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Archive for the ‘Money’ 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 Cell Phone Company,

In the next few days you will be receiving a package from me containing the
remnants of my cell phone. You see, I ran over it with my car today and
thought you would appreciate the pieces. Please feel free to place them in
whatever uncomfortable orifice you feel is most appropriate at the time.

At last, I’ve reached the frayed end of my very short patience with your lack
of competency in the technological advancement department. I realize that
my apartment is located over a direct portal to the underworld, but I should
not have to turn into a Verizon commercial every time I need to make a call.
I grow weary of having to stand in one particular corner of one particular
room, stand on one leg, raise my arm over my head, on the peak of the full
moon and keep the antenna at a 45 degree angle at all times. And now it is
not only my apartment, but the grocery store, the mall, the interstate, the
bar, and apparently the drycleaners.

People are beginning to talk about my screaming into the phone. “Do you think it’s turned on?” They whisper. “Perhaps we should call the police?” Is this your not so subtle way of
telling me that I should go back to a landline or that I talk on the phone
too much? That’s a little passive aggressive, if you ask me. My mother
would be proud of your tactics, but I’m not amused. So, since you find no
fault with your little piece of slave-labor-assembled, imported plastic and
mysterious alloy piece of crap I am returning it to you.

Don’t bother trying to reach me. I’m currently on the phone with Hell to arrange for a
better service plan.

Sincerely,
Can You Hear Me?

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Lindy, a loyal FedEx customer 

I’d like to give a big ol’ shout out to UPS!

It starts with “FUCK” and ends with “YOU.” Wait, well I guess that would be the entire thing. FUCK YOU!! There, don’t I feel better.

This is the SECOND time in a row that I have used thier online package pick-up and deliver service (at work). And for the second time IN A ROW no truck has shown up.

I called this morning to see wtf and I followed my usual rule of being polite and cheerful because I know that it’s not the fault of the lady on the phone. I calmly and professionally explained that we were supposed to have a truck come yesterday, one never showed up and that I needed some assistance in getting one here.

The lady on the phone then proceeded to tell me that my package had already been picked up. Gee. Ummmmmm, well that’s funny because I’m LOOKING AT IT RIGHT NOW! But I know she was reading from a screen telling her so. So I politely informed her once again that no, I’m sorry it’s still here.

At this point this bitch (why yes, she is a bitch now, not a lady) proceeded to give me a lecture about being careful when we put multiple packages out on the dock because it can confuse the driver and they might take the wrong one – which she is sure happened yesterday.

What? WHAT THE FUCK??? I only had ONE FUCKING PACKAGE in the first place you SKANK! And if I DID have more than one package those fuckers JOB is to differentiate between package A and B. Gosh OH NO!!! What if there is a package C!!! What will we DO?!?! The sky will fall!!!

No! You dumb bitch. Those drivers do a damn good job, they can figure this shit out just fine thank-you, it’s your company’s STOOOPID fucking worthless website that fucks things up. Your website that didn’t forget to CHARGE us even though it was never going to send a truck.

So FUCK YOU and your panty-waste, whored-out, syphilitic website!

Rantasaurus Says: One time I tried to send a T-Rex egg UPS. It hatched in transit and now I’m blacklisted. So be thankful, Lindy. Thankful!

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Dr. J.A.M. DDS

How many times will I have to endure the patient whining: “I hate the dentist! Oh, but not YOU! It’s not personal.” How about this: Then don’t say it. Think before you talk for once in your pathetic, soft, privileged life.

Yes, I know shots hurt. Yes, I know Dentistry is expensive. Funny that… floss is actually inexpensive and if you used it once a day you would not be in this sad, neglected, painful state. YES, I KNOW YOU HAVE UGLY TEETH. But come now. Isn’t vanity one of the seven sins? You don’t really NEED bleaching or veneers or braces. Most people wouldn”t mutilate themselves to be “beautiful” and frankly if you want to be “beautiful” maybe you should start with some larger parts of your body.

And how smart is it to say “I don’t like dentists” when I am about to work on you? Have you considered that I may now dislike you because you are a self-centered, thoughtless @#*? An instrument may slip or I may not be so gentle with that molar you never brushed or flossed…

Dentistry is all about neglect, vanity and trauma, which are all the patient’s responsibility. I only care about doing a good job, so don’t make me forget to do it by saying stupid things.

Rantasaurus Says: Okay, so… who’s officially terrified of going to the dentist now?

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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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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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Oh hi there, Dearest Daddy and my darling step-mommy!

Remember how I’m putting myself through college? Like, that whole thing where I have scholarships and loans in my name? And I’m paying for my own car and insurance and cell bill and credit card and basically have been financially independent from anyone for the last three years?

Yeah, that’s pretty cool, huh. ? And I know you’re all proud of me and stuff. But, um, here’s the thing: yeah, when you promise to send me money because I have a business trip to NYC and would like a little extra doff to buy you presents and, y’know…eat? Or when I’m strapped for cash one semester and I’d like a simple hundy to get me through a month? Or, hey, when my *tooth breaks* and I’d like to go to a dentist to get it fixed, but I have no dental insurance and no money to take care of it and you’re all, “Why, of course we’ll send you money so that you can get through a simple meal without wondering if food is going to get stuck in your giant, chipped tooth hole and become abcessed, leading to having to have the tooth pulled and a root canal which we know you can’t afford!”

Yeah, when you promise me all the stuff and then you don’t follow through? Guess what that makes you: lying liars who lie. Do me a favor. Don’t promise it to me if you don’t have it. If you say “we don’t have the extra cash right now” for the love of God, I’ll understand (until you spend $700 for the step-kiddles to go to junior and sophomore prom, which is a rant of a different color).

In conclusion: don’t be surprised if I don’t come home for Christmas because I can’t afford gas.

All my love!

Schwa

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