Lately, I am at my most angry while waiting in line. Not because every establishment is understaffed, making the wait a bit longer. It’s because I’m always stuck behind an ass belch like you. Unfortunately, many places – courthouses and banks, for example – are guarded by balding men with guns. Even I dare not whip out a cudgel in the presence of such capable warriors. But it’s not hard to find out where you live, beef dangle, so stop pissing me off.
When the fuck did knowing someone who’s stupid enough to get caught become a topic of interest? If you’re reloading a penal calling card or sending money so your baby-daddy can get the precious USA Golds that will keep his asshole relatively virginal, shut the fuck up about it. Do your business quietly and get out of the way. Don’t ask the clerk if he knows how the program works, wax ignorantly about the unfairness of the justice system, or complain that your new boyfriend doesn’t want to put his name on Mr. Crackhead’s fetus when it finally emerges. Nobody gives a rat’s ass how trashy your life is. Go back to your gutter where no one has to look at you.
And how hard is it to take your ID out of your wallet? If that clear sleeve is too tight, don’t put the card there, fucksteak. You are completely unremarkable. Unless you have a distinctive facial tattoo, the teller will not remember you. And even if your odor is infamous, she still has to see your license. Pull it out and hand it to her. Don’t bitch about how inconvenient it is or demand to know what features have to be confirmed. And if you do somehow convince her to accept a dirty, half-hidden card with major damage, remember that I’m right behind you. I’m going to follow you to the parking lot, beat the shit out of you, take your paycheck, come back in and cash it with my ID. And guess what? She won’t check, just like you wanted. Asshole.
I’m a great supporter of public cell phone use. I have to keep the 1-900 girls in my ear at all times to drown out the chatter of the cow cunts around me. Otherwise, I’d get blood on my brand new blouse. (Six bucks at Ross, by the way.) But if I hear you above the moaning, you’re fair game. I don’t want to listen to you arguing with the married guy you’ve been spreading for because he doesn’t want to marry you. Newsflash. You’re not worth the cost of the cubic zirconia. I also don’t want to hear about how little Billy needs a bone marrow transplant or the great new church that’s opening where the university used to be. Muffle your cum sucker long enough to make your transaction and get the fuck out. If I remove and gently fold my new cotton-blend treasure, you’re already dead.
Basic manners and a sense of pride – and shame – should already be instilled by the time you reach adulthood. Children should be given a yearlong test when they reach puberty. If you can’t say something nice, or nothing at all, we cut out your voice box and give you a little notepad. If you can’t keep your fluids to yourself, you’re gently guided into the Castrotronic 5000. On the other end, eunuchs and potted meat products emerge. If you can’t stand single-file and keep from being a flaming douchebag for fifteen minutes, you fail life and get to fucking die.
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