Dear Lady that brought her dog to Target

I had to go to Target to buy some outdoor Christmas lights.  I had drunk a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper 10, and I had to find a manly outlet for my surging testosterone, so I elected to hang Christmas lights.

You were in the Christmas section with your daughter.  I would have noticed you from the ungodly jogging suit you were wearing, but you amped it up.  You had some sort of Terrier running around in your cart.  I can even see how you got it in here.  You have a purse in which your ten year old daughter could have been smuggled into the store.  I should have called those lunatics from PETA then and there, and they would have choked their rivers with your dead. 

What you are teaching your child is that if there is a rule that you don't like, you can break it.  I mean, who cares if she has a dog in Target?  I do, because I have to live by the rules, so you should too.  Society agrees upon rules that you must follow to be a part of that society.  If you break those rules, I should be allowed to hammer punch you in the clavicle. 

I stared at you, then got angry slanty eyes at you, and you just smiled at me then got in my way.  You stoked my anger with your indifference, so I went middle school and told on you to the nearest store associate.

Which brings me to the next point.

Dear Target associate,
When I tell you that the soccer mom in the Christmas section has a dog in the store, which has to be against store policy, do not tell me it isn't hurting anything.  You could at least humor me and pretend to call it in on your walkie talkie.  To tell me that the dog isn't hurting anything is to spit in my face.  So, when I lost my cool, it was your fault.

I told you that it must be ok to smoke in the store then, and pulled out my pack of cigarettes.  You threatened to have me ejected from the store.  If a dog, which people can be highly allergic to, is allowed to be in the store, then I should get to smoke.  If the rules are being thrown out the door, I intend to party.  Again you threatened to throw me out.  I proceeded to make the valid statement that apparently, I should be able to walk around the store with my penis out, and you became even more beligerent.  My penis isn't going to hurt anyone.  Why can't it get some air?  Is it because my wang represents justice, or is it becomes my penis is a becon of truth illuminating the hypocrisy of Target's store rules that apply to some, but not to all?

I demand an answer, or when I come back on Tuesday, you will know me by my trail of smoky, wang dangling vengeance.

Dear Guy in Line in Front of Me at the Gas Station

There's a game I like to play.  It is called schizophrenic or bluetooth.  The basis of the game is to decide whether the person that appears to talk to themself is either mentally unstable or just a dick.  Guess which one you are. 

I swear that if you raise your little sausage finger to the clerk and mouth "One minute" one more time, I will be forced to destroy and degrade everything you love. Admittedly, this seems to be limited to pies and the tv show Shasta McNasty.

You do not look "hip" or "fresh" talking on your headset in public.  No one needs to hear you ask your doctor why your rash won't do away, or to hear you say "Oh, god yes.  Now do it like Jimmy Stewart" to your wife while she seductively sings the Gummy Bears theme song to you.  Your private life should be private.  No one needs to hear this. 

Just looking at you, I can make a list of things that you are not accomplishing over the phone right now while you hold up the line at this Citgo.
You are not:
1)  Buying a treadmill
2) Engaging in an intense discussion regarding the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. 
3) Trying to locate a decent pair of pants.
4) Thanking your barber for the most convincing comb over ever.

What you are doing is pissing off me and everyone behind you in line.  We are not here for our health.  In fact, I am trying to buy cigarettes, and the meth head behind me keeps muttering something about how Tastycake Tandy Takes are responsble for the decline of the American sitcom.  He does not have a bluetooth, and he keeps breathing on my neck.  All we need for you to do is tell the attendant what you want, and then we can all get our turn and get on our way.  Only you can stop this, yet you choose to let us suffer. 

This is like being at a Ben Stiller movie.  I'm not certain why I haven't left yet, and I am certainly not entertained.  And absolutely no one is laughing.

Dear Aging Hippie in Acme Market

You can't block the entire aisle with your cart and sing "Margaritaville" while you try to determine exactly what pretzel will assuage your munchies.  The pretzel aisle is also where the soda lives, and I love soda more than anything.  This includes family, liberty, and not going to jail for bludgeoning a dirty ponytailed balding man who can't make up his mind between zesty ranch and honey mustard explosion.

Also, when someone says "Excuse me", you move out of the way. You don't say "I'll be done in a minute" and then start singing "Boys of Summer".  

 I will eat all of the pretzels and make you watch, just so you will cry.