Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Letters Letters Letters

Dear Drivers on I-5:

I swear to fucking god that you're all morons.
There is absolutely no need, NO NEED, to tap your brake lights every 13.4 seconds for over 4 miles. I understand that no one wants an accident, I certainly don't want one as much as you don't want one, but if you all don't fucking get a clue I'm going to start honking.

And by honking I mean I am going to surgically enhance my chest to include the steering wheel, because that is how far I'm going to thrust my body onto the horn to give you a message.

If it was just the piece of shit landscape truck that I was UNBELIEVABLY trapped behind for 30 years tonight, I would understand that. I would tap the brakes, too, if I were leaking all sorts of fucking debris over the highway.

And hey, landscape truck? Your truck bed was piled too high. I know this because I was flipping you off for about 15 solid minutes and you didn't speed up once. NOT ONCE.

I understand that traffic can be stressful. And I further agree that the city of Seattle founders were totally tripping on acid when they determined where and how you would merge on and off a freeway, particularly as you hit the CBD on the 5.

But listen. Let's all agree to not drive like idiots, and then everyone will have a safer and happier time out there. Are you with me?

Putting the flames out,

Dear People in Business that call Busy People In Business:

* If the machine cuts you off, that is a polite indication that you have rambled on far too fucking long for me to be at all interested in what you are saying. So please don't call back and say, "Hehehehe your machine is having trouble," and then recap the 4 hour message it tried to end. The machine is not having trouble, it is just as bored as I am.
* TURN OFF THE RADIO AT YOUR DESK WHILE YOU'RE TALKING. Be sure that we don't share the same tasted in music, but be doubly sure that it drives me batshit when I can't hear you because some crappy top-40 song is blaring into the phone speaker.
* If you call me on a regular basis, please don't tell me who you are in relation to me in time and space, and repeat your number and company name twice in the message. If I sent you a Christmas gift, I know who you are. If you call me complaining at least three times a week, you can be assured I fucking know who you are, and I think you're annoying.

Just Trying to Make It Through the Ever-Loving Day,

Dear Incredibly Large Spider I Saw In My Backyard This Sunday:

Dude, SERIOUSLY. You stay outside and I promise not to kill you. But if you ever dart out of a small crevice very near my head again, all bets are off.


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