To: the fucking whore that backed into my car and then tried to get out of it
From: the “I was the one totally wronged here so don’t even try and act like I wasn’t” Dirk Mancuso

Hey Cunt Dollop — quick quiz:

If you back into someone’s car in the parking lot of a major bookstore with skads of witnesses in the immediate vicinity, should you (a) step out of your fucking rust covered bucket of bolts and own up to your inferior driving skills or (b) emerge from previously mentioned shit heap and proclaim total innocence in the vehicular altercation that you clearly caused?

Yeah, I kinda had the feeling you were going to go with the latter response what with you being a total tube top and Daisy Dukes with platform flip flops type of gal. And you know, I wouldn’t even be calling you out on your totally tragic choice of attire if you hadn’t conducted yourself like a low-life piece of shit from the second you opened your big, fat, overly lip glossed mouth.

Do you remember the first words you screeched as you as you checked the back end of your fucking heap to assure yourself no chicken wire or chewing gum had been knocked loose?

I do.

You said — and I quote — “My son has leukemia!”

Which in turn prompted my response: “That’s too bad — was he driving?”

Of course that led to you calling me a “stupid four-eyed mother fucker” and getting back in your car, which you then started like you actually thought you were going to go somewhere (which you weren’t since there was a car parked in front of you and my sweet 13-month old ride behind you).

“Get out of my way, you bastard!” you screamed. “My son has cancer!”

And you, it turns out, didn’t have insurance…or a son according to the officer who recognized you from a previous fender bender.

Piece of shit crack whore. I can’t get fucking married but you can drive all over hell’s half acre damaging people’s cars and not getting your four wheeled death trap seized because that might violate one of your goddamn civil rights?

Fuck that. 

* * *

To: Alcohol
From: Dirk Mancuso

Thanks for helping me make The Fella’s hag’s “Gurl’s Nite Out” at the local gay bar a huge success. I never would’ve done The Big Shoe Dance or The Worm without your influence. Ditto your assistance in helping me put my fucking size 12 in my mouth the following evening at a gathering of co-workers where I told 2 things I thought everyone knew when in all actuality NO ONE knew. Ell oh ell. Good times. (And by “good times” I mean “the shit’s going to hit the fan this morning.” Sighhhhhhhhhhh.)