To: the fucking gash in front of me at the grocery store Saturday night
From: one VERY pissed off and fed up with all you fucking thievin’, baby makin’, on the dole douchbag whores

Hey there, you fucking pocket twat — remember me?  I’m one of the numerous people you kept waiting in line while you tried to return a bag full of shit without a receipt.  If that doesn’t ring a bell, maybe you’ll recall cutting in front of me in line when I turned to get a goddamn pack of gum.

“Excuse me — what are you doing?” I asked in a reasonably civil tone of voice, trying not to call you out as the classless whore you are (I could tell you’d been playing cum dumpster as evidenced by that baby bump of yours).

“I’ma gettin’ in line to return this shit,” you may recall replying to me.

Which was when I pointed out that “gettin’ in line to return yo shit” involves going to the end of the mother fucking line — not stealing a spot close to the front like that bagful of shit you just got courtesy of the five finger discount.

“I was in this line befo’ yo’ ass even got up in the mother fucker — I just stepped away to get me a coke.”

That’s when I started seeing red.  And maroon.  And every other mother fucking shade of my favorite color.

“Yeah, well I was in this line last Thursday and left for a while so maybe I should just go to the front of this bitch, huh?  Oh, and where’s your coke?”

And then you had to go and say it.  “Kiss my ass, faggot.”

Oh hell no you didn’t, you methed out 25 cent piece of ass in spandex and Croc knock-offs.  Step the fuck off, bitch.  It’s on.

Now you may recall — or not, you were looking higher than the Mir Space Station — it was at that moment, that the cashier finished with the customer ahead of us and asked who was next.

“She is,” I smiled.  “She needs to return the shit she stole for cash.”

Yeah — I bet you remember THAT part, don’t you?  That’s when you said “fuck you” to me and then turned to the cashier and poured on your crack addled charms.  “I need to return this stuff and gets some baby formula but I don’t got my receipt.”

Don’t got.  You know nothing shows off your pedigree like using the queen’s English, bitch.  And bonus points for pronouncing “formula” as “form-UH-luh.” Extra points for not having one baby crawling before you spread your legs for the neighborhood again so’s you could get more of my tax dollars, whore.

If none of this is still ringing a bell, maybe the part where the cashier tried to process your ill gotten gains and told you that the system had rejected your sorry ass request because you had been flagged for too many no receipt refunds and I busted out laughing will.  At least it should, because as I recall you got very pissed off, grabbing up “yo’ shit” and throwing it back in the bag and huffing off, all mumbling about stupid mother fuckers and the like.  Such a class act.

Oh, and one more thing, you ignorant bitch — when you’re so pale as to be fucking translucent with hair the color of White-Out, don’t cornrow that shit.  You were looking like Powder’s ghetto little sister.
__________

To:  my emotions
From:  up one minute, down the next Nicky Brushetta

Thanks for surfacing at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected ways, you fucking bitches. I totally need that shit with everything else that is going on in my life.

Oh, you know what I’m talking about, you nasty whores.

Like when The Fella got all weird Saturday night and all but showed me the door 10 seconds after dinner and I tried not to acknowledge that I was getting the bum’s rush and leaned in to kiss him good night and he pulled away and opened the door — yeah, I totally needed you guys to let me display confusion and hurt. That was a huge mother fucking help.

Or when I went over to DuShawn’s and every goddamn attempt I made to strike up a conversation and be the friend he isn’t was met with a blank stare and silence. Thanks for striking up the whole “you’re looking like a fucking fool, faggot” emotional shitstorm and making me feel like crying. I needed that.

But I’m going to fix your mangy asses, oh yes I am. See, you may think you’re in control, but I have a secret weapon…and let me tell you that Zoloft is way more fucking powerful than you bitches.

So suck it.
__________

To:  the Project Runway judges
From: the aghast and totally beside himself Nicky Brushetta

Terri?

You sent Terri home before that annoying, always talking about himself in the third person Suede?

I need another Zoloft.

(And yes, I know I’m a week behind, but whenever I post about the show in the same week it airs, someone hasn’t seen it yet and sends me an e-mail thanking me for ruining it for them.  Plus, I’m still pissed about Terri getting the boot, so deal already.)