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
March 24, 2000
5 p.m.: We were leaving the Mission Viejo post office when you came running in with both arms stacked high with stuff to mail. Trouble was it was closed, and the post-office employee had already locked you out. What ensued was a pathetic scene that would have earned most children a good ear boxing for the same behavior. At first you howled in disbelief about the door being closed—but you quickly pounced on the employee behind the door, who was only trying to let those of us already finished with our business leave. "Please, man, pleeeeeeease," you begged. "I'LL GET FIRED IF THESE DON'T GET OUT!" Nope, said the employee. It was 5 o'clock—whatever it was, you would have to bring it back tomorrow. Seeing that you had not gained any ground, you pulled out all the stops and resorted to more begging and even threats: "C'mon, man, pleeeeeease! Do the right thing," and my personal favorite, "C'mon, do the American thing." Sir, what the fuck were you talking about? Is catering to assholes the "American thing"? Still no luck, and then you yelled, "This is why people blow up post offices!" Finally the employee let you in—probably out of fear for his life—but he shouldn't have. You acted like a complete jerk. I'm pretty sure the part about getting fired was a lie, but even if it wasn't, you surely would have deserved it.
BARFARELLA AND THE TOXIC AVENGER
April 11, 2003
Hey, you! The latest in a series of dental assistants at the creepy office next door. You have TWO bathrooms in your suite, but every day at 12:45 p.m. you transform the public restroom on our floor into your vomitorium. We don't have the luxury of a restroom in our suite, yet every time I'm able to sneak away for a quick lunchtime tinkle, I have to wait by the door for 10 minutes and listen to you try to mask the sounds of regurgitation with running water. And for God's sake, clean up after yourself. And please, next time, hold the anchovies. The teeny bones on the wallpaper really gross me out. It's bad enough that Mrs. J uses the same bathroom as a dumpsite for her triplets' absolutely toxic diapers—hey, why change them at your Harbor Island home and smell up YOUR OWN house when you can share it with us? After all, we're only 45K employees! We're here to serve YOU! Give us more, we LOVE it!
June 10, 2005
Hey you, the slimy school principal with a gambling problem who insisted to parents and staff that more than $2,000 was stolen from the school this year, just like it was last year, even though you and your kiss-ass secretary are the only ones with the combination. In your desperate Arnold-like bid to consolidate your power and crush the morale of the teachers at the school, you decreed that educators could no longer vote for teacher of the year. You and your "management team" would choose someone from on high. Apparently, democratic elections are anathema to your management style. The thing is, one of your criteria for selection is a requirement that the teacher sign the ridiculous loyalty oath you posted. Don't you know loyalty oaths went out in the '50s, dickhead? Just like your hairstyle? In fact, aren't they illegal? By the way, behind your back, your stomach-stapled secretary tells anyone who will listen that she is really running the school. Maybe she is. Maybe that's why it's so fucked up.
PENCIL DICK PRICK
April 8, 2005
Me: the frequent female patron of the bar. You: the Napoleon-syndrome bouncer who kicked me out. I'm always at that bar, and when I am there and see a group of guys sitting around the only hallway through the place, constantly harassing all the girls by grabbing their asses and mimicking jerking off, I have the right to get pissed! Any place would have thrown those assholes out, but you, with your giant ego, kicked me out because I had no right to speak since I didn't walk through to get my ass grabbed and because those guys are paying customers. I hadn't realized I wasn't a paying customer! I guess I should bring in all my receipts for reimbursement. And I call bullshit on you claiming you would think it funny if they did that to your girlfriend! You really are a pencil-dick prick!
PARDON MY LUNCH
Nov. 26, 2004
Working in a packed-with-cubicles office, and after an especially spicy lunch, one must carefully pick and choose places to pass the proverbial gas. Anywhere within the workspace would be downright rude. The men's room would seem a natural outpost, but what to do when the stalls are occupied? No, the best place is the underground parking garage: it's usually people-free; if someone is there, the gentle hum of his or her engine—or loud racket from the car stereo—drowns out rectal blasts; and—most important—gas rises, jettisoning any offending odors up to the rafters. And there's a bonus to consider while walking to the car for the ride home: drivers prefer gas stay in the tank and not the driving compartment—at least drivers un-enamored by the smell of their own farts. But sadly, there is a contingency I never planned for, and that is why I am now apologizing to you, tall dark stranger in the German performance car. Because your German performance car's windows are tinted and its engine is so quiet, I thought I was alone again in the garage while walking to my Tercel. 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. Amazingly, you did not immediately speed off in a huff; you waited a few seconds, as if stunned by the indignity and air-choking fumes. If it makes you feel any better, please know that one human being was left feeling much healthier for this unfortunate encounter.