You were the crazy old bat in the wheelchair who nearly mowed down me and my family. We had just come from an evening of family entertainment, and you were a stark contrast to the Harlem Globetrotters. I saw you with your little flashlight taped to the side of your chair, and I heard you say, “Move it, or this thing will take your feet off!”—while we waited for you so we could all go into the crosswalk together. You cruised by us at breakneck speed, yelling, “What the hell’s wrong with you?!” and then finished us off with a fading “Asshole!” thrown over your shoulder. At that point, I said to my wife, “Don’t respond,” and to my 7- and 8-year-old kids, I simply said, “It’s okay.” I’m not sure what the etiquette is here. You are clearly stuck in a world where the glass is not only half-empty, but there’s also a big booger floating in it. I guess I should treat you like anyone else who behaves this way. I don’t want to be misunderstood as feeling sorry for you because of your physical handicap, so: Fuck you, you ugly bitch.
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