishes (which is just gross). I know that the wait staff doesn’t give a fuck about either of us and would be happy if we died at the table (after paying the bill, or at least dropping our wallets from our cold dead hands). Do I want to be subjected to that? NO.

Further, if I ever do say, “ok honey, fine, let’s go out to eat,” then that’s only the beginning of a world of misery. Where do I want to go? Truly, I want to stay at home… so YOU pick the damn restaurant. And no, I don’t want to spend a crap-ton of money on steak and potatoes. You know I prefer salads.

Every time we have this discussion we end up pissed off at each other, and it has ruined more than one nice night on the town. Remember sitting in Hardee’s after a hard night of indecision? No? Let me remind you. I was crying and you were ranting on and on about how the fast-food workers should get off the phone and take your order. The food was horrible, and the company worse. That was a night that will live on in my memory forever. Is this a nice night on the town for me? Or for you? Don’t you have any male friends you can eat steak and drink beer with? Why do I have to be involved at all?

Really, if you want to do something nice for me, don’t drag me to a god-forsaken restaurant. Go grocery shopping, cook a nice meal, and then wash the dishes afterwards. You really are a good cook, even if you have to use every dish in the kitchen to make spaghetti.

Love,
Me

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Dear Lonely Psycho Patient,

I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you please stop stalking me?

I’m a professional. I understand it’s common for patients to form crushes on nurses they see on a regular basis, but seriously, dude, it’s not a date.

Gently rebuffing you hasn’t helped, so here are some tips:

  1. Just because I’m not wearing a wedding ring doesn’t mean I’m available. I live with my boyfriend and I made this clear the first time you caught me off guard and asked me out on a date (note to self: go buy a cheap wedding band to wear to work….might save me some trouble in the future…)
  2. Staring at me for 4 solid hours, three days a week does NOT make you seem more attractive, it does NOT make me want you, and quite frankly, it just pisses me off. Go to sleep, read a book, or watch TV, for Christ’s sake!!
  3. Stop calling me at work for stupid stuff. I’M BUSY!! If you need something, tell me while you’re there. And stop “dropping by” the unit (especially while you’re high) on your off days.
  4. In case you haven’t noticed, I have other patients. I don’t care what you did “in the service” 10 years ago. Oh, and if you intend to pursue this LIE, pick a branch instead of saying “Oh, you know, for America”. Even I know it’s the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, etc. Put in a little effort, idiot!!
  5. I know what your car looks like. How many times are you going to wait for me to get off work and try to follow me home? Haven’t you figured out by now that I’m going to drive straight to the police station if I see you? If you really want to know, borrow a car and stay back a little. Jesus! Didn’t you learn how to use stealth in the service? Oh yeah, that didn’t actually happen…..my bad.
  6. Stop telling me every day that I look pretty. I already know that.
  7. Just a recommendation: re-direct this wasted energy you’re spending on me to get a haircut, shave, and, oh, shower, maybe? Perhaps move out of your parents house? Then you can get a real girlfriend that’s NOT ME!!

In closing, I’d just like to say that even though you’re twice my size, I’m not scared of you. I’ve been a nurse for 14 years and faced up to bigger, meaner, and smarter than you. That “penlight” in my pocket is a taser and I’m aiming for your balls if you get too close.

Back off, and fast, before I get you a prescription for one foot up your ass…..mine.

Sincerely,

Your Dialysis Nurse, Rio Brown

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Dear Guy Who Blatantly Looked Over the Urinal Wall at my Junk:

What the fuck dude. What the fuck? Where do I begin with your flagrant breaches of sober urinal etiquette?

There’s the fact that you chose the one right next to me, completely ignoring the row of empty urinals. That in itself is punishable by some sort of fine somewhere in the world. Are you aware that these procedures are in place for a reason? Have you no regard for the threat of stage fright? Had I not been mid-stream, things could have potentially gotten ugly.

Then there’s your inexcusable approach. I’ll grant that sometimes mistakes are made, eyes wander, curiousity is piqued. However, you do NOT poke your head right over the goddamn wall upon initial approach to the urinal. Nor do you then make eye contact and smile.

Maybe you were just being friendly, I don’t know, but I’m sure there are better venues for that. For example, ones where my dick isn’t hanging out releasing that morning’s latte. Hey, maybe you’re into that sort of thing, if so, good for you, congratulations, that shit is hot, whatever.

Keep in mind that I’m not. One time some big lady sat on me on a bus, and yet somehow this was less comfortable.

Sam

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Catherinette Singleton, TWO TIME RANTSPLOSION WINNER! Stop it, you minx!

I live in a nice little house, in a nice little neighborhood, next door to a family that belongs in a van down by the river. At first, I thought them merely a little off, now, I want to beat them with hammers whenever I see or hear them. And it seems to me that I hear them more often than I see them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t stand being outside when they’re around. If I’m in my backyard and see any of them come outside, I immediately run back inside under the pretense of having to go do something really important – like stick my head in the oven or throw myself down the stairs. Let me introduce you to these upstanding members of the community:

The Single Mother (who we shall call Ms. Travesty): is a recovering alcoholic, recovering drug addict, and full-time nurse. Ms. Travesty enjoys wearing light colored blue jeans and stained white shirts. She’s in her mid 50’s and has an 8 year old daughter – she met the father in AA meetings (he’s on methadone). When she’s not picking up single bachelors from her AA meetings, she’s calling the cops to have them dragged out of the house, and/or trying to tell me stories about how she’s gained weight.

My favorite story about Ms. Travesty happened last summer: she had met this real winner and had been dating him for about 6 weeks. Mr. Winner had no job, no driver’s license and had pretty much moved into her house. Suddenly, they start fighting like cats and dogs. On a Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in my den watching TV, when I noticed that there were 3 cop cars parked outside my house. I immediately called my friends and family to share the drama that was unfolding. 20 minutes later, out comes Mr. Winner in a pair of handcuffs, his cut off jean shorts, and the dirty white wife beater. It was just like being on an episode of Cops! The officers put him in the back of the cop car, and then he started yelling all sorts of crazy stuff. Since then, I have tried my best to avoid Ms. Travesty at all costs. It’s gotten to the point that when I see her standing in her driveway, I whip out my cell phone and pretend to be on a very important phone call. This ploy seems to work pretty well, I highly recommend it to you.

The Daughter (who we shall call Little Tragedy): at one point I thought she was cute, now she makes me want to kick her when I see her. She and all her little friends love playing in the neighborhood. That’s all well and good, but why must they do it on my front lawn? Don’t they hear my dog going nuts in the house? Seriously, I’m surprised that my dog hasn’t jumped out the window and eaten her and her little friends. My dog, a St. Bernard, loathes and despises her. I know this because he decided to biter her one day, twice. It was not a pretty scene, though it was an extremely effective way to ensure Little Tragedy never came into my house again.

She used to drop by my house all the time, when she was hungry and her mother had left her alone with her grandfather – who would pass out on the couch and not even realize that she had left the house. As Little Tragedy has grown up, I’ve noticed her imminent progression into soon-to-be-school-hussy. What 8 year old do you know that wears cropped tops and glitter eye shadow? It’s sad to Little Tragedy her go down this road, but I know she’ll end up pleasing the boys in the men’s’ room sometime really soon.

The Dogs (lovingly referred to as the Hounds of Hell): I hate them with a passion that burns to my very core. I wouldn’t hate them so much, but Ms. Travesty thinks it’s a good idea to let them out at 4:00 in the morning. Fine, release the Hounds of Hell, but please let them back in when they start barking. Oh no, not Ms. Travesty. Instead, the Hounds of Hell bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, for 2 hours straight, directly underneath my bedroom window. What’s really super is that sometimes she lets the Hounds of Hell out right when I’m attempting to go to sleep. There seems to be no limit to her disregard for her neighbors.

I hate you Ms. Travesty, I really do.

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