By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Matt Coker
By Nick Schou
By Bethania Palma Markus
THE ASS BANDIT
March 7, 2003
I understand that we men are a foul, disgusting and sometimes flat-out inhumane crew, but the latest shitstorm you left in our office bathroom put us in a virtual tie with Trainspotting's "worst bathroom in Scotland." You know who you are, you sick fuck, and I beg you to stop leaving the ass grenades! We've all considered walking away from a foot-long basket of snakes or a perfectly dry-docked 2-pound stick of butter with a grin on our faces. But we flush anyway. You, however, have made this your personal weekly calling card, you stinky bastard. After leaving numerous colon scuds in our shitter (I swear, one was the size of a Coors Light tall boy), the other day, you left the shitstorm of the century. I could smell it before I got within 10 feet of the door, and as I walked in, I was freight-trained by an odor that steamy dog shit would laugh at! As if that wasn't enough, apparently you had to shit so bad you didn't even have time to sit your country ass down. The crapper looked like something spray-creted with a fire hose! I will tip my hat to your latest poo Picasso only because you must have had to eat pickled eggs, spoiled corned-beef hash and carrots for a week before delivering it. It's time to give up on this carny sideshow—now. So far, no one has put a face to your work, but all sloppy criminals end up getting caught, and you are going to be next. One of these days, someone's going to walk in on you trying to bail the scene, and then the entire three-story building—comprised mostly of nasally sensitive women—is going to know you are the Ass Bandit. Hey, show us poor bastards a little fucking mercy and at least give us a courtesy flush once in a while, you shit-stained little bitch.
Jan. 7, 2005
As a favor to your parents—who are my friends and who love you dearly—I began seeing the three of you for free in my therapy practice. You were out of control, and their only next step seemed to be to call the police and have you hauled out of their house in handcuffs. But it was your senior year of high school, and they wanted to do the right thing. I intervened. My mistake was in seeing you separately. When I pushed your parents to take a tougher line with you on drugs and sex—like, maybe, refusing to allow you to ball your boyfriends while whiffing eight-balls as they watched Jan and Paul Crouch in the next room—you played your ace. You told me if I didn't back off, you'd tell your parents I molested you in our private sessions. I have to admit a part of me was tempted to call your bluff, to say something like, "If I'm going to be blamed for it, I might as well do it." Instead, I reminded you that you had signed a waiver allowing me to tape all of our conversations—including this one. "Kind of like Nixon," you said. "Smart girl," I said, "except in this case, you're the criminal." I bluffed a little myself at that moment, suggesting I might turn the tape over to a friend in the district attorney's office. I said it'd be interesting what they'd do with you, given how they'd handled that Haidl kid. You backed off. You've become an angel. I hear you're getting straight A's in college and that you make your bed every day. Good girl. Good, good girl. I still have the tape.
Feb. 4, 2000
I'm a college student supporting myself by doing some modeling work here and there. You're a trade-show promoter. I had the unfortunate displeasure of modeling wedding gowns at your show on a recent Sunday. It was really bad enough that you repeatedly walked into the models' changing room—quickly glancing around like a rat. I counted 12 trips into the changing room in 15 minutes. The other girls apparently know that you do this all the time. Their nickname for you is "Mayor McSleaze." If your peeping wasn't bad enough, your offer to "get together" with me "in private" to "talk about my modeling career" was creepy enough to make my skin crawl. Almost as creepy as when I met your wife and your 8-year-old daughter. Your wife has that "last to know," dimwitted look. No thanks, Mayor McSleaze, I won't model this coming Sunday or any other Sunday for you. You're sick—get help!
Sept. 24, 2004
Hey, you: Remember me? The girl hosting her first garage sale? You were that crabby little lady in the straw hat who insulted me. Your sour little face has festered in my memory for quite a while, and I feel it's time to give a little shout-out. All I wanted was to have a happy little garage sale and make some dashboard cash. You created a war zone of bargaining and merchandise appraisal. It wasn't the stock exchange, sweetheart. You should have bought the Christmas ornament for 25 cents or left me the hell alone. But no, not you. You had to inspect my leftover college crap with a disgusted grunt. You bargained with me on every little knickknack down to the penny, just to see how low you could go, and then you refused to buy anything. Finally, after 30 minutes of watching me suffer, you bought a stupid little basket with some fake flowers for $1. One stinking dollar. Sensing victory close at hand, you then held up a pair of unused post-its and demanded, "You give me these for free!" I was through bargaining with you. I said, "You know what? Sure. Take them and enjoy." Your beady eyes narrowed, and you smiled like you won the lotto. You took the post-its and the basket and waved them in front of my face, pronouncing loudly for the benefit of everyone there, "You're a sucker!" My boyfriend laughed. I didn't. I had the momentary fantasy of shoving the dollar bill right up your ass. But being the gregarious person I am, I didn't say a word, just politely smiled as you trundled off with your new keepsakes. 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.
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