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Archive for the ‘The Man’ 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 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 Rent-A-Deputy,

I know that you think your store-bought badge makes you something special. I have to agree. It certainly qualifies you for Special Education classes based on your Inbred Mental Status. The sheriff’s department really caught an awesome guy when they finally threw out those anti-obesity rules.

You must feel incredibly brave protecting your Weight Watchers eschewing wife and your biting, barking, tree humping (also inbred) German shepherd from my elderly golden retriever mix. I know Shiloh can be terrifying when he’s trying to play. Especially when he flops down on the ground so you can rub his tummy. Fearsome. I bet you had to hold your hand steady when you nailed him with a snout full of pepper spray.

Next time you feel the need to protect Tubby and Humpy with pepper spray, I have some simple instructions for you.

1) Waddle to my front door and knock. When I answer, ask: “Ally, Shiloh’s in my yard. Could you please come get him?” I will gladly retrieve my arthritic, heart-diseased retriever.

2) Enjoy your calorie loaded breakfast with Tubby and go about your day without participating in animal cruelty.

If, in the event you choose to ignore instructions 1 and 2, bypass to instructions 3 and 4.
3) Retrieve your pepper spray. Point nozzle directly at your eyes to make certain it isn’t clogged.

4) Activate spray nozzle, maintaining eye contact with it at all times.

Following these instructions will prevent you from pissing me off.

Thanks so much,

Ally

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Open letter to the girl they call Aman-DUH,

Ok, so I get it. You’re young, immature, wet behind the ears… whatever ridiculous euphemism you wish to inject here.But you’ve been at the company for almost a year and I honestly think, in that time, you have managed to get even dumber.

It seems like you should’ve gotten the hang of things by now, but each day, you continue to amaze me. Firstly, the cell phone. Honey, it’s gotta go. Nobody important is going to call you from 9am to 5pm, and honestly, we’re all a little sick of hearing your annoying Nickleback ring tone full blast every time your phone rings. Tell your friends you’ll call them back. You can set up your playdates on your own time.

Oh, and you know those things called titles, inspections, and insurance statements? Yeah, they’re kind of important. How about instead of talking on the phone/making baby shower invitations/flirting with the guys/playing on the internet, you consider making them a priority? Oh, and let’s try not losing them and blaming them on customers or other employees too, mmmkay?

The biggest thing I’d REALLY love for you to understand, however, is that Daisy Dukes and flip flops is not “work appropriate” attire. Just a hint – when everyone else is wearing khakis and business casual clothes, it’s not cool for you to look like you’re heading off to the beach. This isn’t Billy Bob’s Smoke, Video, and Bait Shop. I like to think that customers expect a little bit more from us. I don’t think you want to give a customer a full moon when you bend over to get their title out of the file cabinet. Or maybe you do. Hell, I don’t know…

But, I try, I really do try not to just haul off and slug you right in the face in the name of complete and utter stupidity. And it’s obvious that you’re not going anywhere soon, because you’re cute/you flirt/the boss doesn’t want to hurt your feelings/he doesn’t want to have to train somebody else/he wants to sleep with you, or whatever reason you are still working for the company.

Anyways, I will continue to burrow my resentment, pasting on my fake smile and pretending I’m interested in what you have to say, because after all, what difference does it make? We’re all in this together…

With love, Amy

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Mr. Brady,Was that you I saw getting ready to pass out (surprise, surprise!) in a bar? It brought back quite a few delightful memories and I’d like to share them with you, as I’m sure you don’t remember –what with your constant drunkenness (how DID you manage so often to be intoxicated around school-aged children without notice? Do Tell.)

I am a lover of English, and I feel like your love of the sauce is the only reasonable explanation for the things you did as my 8th and 9th grade English teacher.

I wonder if your hazy memory might recall the time that you actually dribbled in your pants a little whilst screaming at the top of your lungs– I think because someone had belched under their breath during your recap of the previous night‘s Chicago Bears game. You were so adorably worked up that your scarlet face actually highlighted the broken blood vessels all around your nose.

Anyway, you always wore very tight sweatpants to school and I vividly recall a large wet spot appearing in the general vicinity of your “junk”. We sure did love that full-on-leave-nothing-to-the-imagination view of your “junk”.

I believe this was sometime shortly before you, in the midst of a defaced chalkboard-related tantrum, shoved a TV-VCR combo down the stairs and STILL managed to retain your teaching position! Remarkable. I think St. Patrick’s Day (on which you made little or NO effort to conceal your intoxication, up to and including ACTUALLY hitting on some of the female students) was my favorite though. That’s the day you became SO enraged at someone’s suggestion that St. Patrick’s Day was created by the Lucky Charms Leprechaun– you actually fell to the floor and had a seizure!

Thank you so much Mr. Brady, for igniting my passion for the language–and especially for making ALL reading material sports related, because I don’t know what I would have done had I never had the privilege of reading “Brian’s Song” 3 times in two years (you silly, forgetful man you!).

Much Love,
The Very Traumatized Girl In the Front Row

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Dearest Ranty-rex,

I have a dying need to express my feelings about my scummy apartment complex, as well as my trailer trash converted, now apartment-renting neighbors. I love how they take every opportunity to call the landlord or the police to alert them to the tinest annoyance… coming from my apartment OF COURSE!!!!!!

Do these morons ever think that their brats screaming, yelling and crying all night could possibly bother me! Of course not… I have no children, so therefore I’m insensitive, immature, annoying… aka… the enemy! Was it my choice to have dirty, smelly children invading my life? NO…

Was it my choice to decorate an apartment like a trailer that I have lived in for 15 years?…NO!

You see, the point of this rant is simple…DON’T punish me for your unhappiness with your life. THIS is a warning…the next time I hear an all night karaoke…(with “Your cheating heart” as the main selection!), kids crying, screaming, jumping, singing…GUESS WHAT!

I’m calling the friggin cops. You better not sneeze wrong or 5-0 is in the hiizzzouse! I’m looking for a home to rent now… just because I am that tired of you! Neighbors suck…..(In case you didn’t know… I’m talking to you #4) Thanks for the forum…

Love,

The single, childless, sexy girls that live upstairs!

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Manticore, hardcore soft-drinker 

Once upon a time you could purchase a bottle of your favorite soft drink, look under the cap, and realize that YOU’RE A WINNER. With the occasional disappointment of a PLEASE PLAY AGAIN you had fairly good odds of at least winning a new soda, or maybe even a discount towards a new soda.

Now it seems like many items (and not just soft drinks) give you a ‘special code’ that you can enter onilne to unlock wondrous prizes and earn points!!!! You go to the website, give them your information, promise them your first born child, and then you can get a piddling number of points towards your points total. And then once you have enough points, you can have them MAIL you a coupon.

The bottle cap? Trash. The envelope? Trash. The money they spent on the stamp? Gone (at least to them). Wouldn’t it be far simplier to just let me win by opening the danged bottle? The cap has a dual purpose – cap and prize!

Only after drinking a gerbillion drinks could you use your points towards anything that wasn’t just another soft drink. I find the whole premise of giving me some number that makes me look something up online that is just a ploy for you to get my mailing address and to send me stupid junk mail idiotic. I just want my free drink! Or even nothing, really, the tempation to jump through these stupid hoops just isn’t worth the eventual free drink I may one day get if I ask for the coupon to be mailed and then actually use it.

Rantasaurus Says: Dear Manticore, here at Cola Corp, we hear and understand your frustrations. That is why we’ve enclosed the following customer service request form, to be detatched and mailed back to us. After this, we will mail you a customer service problem description form and you will be one step closer to have your voice heard! Thank you for drinking Cola Corp, goodbye.

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