Archive for the ‘Mooching’ 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 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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Amy M., free ride no more

The next time your regular ride leaves you hanging and you call me for a ride to work, you are going to be shit out of luck.

I don’t care if you don’t have the sick time or vacation days to cover the absence, or if you are on your final final written warning. We work at the same place and I assume make about the same amount of money. We live in the same neighborhood, so I assume you pay about the same in rent. But somehow, somehow I manage to be a real grownup and budget for transportation.

I would feel differently if your freeloading ass had a car and you wanted to carpool to save the planet. Or, while we’re at it, if you would compensate me at least as much as you do the Central Ohio Transit Authority when you get your ride from them.

The ride to work must be considerably more comfortable and considerably less time consuming in my car than on the bus, but somehow you can’t even muster up a sincere “Thank you.”

So next time, sorry, I don’t think I have the time to swing by and pick you up.

Rantasaurus Says: Next time, give him my number. Funny, a person rarely realizes how fast they can run until I start chasing them.

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Dear Bastard Neighbor Number One,

That was our tree. Not your tree. OUR TREE. Which means that cutting it down while my parents are at the beach and I’m in Africa makes you the biggest possible bastard neighbor ever. Bastard.

Love, L.

Dear Bastard Neighbor Number Two,

Why the hell won’t you invite me to swim in your pool? Even as a kid, you never invited us over. If I had a pool, I would invite you to swim in it. This summer, I’m going to swim in your pool. And then I’m going to pee in it. Take that. Bastard.

Love, L.

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Dear Candy Thieving Co-Workers,

No less than 4 of you have promised me that you would bring in a bag of candy to refill the candy basket after it runs out. How many of you have actually followed through on that promise? ZERO.

Look, I started this stupid candy thing just to be nice and get rid of leftover candy from Easter. How was I supposed to know it was going to create some sort of office sized Candy Monster that keeps clamoring for more?

I’ve refilled the damn thing 3 times now (only because you keep coming back here and asking “Where’s the candy?” and always with the good candy, always remembering what YOU like. I mean, come on. Rolos? Seriously? People eat those outside of movie theaters?) and what do I get in return?

Empty promises of “Oh I’ll help you refill it! I’ll bring a bag in tomorrow!”. Look I don’t care if you don’t bring any candy in. I don’t expect it. Just don’t keep telling me you’re going to and then acting like you forgot (though you never seem to forget the basket is here when it’s full!). A simple “Thank you for bringing the candy!” would suffice.

I’m a nice girl and I’m easy to get along with but I am leaving the candy basket empty until one of you sorry candy eating asses actually follow through on your promise and bring in a bag. I don’t even care if it’s shitty candy, I’ve got my own stash anyway. Until then, you can just do without.


The Incidental Candy Girl

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Dear Moocher,

You know who you are. When I am contentedly munching on a $5 can of
chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, there you are with that wistful smile.

When I’m finally getting a good night’s sleep after days and days of seemingly interminable labor, I can count on you to call me up at 3:00 AM to bring you some antihistamine for your hives.

When, in my perpetually broke state, I scrounge up enough money to go out with my “crew,” you are in their midst, and because YOU forgot your wallet, I am expected to buy you a PBR.

I drive you to a city forty minutes away so you can replace your cell phone. You invite yourself over whenever I’m cooking dinner. You use me for my electroni devices: my 32″ television, my wireless internet, my gamecube, my *working* cell phone, my DVD burner.

You know I am too nice to tell you to fuck off, to deny you the goods and
services for which I know you will never repay me. These are my grievances, and be it here resolved I will take the following actions to make certain you experience that selfsame HELL that your inconvenient personhood has inflicted upon me:

  1. I vow that if we are over at someone’s house that requires shoes be left in the entryway, I will sneak back and tie your laces.
  2. I will go to your home and switch the salt and the sugar.
  3. I will steal small things. Your toothbrush. Your serving spoon. Your remote control. The handle on one of your drawers.
  4. I will always call you when I’m out having fun with mutual friends, and ask where you were.
  5. I will carry around a VAST quantity of pennies, for those times you need to borrow a dollar.
  6. On some days, I will carry around a can of lysol, and whenever your back is turned I will spray everything you have touched.
  7. I will leave your toilet seat up.
  8. I will write limericks about you, and disseminate them among our friends.

All these things I will inflict upon you, and if you continue to mooch things
from me, the list will become more and more drastic.

But I won’t complain about the mooching. No no.

I will relish crafting each and every revenge to suit your crimes. And no, your paltry attempts to repay me (the sandwich here, the odd cigarette there) are not gonna cut the mustard.

Thanks for your time,


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