The Fuck me heels

So I went to look for some shoes.
Mind you, they were not for me, they were for my lover, friend, and confidant, all rolled into one gorgeous, feisty sparkplug of a woman.

So I decided to stop in at Nordstrom's.
Yes, I went to those upscale dumps for people with more money than brains (this excludes me of course, it's patently obvious I have neither).

I hit the top of the escalator and was met by a guy carefully eyeing me to see if I was Norstrom's material or not. Either that or he had ideas about how he'd dress me, because it appeared he was undressing me, at least until he addressed me.

Granted, I don't exactly look like the Nordstrom's type, but when Grover T. ShoeSalesman asked me if he could help me, he asked it in a way that made the word 'help' sound like it had at least 3 or 4 syllables, as in "May I heell..lll....pppp you?"

MrWrong came out.
Fast.

"Sure, where are the auto parts?" I asked.
"Sir, we don't carry auto parts" Grover responded, again with way too many syllables for his own good.
"Meh, screw the auto parts. Where do you keep the Fuck Me heels?"
"Excuuuuuuse me? This is Nordstrom's, we do not carry thooossse sorts of things here"
"What? Is there something wrong with Fuck Me heels? I mean, hey, I'm a red-blooded male, and when I see a woman with great legs wearing Fuck Me heels I just want to drop to my knees and work my way up. You get my drift, Grover?"
"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store, the other customers are clearly uncomfortable with your rather lewd and crass behavior"
"She's not" I said, and pointed towards the pretty woman who was clearly grinning from ear to ear and chuckling
"SIR!"
"OK. OK, I'm leaving. Soooooo Grover, is there a place in the mall that you could recommend for Fuck Me heels? Surely you must wear a pair every now and then if you work in a place like this. They must fuck you over pretty good here"

Fuck you

Fuck you, cleaning the fridge.
How the hell do you get so dirty?
I don't eat in there
I just store food.
What the fuck is that stain on the bottom shelf, anyway?
Do gnomes have keg parties in here when I'm at work or something?
So thank you for keeping my food cold, but fuck you for making a mess of it.


Fuck you, paying bills.
Every goddamned month?
Are you kidding me?
And, while I'm at it, fuck your pathetic little late fees.
They're small enough for me to easily ignore them but they add up over time.
So thank you for the electricity, water, and gas, but fuck you for your constant demands.


Fuck you, Iphone
You're so full I have to delete old pics to make room for new pics.
What man can make this decision?
It's like choosing which of my kids to leave behind on the sinking ship.


Fuck you, changing light bulbs.
It's 2013, right?
Why do I have to change lightbulbs?
Hell , I was pissed when I wasn't issued a jetpack back in 2001 (and where's my fucking raygun?)
I figured by now technology would've at least advanced to the point where I don't have to stand on a wobbly chair and change a bulb.

Two bonus fuck yous:
Fuck you for scaring the crap out of me when I walk into a dark room, flick the switch and get momentarily blinded by that huge flash and loud ass pop!

And fuck you for somehow convincing your lightbulb brethren to join you, causing a chain reaction that means I'm filled with apprehesion whenever I turn on a light. Pop! Pop! Pop! What?
Did you all join in a suicide pact while I was asleep?
Assholes.


Fuck you, washing dishes.
Why the fuck does a "dishwasher" not clean a fucking dish?
I've pretty much switched to just using paper plates (fuck you, environment) and eating with my hands.
I'm a caveman in a house.

Finally, fuck you, writing this bullshit.

Mrswrong's guide to keeping the "spark" in your relationship.

Okay, so I realize once you've been with your significant other for a while, things start to lose their "spark". This doesn't have to be the way. There are plenty of things you can do to keep your relationship exciting.
The following is a list that should really help. You're welcome.

Hide his keys (in your pocket), allow him to search a minimum of 20 mins, then offer to help and immediately "find" them. Do this daily for a week.

Refer to his genitalia as "pee pee" or my personal favorite "lil' peeter". Pretty much anything with "lil'" in front of it is sure to, at the very least, get you an eye roll and a dramatic sigh.

Put everything you know he eats regularly behind something else in the fridge, preferably on the bottom shelf. When he inevitably asks "babe, where's the whatever" after looking for 10 minutes, sigh and immediately "find" it. This works great with toothpaste also.

Keep asking the same question but phrase it 15 different ways.

Argue with him about something for at least an hour, or until he's good and fired up (about 7 minutes for MrWrong) then give him your cutest smile and say "oh, you're right, sorry baby, tee hee" then he can't stay mad, and that will annoy him further.

Ask him to do a household chore and then complain he didn't do it right. This always works well when leaving him to care for children, because he really won't do it right.

Gather a minimum of 57 pictures of an acquaintance's baby, the uglier the better. Look at each picture on your phone in this way; gaze lovingly at it, say "awe babe, look at this one" to each of the 57 photos. If his eyes begin to glaze, it's working.

If your man has regular bm's, this next one will work well for you; make sure there is only one roll of toilet paper in the bathroom with 2 squares left around that time. Again, repeat daily for at least a week.

Set your alarm 45 minutes early every morning and pretend you don't hear it. Make sure it is way across the room.

If this list doesn't make things more interesting, nothing will!! MrWrong is a lucky man!!

New Apple products!

Are you tired of old-fashioned religious doctrines banning all the stuff you like to do, such as stealing office supplies and jerking off to the image of your neighbor's hot teenage daughter?
Relax!
Now you can buy the iGod!
You own PERSONAL God will give you unconditional love no matter how big a fucking loser you are.

Cheated on your taxes?
Lied to your kids?
Strangled a stripper?
Fucked a farm animal?
It's okay!
iGod will forgive you!
Just whisper a heart-felt apology into its microphone.
It will promise you eternal life in Heaven and freedom from justice here on earth.

Feel guilty about that abortion you had, or pushing that person in front of the train?
Relax!
It's all good.
You are forgiven.
You are loved no matter how big a sack of shit you are.

iGod is nondenominational and nonjudgmental.

No need to pray, attend a house of worship, or read a stuffy old religious text full of outdated rules and big words.
It's you, you, you, all the time!

So head to your local Apple Store.
Act now and we'll also throw in the iMRight rationalizer: it will justify your behavior; whether it's cutting off a school bus in traffic, or slipping the sausage to your sister-in-law.
iMRight makes everything alright
No regrets No responsibility
All the fucking time.
IGod bless iAmerica.

Rules to follow when living above me

Please make as much noise as is humanly possible.
Make sure you stomp your huge, ham-filled feet every step you take.
If I cannot track your current location to within a centimeter, you aren't doing your job.

When not playing video games at full volume, you should take your TV off the stand and face it, screen down, at the floor. Make sure to turn the volume up as loud as possible.

The best time for you to come home is between midnight and 2 am or whenever I'm sleeping.
Make sure you trip over at least one stair on the way upstairs
Once you see my lights turn off, make sure you turn up the volume on that DVD of "World's Loudest Explosions - Caught on Film!"

All of your phones must have their ringer hooked up to a bass guitar amplifier.
This way, when your phone rings for the 937th consecutive time without you picking it up, I will realize you must've accidentally tripped over it and broke your 1500-pound skull on the coffee table and I should probably alert the proper authorities.

When moving around up there, pretend the Grim Reaper himself is chasing you throughout your house. Slam doors as hard as possible to prevent him from sneaking in.

Taking a shower at 3:00 am is perfectly acceptable.
Since my apartment is lined with hundreds of different pipes which carry water to approximately 17 different countries, make sure to take showers at night whenever possible.

Every night at 1AM, you should drop something large and heavy such as:
-A refrigerator
-A wheelbarrow full of lead and concrete
-A month's collection of all the pizzas, Slim Jims, and YooHoos you consume
-The entire world
If you don't have access to any of those items, then just trip and fall over. Try to be holding some cinder blocks while doing so.

When speaking to your husband and tossing bowling balls around your apartment, make sure to use a megaphone whenever laughing at something he says. This way I'll know he is a very funny and witty man (who cannot catch bowling balls)

The "bass" knob on your stereo stands for "Better Acoustic Sounding Songs" and should be cranked up as loud as possible to reflect quality.
Try to listen only to rap, techno, or anything which features the drum the size of a delivery truck.
If the song has lyrics, you should turn the bass up so high that it sounds like the the singer is repeatedly chanting, "mwog bbblrrgm gwaf."

Don't ever leave your apartment in the daytime.
Ever.
The outside air is known for the trace amounts of cyanide floating around in it, so it's safer for you to simply hibernate in there for the next nine years.

Much like in an exciting video game, hitting surrounding objects with a hammer may reveal magic prizes hidden inside.
Smack everything you can find with a hammer or large wooden board.
Then smack the wooden board with a hammer because, who knows? It might be a trick.

When the power in the entire block goes out at 11:00 PM and you notice everybody else's lights are off, be sure to open your window and shout, "DID THE POWER GO OFF?!?" out your window.
There could be a family a few miles away that still has power, in which case you could go over to their house and borrow a cup of electricity so you may operate the jackhammer you've got going in your kitchen.

MrWrong's Dojo

When you start drinking does your mouth start writing checks your ass can't cash?

If so, Drunk as Fuck Dojo is the answer to your problems.

At Drunk as Fuck Dojo you will learn the fine art of drunken bar fighting from one of the nation's premiere trouble drunks: Master Wrong

Master Wrong has been banned from such established chains as TGIFriday's, Buffalo Wild Wings, and even Whole Foods.
He is an expert in the "What are you looking at?" and "You got a problem?" fighting styles, but is also very skilled in a variety of other styles including "Back off, she was talking to me."

Master Wrong will take you from the pansy-ass lush you are to a true insurance liability in just 5 weeks.

Intensive training includes self-offensive tactics such as:
-Wing sauce as a weapon
-Breaking a beer bottle without slicing and dicing your hands
- The 151 flame toss
- Flicking a lit cigarette into someone's face
And when all else fails:
- "Getting the fuck outta there"

Classes will be held every Monday and Wednesday

You'll come to class, get wasted drunk, and mix it up with other like-minded individuals.

Master Wrong will show you the path to true 'trouble maker.'

Only when you reach that point of enlightenment will you be able to tell that douche-bag how ridiculous his shirt/hat/girlfriend is with confidence...Confidence that only comes from being trained as a drunk as fuck fighter.

Classes start at $50 a week and are BYOB
At least a 12 pack is suggested per class.

Meet MrsWrong

One must be a saint, or just as wrong as he is, to tolerate MrWrong. In all fairness, I'm a bit of both. 

Let me start at the beginning; our first "date".

It all started on Facebook. A "comment" here, a "like" there, and we end up making plans to hang out. I figured it was perfectly "safe" to hang out since he is really old and not at all my type. I drag my girlfriend along just to make certain he is not a creeper, and understands this is not a date.  (Big FAIL Nicky, by the way) So we go to the local pub, a hangout spot for him (by hangout spot, I mean he spent so much money there he single handedly paid the light bill and 1 bouncer's salary for a year. MrWrong loves him some rum!) Let me start by describing MrWrong's wardrobe. There are no words. I'll have to show you. He was wearing this shirt -

 

and these shoes.
 

Ya. Really. And I stayed.  That's the really amazing part.

Anywho, he's very entertaining and we're all having a good time when I excuse myself to the restroom. As I am exiting the bathroom, he shoves me back in and locks the door. I freeze, much like a scared little deer caught in the headlights of an 18 wheeler) Before I can react (he's quick for an old guy) he grabs me, tosses me on the sink, says "I'm sorry. I have to do this." and makes-out with me. For about 3 seconds, until the bouncer bangs on the door "You know the rules, Savio. One person at a time". It was so romantic. 

I realized I was in love when I didn't smack him. 

And that is how I became MrsWrong. Nice to meet you. Don't get too comfortable, I'm taking "the neighborhood" and this blog in the inevitable divorce.

How to Determine if You are an Asshole Snow Driver

Are you an asshole snow driver?

Are you intimidated by winter driving? 
Do you pull in front of people without even looking?
Are you afraid of going more than 20mph when the first snowflake hits the ground?
Then you are an asshole snow driver.

If you are scared of snow, why the hell are you on the road?
Better yet, why are you even here in Ct. in the winter? 

Don't you know where the fuck you are? 
This isn't the fucking jungle or the desert. 

I hate you assholes.

You inevitably pull out in front of me
What, you didn't see the bright red truck with the big yellow plow?
You didn't notice it's lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree? 

I put all those flashing lights on to warn assholes like you.

Nope, you just pull out like your dad should have.

There is usually no one behind me; you could wait another 10 seconds and I would not have to slam on my brakes on the ice and snow. 

You then proceed to drive really slowly...about 1/4 the speed limit. 

No one in their right mind would pass you during a snow storm. 

So, I'm stuck behind you until you pull into whatever casino, bingo hall, liquor store, gas station, or crack house you're headed to. 

I realize that driving on slippery roads can be scary

I appreciate that you are driving within your limits. 

However, don't pull out in front of a plow truck when you know you're not going to at least go 1/2 the speed limit! 

You obviously aren't in a hurry anyway, so wait 10 seconds, and you won't run the risk of getting plowed into by a 7 ton truck. 

Also, when you see a line of cars 30-50 deep trapped behind you, you don't have to speed up, no, but you SHOULD pull over to let some by. 

You're obviously doing a really shitty job of setting the pace on this "not-safe-for-passing" road. 

Do us ALL a favor and let us get to our families, jobs, or real obligations, and pull the fuck over for fuck's sake! 

road to pull on to for a minute. 

If the shoulder has been replaced by a 3 ft wall of plowed snow, find a decently plowed side 

Don't be surprised or offended if you get 25 middle fingers and 37 horns from the 50 cars you fucked for the last hour and a half.

Here are some tips for you that will make both of our lives easier: 

1. Your winter driving confidence will grow ten-fold if you get rid of that 1994 Buick front wheel drive and get something with all wheel drive. You don't need a huge truck or SUV, but just something that actually gets some traction. Try an old Subaru. They're all wheel drive and great in the snow

2. Go practice in an empty parking lot, and see exactly what your limits are and those of your vehicle. You won't get arrested for sliding around an empty parking lot. 

3. You don't want to give up your front wheel drive Buick? 

At least get some snow tires for the front two wheels; better yet all of your wheels could use them. 

4. Wait until the last car passes before pulling on to the road. See above. 

5. Stay the fuck home! Visibility too low? Too windy? Icy roads? Then don't drive to the casino to lose $200 bucks out of your $300 paycheck and jeopardize the rest of us.

Stay home, watch game shows, and beat your wife/husband/dog or whatever you sleep with at night. 

6. Don't like option #5? 

Then take a bus

Believe it or not, these guys are good at winter driving. 

They do this for a living. 

Besides, the bus ride to the casino or bingo hall will only cost a fraction of what you'll lose once you get there. 

Plus you save yourself the embarrassment of getting flipped off by grandma in the Ford Expedition when she finally passes you. 

7. Move to the South. 

I bet you'd fit in there anyway.

Not sure what their casino scene is like, but you'll find some other unintelligent way to lose money.

You can even keep your Buick! 

I realize the people who are actually the offenders are probably not going to read this...at least not many of them. 

First you have to have a computer. 

Then you have to resist the urge to pawn it for casino money.

And the you have to be smart enough to use it.

So if you are reading this and know any of these assholes, tell them what I think about following them at 20 mph on the highway for two goddamn hours. Thanks! 

The red piano

Cheap (or free) piano available!

I'd really love to keep it, but the only storage is on the 2nd floor and it won't fit up the stairs

I'd have to get a crane and winch it up through a window.

I have seen way too many Road Runner cartoons to think this would be a good idea.

It is about four feet long and two feet deep, and is painted red.

If you cherish Glen Gould's fingers on a Steinway grand, this is definitely not your piano.

But if you don't care about technicalities like being in tune or fully functioning black and white keys, I have your instrument.

If your son or daughter has been begging for an in-home piano so they can avoid the tiny, funky-smelling, practice rooms at school, this might be perfect for you.

It would also be perfect for launching from a large catapult or trebuchet!

I'll even give it to you for free if you promise to launch the fucking thing and send me a video.

Rumor has it that this piano was originally installed in Torrington's historic Warner Theater, but whether you buy that shit depends on your willingness to believe that the "Dittman" brand was ever an illustrious movie house piano.

It's in decent physical shape, but there is a burn mark on the top surface.
It looks like its previous owner left his opium pipe burning on it.

It doesn't sound all that good when playing Fur Elise or the Moonlight Sonata...or playing anything else for that matter.
But I bet it'll make beautiful thunk/plong/crash noises when it lands.

Or maybe with some love and care, you can restore it and I'll see you pounding away on it as front-person for the next big band.
I'm pulling for you.
Really.

You must be able to come pick it up by Friday.
Also, you must bring some strong people to help you load it into your truck or onto your catapult.

The 12 step program

A letter to my daughter's mom:

I recently enrolled in a 12-step program for people whose lives were decimated, and finances ruined, by years-long legal battles with their scum bag exes.

I am currently up to Step 8: 

"Willingness to Make Amends"

"As such" I apologize for the following recent transgressions:

1) Giving the drunk guy at the bar who ordered a Red-Headed Slut your phone number

2) Annoying the staff at several hospitals by calling to check if they had any fresh organ donors with a heart to replace your cold dead one. 

3) Demanding a refund from Southwest Airlines after they wouldn't let you on my flight.

Their advertisements say my bag would fly free.

4) Writing your number on the bathroom wall at the American Legion with an offer of free prostate exams for all veterans 65 and older. 

5) Telling a Marine Corps recruiter that I knew the exact location of the dank, hopeless cave in which the leader of Al Qaeda was hiding and then providing him with the GPS coordinates to your bedroom

6) Praying that karma will hurry it's ass up and come around to you while I am still alive to see it. 

For these things, I make my amends... 

I'd still love to see your head squeezed in a vise, but I have to go along with the program

The pep talk

A friend of mine's girlfriend dumped him.

He made the mistake of talking to me about it.

C'mon now, you'll find a new girl.

I know you think you're fat...you're not, you're just big boned.

Keep your chin up...

Ok, Now the other one...

"I can see you a year from now, with your plenty of fish girlfriend, hand in hand, taking long romantic trips to the fridge"

The Craigslist car ad

Part of my new truck ad:

First off, I need to sell this truck I've been saving. I don't want to sell it, but I realize I have to.

I'm not happy about it.

Try not to piss me off.

Now that you know I'm an asshole, here are some ground rules:

Don't text me 20 fucking questions already answered in the ad.

Learn to read, you illiterate motherfucker.

Am I supposed to believe you suddenly learned to read Engrish in the last 15 fucking seconds?

Do not text me with offers of $2000 when I'm asking $3400 for a truck...The nose and engine are worth more than I'm asking.

I believe low-ballers are the scum of the earth.

If you do not speak English, please get some one to help me understand the squeaks, clucks, and clicks you seem to think is a language.

To all the dopes that want me to give you a break because "it's a long haul for me"

I don't give a shit how far you have to travel. 

If my truck was not a already a good deal or at least hard to find, why the fuck are you calling me from 3 states away?

The price is the same whether you are from Ct, Delaware, or Uranus...

However, if you are from Uranus, I will give you a break if you meet my Ex so you can take a fellow citizen back home...Hell, I might even give you the truck.

Fuck you Snow Car

I was taking a break from plowing this morning and and had a little extra time, so I wrote this:

This is to you:

The lazy, non-snow-removing fucktards speeding through rush hour traffic with untouched snow on your car. 

I watched dozens of you assholes driving moving fucking snowforts around this morning. 

Yes, you:

Assholes driving $40,000 luxury SUVs covered in snow.

What? 

You couldn't afford a $5 snow brush? 

It pisses me right the fuck off when I see your moving fucking snow banks going down the road with a small patch of hazed over windshield peeking out

There you are: weaving in and out of traffic...a blizzard of powder in your wake. 

Sometimes if you tromp on the gas, half the snow on the roof falls onto the car behind you.

But there you go...ice encrusted wipers furiously working to clear away the snow blowing back from the uncleared hood. 

If you stepped on the brakes an avalanche will totally block your vision

Fuck you Snow Car drivers

Was it really too much work to warm up your car for a few minutes while clearing the snow with a brush?

Listen up fucktards...Here is what you do:

Stop popping those Prozacs, turn off your cellphone, and have a cup of coffee. 

Then...

1) Go outside.

2) Clear the driver side door

3) Open it.

4) Start your vehicle

5) Turn the defrost on

6) Relock your vehicle (with the spare key none of you silly fucks seem to have) 

7) Go back inside. 

8) Relax for a few minutes while the car warms up. 

Now go grab the kitchen broom (because none of you fools seem to have a goddamn, honest to goodness, snowbrush) and walk back outside and push the fucking 4" of snow off the roof of your car.

After that, you can clear the rest; using a scraper, a CD case, or even a Stop&Shop card to get the ice the broom can't do. 

There you have it: 

A nice, fully squared away, warm vehicle with full visibility that will not be such a menace to every other motorist. 

Sometimes I try to visualize what you assholes are doing inside those roving snow forts...

I see you listening to shitty music at full volume while balancing a bowl of cereal on your lap, drinking a cafe latte, while texting some other asshole just like you about where you'd like to go tonight to get drunk and attempt to dupe some member of the opposite sex in to actually talking to you. 

I despise you Snow Car drivers and you should be very thankful that anti-tank rockets are so hard to come by. 

The minotaur above...

First off, I must say that I admire your courage. It must be hard living in the world today as a lady-beast. 

Society judges

Oh Lordy, do they ever. 

With that said, let's get down to business. 

When I first moved into the place, it was rather peaceful. 

Then came the day that I first heard it. What did I hear you ask? 

It was sound of your hooves galloping across the hardwood floors above me. 

At the time I thought, 'No big deal, it can't always be like this'

Oh Lordy, was I wrong. 

It turned out that every time I was at home, you would be up there, stomping around.

After a few weeks, I determined through a process of elimination, that you are, in fact, a Minotaur. 

It only makes sense:

Minotaurs have hooves, and that's sure as hell what it sounds like is hitting the floor when you gallop around. 

A Minotaur possesses great strength, the kind of strength that can be felt by a guy laying on his couch, trying to get into a good book. 

The kind of strength that shakes the dishes in his cupboards. 

I dont even need to set an alarm clock to wake up in the morning. 

Instead I wake up to THUMP THUMP THUMP. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. THUMP THUMP THUMP. 

I'm not a light sleeper by any means; I sleep right through the viscously loud police, fire truck, and ambulance sirens every night. 

I was lying on the couch one morning.

I counted the trips you took between your bedroom and your bathroom. 

You made 17 trips.

17!!!

17 fucking trips between the bedroom and the bathroom.

Are you kidding me? 

What could you possibly be doing? 

Minotaurs are half bull. 

Bulls are aggressive when taunted. 

I never wear red. 

After a few more weeks of you recklessly stomping around, I made another attempt at a civil confrontation. It failed. It failed because you clomped your way to the door, and you didn't open it.

I know this because I heard your hooves clippity-clop their way to the door.

To my surprise, the stomping ceased Christmas day, and I awoke to peace. Amazing, I thought, It was a goddamned Christmas miracle! 

A few days passed and I ran into you outside. 

I mentioned it has been a little quieter and you told me you received some slippers to wear around the house.

Genious!

Fast forward 20 days. 

The stomping has returned. 

There is No doubt in my mind the hooves have worn through the fabric of the slippers and are now, once again, banging against your hardwood floors. 

Please, for the love of sweet baby jesus, run down to the local Target and purchase yourself another pair of hoof mufflers. 

I know you can run with those strong legs of yours...

Probably real fast like

Target is less than 2 miles away. 

Go Minotaur, go! 

MrWrong Goes to the Post Office

To the old Fart:
You must be at least 112 years old
How can this be your first time to the post office? I figure it must be since you had the clerk list EVERY possible option for mailing your package.
When the clerk finally stopped and looked hopefully at you, you began asking the most inane questions imaginable:
"Is delivery confirmation the same as certified?"...

"Will the recipient be told the package is from me?" (I still have no idea what the hell that meant)
"If I send it next-day-mail will it get there in three days?"

Ok, you I can deal with.
You're older than dirt; you get a pass.

To the Fat Woman with Dirty Feet in even Dirtier Sandals:
Here's a tip, you morbidly obese waste of air:
Have your fucking package packed and addressed before getting to the window.
You had plenty of fucking time in line.
Hell, you probably had plenty of time at home.
I'm sure you could have used the time you have saved up from not bathing for the last 2 or 3 decades
You have the dirtiest feet I have ever seen.
Their filth was only exceeded by the black sandals (which I think were originally white) you crammed your cloven hooves into
Why wait until you get to the window to address your package?
Oh? What's that? You weren't sure what state Indianapolis is in?
Idiot
I bet your friends or family in Indianapolis simply toss your package in the garbage as soon as it arrives.
I wouldn't fucking open anything from a fleabag like you.

To the Fat Guy with Dirty Overalls:
A Passport Application?
Where in the hell do you think you are going?
I had to stand and watch as you asked the clerk about what every question on the application meant including 'County of Residence'
You then started to fill in the form with what appeared to be a black crayon.
Seriously, do you really think the U.S. authorities are going to let you leave our country and travel abroad??
Where foreigners can see you?
Our reputation is bad enough.

However, it IS possible that you & Fat Woman with Dirty Feet were there together, and you think you need the passport for travel to fucking Indianapolis.

To the Woman with the Wool Hat:
Did you have to look at EVERY goddamn sheet of stamps in the place? Stamps are to be put on envelopes for mailing. Just ask for a damn roll of stamps and take whatever the clerk feels like giving you (usually an American Flag).
I'm sorry they were out of 'Quilts of America' stamps
I understand that you just had to have the quilt stamps, which, of course, you did not know existed until you saw a pic of them on the counter.
However, did you have to explain to the clerk why you like quilts? Or tell the story of the quilts your grandmother passed down to you, or that they were heirlooms, or that one of these nasty old pieces of moth-bait took 100 years to make?
I mean, who gives a fuck?

To the Man in Suit with Briefcase:
One Stamp? You literally stood in line for 30 minutes so you could check the postage on your envelope, only to be told you needed another 20 cents?

To the Pregnant Woman with Hyper Child:
I do not appreciate your child doing a war dance in front of me, or staring at me like I am the freakiest thing she has ever seen (which was a bit of a blow to my self-confidence, given some of the other people standing in line).
I do appreciate that when you reached the window that all you wanted was a Change of Address card, which the clerk pointed out were in a basket on a nearby table. Ah well, at least your child got the opportunity to irritate fellow human beings.

To the Young Woman in Front of Me: You were pretty good-looking, so I wanted to like you.
I didn't.
I was, however, very impressed, and I'm sure everyone else in the post office also was, that you are one of the very few people to have a fucking cell phone.
A point you made very clear by calling everyone you know.
I wonder what your friends really think when you call them out of the blue, when you're bored standing in line, and ask them what they are doing?
Especially when you dive right in into a detailed description of your fucking day

Take it from me, no one gives a shit what you have been doing for the past few hours, especially since you appear to lead an utterly useless, shallow, pointless life
Wow! so you got some lousy overpriced coffee at a Starbucks, then did some cardio, stopped off for a donut, and then went by the cleaners, only to find out they do not open until 10 a.m., then you dropped by the...yada yada
Who gives a fuck?
Also, don't you understand the difference between a credit card and a debit card? Is that why you asked the clerk which is the one with the numbers (I think she meant that you had to use a PIN number to activate).

Next, I have to go to the DMV
Stay tuned....