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.