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 Kid Playing Magic the Gathering at Witz End Comics in Augusta, Maine in 2004

You do not know me and my friends.  Therefore, when we enter the comic book store you apparently never leave, please do not announce, "Oh, look! It's the caravan!".  Yes, there are several of us.  I do not, however believe that constitutes a caravan.  Even if it fits the Webster's definition of the word caravan, you are still wrong, because I feel like you were wearing a cape.  Maybe you weren't.   You just really seem like the type of kid that would be wearing a cape out in public.  This is not a compliment. 

I do not want to be in this store.  I only came in because apparently when the group takes a vote, six "yesses" overrule one prolonged groan, a series of whines, and me lying down on the sidewalk in protest.  You being all cheerful that the caravan has arrived does not help matters.  I have subsisted on a diet of red hots, fiddle heads, and brandy for the past week.  I have been bathing in a lake and I haven't shaved in days.   What out of any of that leads you to believe I will be glad to hear your greeting?

As I wandered the store, I heard you conferring with the rest of the nerds of the round table.  Apparently, a "white deck" in Magic is the equivalent of being hung like Ron Jeremy, because you announce that you have one at every possible instance.  At one point, someone asked a question, and your answer was " He-LLOOOOOOO.  WHITE DECK!"  This, young street urchin, is why you are not allowed to have nice things.  This is also why I left the store and stood outside, glaring at you through the window.  Had you turned around and waved, I would have set the store on fire.

Dear Guy at Backstage at the House of Blues in Atlantic City

I am here to see Lost in Paris, and maybe to see the gogo dancers as well.  But mainly Lost in Paris because they are kick some serious ass.  Yes, my friends and I are wearing suits, because we are in the middle of being awesome.  Perhaps we are overdressed for this lounge, but so be it. 

I have just returned from the bar with a nice cold glass of Diet Coke, because that's how I roll.  It's a good thing too, because apparently you have cleaned them out of all the Yagermeister and Red Bull they have.  From the looks of your outfit, you are celebrating your newly completed sponsorship by TapOut.  Kudos to you, sir.  If what you wear is anything like the saying "you are what you eat", then apparently you went out and ate a warehouse full of Summer's Eve, and then you bathed in it. 

You must also think that every woman on the dance floor needs some liberally applied douche, because you are grinding up and down their legs so fast they are in danger of friction burn.  The only reason you and the lady you are currently performing outercourse on are not currently engulfed in flames has to be the fact that you are sweating so profusely that you look like Gary Busey when he was told that there were no more drugs left in the world.  I've seen basset hounds hump a leg with more grace, and they slobbered less too. 

For a bit, I thought some poor woman had actually left with you.  Then I realized that you were dancing very intensely in a corner, directly in from of one of the gogo dancers.  At least, I assume you were dancing.  You just kind of writhing around while holding your pants up with one hand, staring directly at the dancer from three feet away, never blinking, never smiling.  It was seduction at it's finest.  If you hadn't stopped to get another Milwaukee's Best, she certainly would have been yours.

You probably think strippers like you, too.

Dear Dr. Pepper

I don't care if you don't want anyone to know what the 23 flavors in your recipe are.  That's fine.  You make a tasty product.  I do however, believe you have gone a little crazy.

Yes, your regular soda is very good.  The diet version tastes remarkably like the original, just as advertized.  Sure, you did alot of crazy flavors in the past, like Vanilla Cherry Dr. Pepper, Cherry Chocolate Dr. Pepper, and Caramel Rosemary Dr Pepper.  We forgive you those trespasses, but Dr. Pepper 10 has gone too far.

Men do not have a problem drinking diet soda.  I am not gay for drinking a calorie free soda, just like I am not gay for ordering a salad in a restaurant.  No one I have encountered has ever made that claim, no matter how close minded they are.  When I crack open a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, I do not feel the need to pop on some Cher, squeeze into some leather pants, and go to a club to just dance my worries away.  Therefore, I do not understand why you feel that you need to market a soda directly for men. 

You are basically paying for a new can.  Dr. Pepper 10 tastes like Diet Dr. Pepper, which tastes like Dr.  Pepper.  Is this something they covered in your medical school Dr. Pepper?  That a new can will make everything good with the world?  If I drink a Diet Dr. Pepper and immediately think, "Gee, that was refreshing.  Know what would go great with that?  Some wang in my mouth!", then there is more at play than just the supposed stigma of a diet soft drink.

I write this to inform you that I am moving over to Mr. Pibb.  He went to a small liberal arts college, got a Bachelor's degree in Refreshing, then took a couple years off to work a job.  Ultimately, he decided not to go to grad school, but that's ok by him.  He's an easygoing guy.  He doesn't worry about what people think of him based on what he is drinking.