Yeah, you. In the gold Mercury Topaz. The one that cut me off in the nearly-empty parking lot of a nasty West side Subway sandwich joint last night. There was just you and I looking to enter the place when you felt the need to punch it and swipe a spot near the front door. No big deal. I can park in front of the shady check cashing place, I’m not scared. Then, from behind your emo-boy wispy hair your little bug eyes popped out when you saw I was going to enter Subway, maybe before you could! Horror! You jumped out and sprinted like you were being chased by The Heat in order to make sure you got to the door first. I really don’t care. No, it’s all good. I had time.
But then, when you flung open the door and waltzed inside, skinny pants clinging tight like a tick to your chicken legs you got smug. You, with the whole whipping strands of hair around like a triumphant ice dancer, you couldn’t be bothered to at least hold the door, say “excuse me” or look me in the face; you went too far you little snot-faced bastard. I don’t give a crap if you had to put your Dungeons & Dragons game on hold so you could bolt from your mothers basement and grab some eats, YOU DID NOT WIN. STOP LOOKING SO RIGHTEOUS, DUMBASS!!
I was tired from a workout and just looking to grab some dinner on the way to the fire station. I’m too old to engage in spinning tires in a parking lot – not even a busted ass Topaz being run into the red line is tempting. Just order your meal and get out of my way, clown.
Wait. What’s that?
You want to order six sandwiches so you and your pubescent little friends can pretend you’re wizards and merlins well into the night while watching Highlander six times in a row? You want to hear what all the possible menu options are from the irritated minimum wage slave with a mustard-laden knife in his hands? I hope he slices you with it. You, sir, are a grade-A turd. I could take you to the State Fair and win blue ribbons for your prize-turd status. And I know you heard me when I expressed my disbelief at your inability to read a menu.
You’re what’s wrong with this country.
I hope a level 19 Taco Supreme Imperial Warlock beat the bejeezus out of you that night back in Mother’s basement.
Me? I was the one too lazy to follow through with my plans to torch the Topaz. I had to settle for glaring and muttering and a cold sandwich.
Unlike revenge, it wasn’t a dish best served cold.