Hey, You!

Unfortunately and quite unintentionally, I released the gastric buildup created by my zesty chicken-stew lunch—extra Tapatio—at the precise moment I reached your partially rolled-down driver's-side window. That would put my butt cheeks mere inches from your nostrils at the exact moment Mount St. Hector blew. . . . All right, assholes, listen up. Let me tell you two things you might not know. First off, not only did you scare the shit out of me when you threw a barrage of eggs at my car as I drove down your street, but you also permanently damaged my new paint job. . . . Law enforcement wants guys like you who are quick thinkers in crisis situations such as this. Oh, that's right: you are in law enforcement! . . . You will get what's coming to you—or maybe you already have. You are a miserable, bitter and unhappy scrooge, and perhaps just having to be you is punishment worthy of someone like you. . . . You and I work for one of the biggest Internet porn companies in the world, and I used to love my job. It pays great, and it's easy: we just look at porn all day and send e-mails to webmasters introducing them to our program. . . . It's not that I'm a misogynist, not at all. I embrace the very core of femininity. . . . Who taught you how to be so selfish? Take away your car, fancy clothes and daddy's money, and you're just another stringy-haired white girl whose roots are screaming for attention. . . . In my line of volunteer work, I'm used to seeing poverty up close; there's no shame in it—unless you behave shamefully. With your shirt unbuttoned to reveal an ample belly, you looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman in Love Liza. . . . I guess you didn't find my "Re-Defeat Bush in 2004" bumper sticker as funny as I did. . . . Do you know why I smiled? That basket I sold you used to be my dog's favorite hump toy. Now go wash your hands, bitch. . . . I hate beach balls. I always make a point to pop them whenever they're within reach. . . . Just because you are probation officers, you took it upon yourselves to take my red backpack that was full of my very personal photographs, magazines and miscellaneous stuff. . . . To the city of Irvine: your parking rules can suck it. . . . When I objected to you stiffing me for the rent, you threatened me with your SPAS 12-gauge automatic shotgun—thanks for keeping armaments in my apartment without my knowledge. . . . That's not multitasking. That's multi-being-a-dick. . . . But here's where it gets better: You took property that clearly belonged to me, with my name everywhere inside it, and I'M NOT on parole or probation. . . . I have deloused and deodorized your room. I have burned sage. . . . To avoid soaking the ends of my cargo shorts in urine, I removed the heaviest item from my right pocket—my brand-new Canon Power Shot S-50 digital camera. . . . Being a normal male, I sort of absent-mindedly track your progress across the street. Then I see it: a fairly large Post-It note stuck right to your rear. . . . Hours later, a thunderstorm broke, and I wondered about you. Did you get caught in the rain like I did? Did you jump at the thunder? . . . You are a creep. I've watched you twice now, hanging around the bar in our little beach town, checking out the women, buying them drinks and then lingering over the drinks like you're waiting for the opportunity to dose them. . . . And think again before you complain I sexually harassed you: I'm gay, and believe me, you're not my type. . . . The moral of this story? If you like to play with balls so much, you might try growing some between your legs.

 
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