By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
You: one of six, possibly seven Orange police officers standing in a group at the Block at Orange.
Me: the fat redheaded chick in the black dress. On my way to the opening of The X-Men at approximately 8 p.m.
You: looked me up and down with disdain and said aloud, "Good God" like I was some sort of atrocious freak.
Me: almost came back to tell you what for.
A friend: "No, no. Come back. You don't wanna mess with a badge."
Normally, I have great respect for someone who, like you, chooses to do a shit job for shit pay with shit hours. But you went out of your way to hurt my feelings when you could have been—I don't know, not even nice, but how about just doing your job?
You don't like my fat ass? Don't look. Take a look at your own instead, and thank God you've got a bike to work off the Krispy Kremes.