Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Open Letter To Holiday Shoppers.

I fucking hate you. All of you.
You stand around like cattle, blocking the aisles, and taking up space that could be used by productive shoppers like myself.

I know what I'm getting others.
I have a general idea where that item is located in the store.
I am willing to purchase the item when I pick it up.
So get the fuck out of my way and let me get my shit done!

Each minute that I am around idiotic inbred morons like you I die a little inside.
If you listen closely, the sound you hear is my soul screaming to kill you, and the urge is only being held in check by the sheer force of will.
The fact that you were able to dress yourself and find your way here is a major fucking breakthrough, and I'm sure you are as proud of that fact as I am proud of myself for not picking up and throwing random items at you.

The sight of you fat fuckers lined up at the checkout like pigs at the trough make my dislike for this holiday even more intense. The slack-jawed look you present to the world is enough to make me lose my lunch.

I hate you.
With as much animosity and vitriol as I can muster, let me say it again.
I fucking hate you all.

(God it's wonderful shopping with the Wife at Wal-Mart.)

1 comment:

  1. I need taps on my combat boots, some days. Only because I can't strike the heel like I was taught. I've become soft.

    But I have never had any sympathy for those who mill about a holiday shop or stop fucking dead in the middle of a mall concourse when they're two feet in front of my massive, rushing ass. e=mv ; simple physics, my man, and when the energy from that mass and velocity is transferred to your tiny ass it's gonna accelerate you to a dangerous speed.

    I only nearly straight-armed one guy, and it was his third time of a dead-stop which I had to avoid.

    At least, when it's boxing day sales - they have those - in Manhattan, J knows just to get behind me and we move quickly and safely through the crowded street.