To: A certain major retailer
From: “I-Can’t-Swim-A-Fucking-Lick” Dirk Mancuso
I continue to be impressed by the goods and services you offer on a daily basis. Not only can I pick up bread, tea, and the sweet deliciousness that is Edy’s slow churned chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream at your place, but I can now also start a money market account, get my hair cut, have my eyes tested, and soon I am promised, get my prostate checked.And that is all fucking gee-whiz-golly-rainbows-and-unicorns terrific, except for one thing: every time I visit you, I take both my life (and my front end alignment) in my own hands as I attempt to maneuver around the series of fucking canyons throughout your parking lot. And after the torrential rains we’ve endured the last week or so, said canyons are now bordering on being classified as lakes. I submit People’s exhibits A and B:

Please don’t tell me that you are aware of the problem and are looking into it. Since 172% of the tragically marked up shit on your counters is made by sweat shop fetuses in Taiwan, I know you have the funds to fill those bitches in. And don’t offer me that sad mother fuckin’ puppy dog face and say you’re sorry. Sorry is bullshit. Actions speak louder than words. Fix it. Or next time, I will purposely go all Thelma and Louise and try to jump one of those fuckers and let you pay for the broken axle, capische?

_________

To: the fucking know-it-all diabetic in front of me at above mentioned big box retailer last night
From: the not even a little bit impressed with the wealth of knowledge you possess Dirk Mancuso

I don’t know why you feel the need to say hello to me while the cashier is ringing you up, but…um, hi. And yes, I do realize that the little plastic bar is to separate my items from yours. No, I didn’t know you were diabetic and yes, I will do my damnedest to keep that fucking dark chocolate Snickers bar away from your order — I didn’t realize that the pretend occurrence of subliminal sugar transeference had now become a ghastly reality and I would hate to send your rascal riding, voluminous ass into sugar shock. I know, I know — use the plastic bar. No, it really doesn’t bother me that there are 35 registers and only 4 open…it’s 12 fucking 45 in the a.m., bitch. Yes, I am reading Soap Opera Digest, yes I really do watch those things, and no, I do not care that you think they are a waste of time — I think you are a waste of both skin and space. Yes, I do know that the Tom Cruise “biography” in my cart is being labeled false by both the actor and the Church of Scientology and yes, I am still going to read it anyway. No, I don’t care that it is (according to you) a pack of lies being served up as the truth — our president has made a career of that and people seem to be fine with that. Yes, I am calling our president a liar and no, I do not think he has made one single decision for our country that was in its best interest. No, I am not one of those sore loser Al Gore types — I am someone who believes that Bush did not win the office fairly and squarely. I also believe when the customer service manager was speaking to another customer, he didn’t ask you to stick your big fat no sugar tolerating nose into the conversation and remind him that a local gas station both issues and cashes money orders 24/7. No, I don’t care that stores are going to the electronic checking system and giving you your checks back, thereby insuring that no one sees the whimsical check designs you purchased. Frankly, if I had my way, NO ONE would ever see that fucking Ziggy ever again. Seriously, WTF was behind that shit ever taking off? And yes, I will have a good evening now that you driving off (at 5mph) in that motorized wheelchair you wouldn’t need if you’d walk 3 feet every now and again. Buh-bye.

_____________

To: co-worker Diane
From: not really up for this Dirk Mancuso

Diane, I really appreciate the effort you’ve made to establish a friendship outside of work, but I’m going to have to take a pass. Sometimes it is for the better to keep these things within the bounds of a 9 to 5 work week. Phone calls at home and invites to movies are really making me feel a little uncomfortable. Nothing personal. Just as I’m sure you meant nothing personal when out of the blue at lunch you launched into that little diatribe about me being a lot of work for anyone I might potentially date, how I am not the type to believe it when someone might give me a compliment or say they care. I know you meant well, but that sort of crossed a supervisor/supervisee line for me. It actually crossed a lot of lines for me. I don’t tell you that the paisley blouse you insist on wearing is fugly…actually, I do. Bad example. Okay, I don’t tell you can do better than a married man…damn, I do that, too. At any rate, I don’t point out things that can’t be fixed easily and that everyone doesn’t already know because, well, face it — you wear that shit-tastic top at least twice a month and sit and bawl over him damn near at least once a day.I hope you understand and look forward to continuing our superficial workplace friendship.