To: the SURVIVOR – Season 19 jury
From: the disgusted and so mad he could spit nails Dirk Mancuso

Natalie?

Seriously? 

Talk about sour grapes and sore losers.

The game is called SURVIVOR, not COAT-TAIL RIDER. Jesus Christ, what was with all the moralizing and sanctimonious high horses most of you were on last night? Russell clearly outplayed, outwitted, and outlasted each and every one of you and you obviously used your position on the jury to get even by voting for someone who did jack shit all season. Russell made every call, devised every game changing move, and clearly mind-fucked each and every one of you.

And you were jealous.

Maybe you all should have applied for PRAYER WARRIOR SURVIVOR and done unto each other blah blah blah.

What a fucking joke.

You was robbed, Russell.

To: the writers and producers of GLEE
From: the severely disappointed Dirk Mancuso

I was really into your show when it debuted. I loved the campy storylines, the witty dialogue, and the musical numbers bursting at the seams with studio produced vocals that never quite seemed to sync up on my aged television. It really seemed like you were on a roll.

Then you totally went and fucked everything up with the back-to-back reveals that Terry wasn’t pregnant and that Puck — not Finn — had fathered Quinn’s baby. And then you had Finn and Puck basically forget their differences in 90 seconds.

Why? Why would you do that?

Not only have you dismantled the umbrella story that tied all your characters together, you’ve also eliminated all roadblocks between Will & Emma and Finn & Rachel getting together and effectively given both couples a happy ending.

Happy endings are for series finales, not random December episodes, you dumb-asses.

Unfortunately, your show is now just a bunch of 20-somethings playing high school kids and singing…which frankly doesn’t interest me.

I would say good luck, but after investing so much time in your show only to get fucked over royally I’m afraid it would sound insincere.

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.)

To: The Walt Disney Company
From: I work hard for the money, so hard for the money, I work hard for the money so you better treat me right and by right I don’t mean shoving an item that is highly susceptible to scratches into a cheap ass mother fucking cardboard wrapper and then charging me a goddamn arm and a leg for it Dirk Mancuso

Um, yeah — about that stupid WALL-e movie you’ve been hawking since November…what the hell is up with the cheap mother fucking cardboard packaging that hasn’t even held up from your Mexican plant to the store? Seriously, look at this shit:

You expect me to say $19.99 for this?

I don’t think so.

Somebody’s drinking the goddamn bong water if they think I’m paying that for a fucking cheap ass cardboard slipcover — especially for a movie that wasn’t all that good to begin with.

Oh, and don’t give me the whole “it’s a movie about the environment and recycling and blah blah blah” because that shit doesn’t hold up when you packaged the fucking Blu-ray in a plastic case. And don’t try to deny it because I Nancy Drew-ed that shit and went all photo-journalist on your asses to bring my readers the scoop:

Plastic.

What would that little robotic fucker say whistle and beep-beep if he saw that, huh?

Seriously, if you think for one minute I would not only pay you $20 for an inferior product, but then take it home and place it beside my other properly packages dvd’s, you’re fucking nuts.

Jesus.

~ *~*~*~

To: my lazy fucking freeloading ex-high school classmate/resident welfare whore
From: just another taxpayer forced to support your endless attempts to pollute the gene pool Dirk Mancuso

Hey, cunt dollop!

Yeah, you with the fucking muffin top oozing over the top of those Bobbie Brooks jeans you’re sporting.

What the fuck is your goddamn deal?

No, I’m not talking about the fact the you haven’t worked a friggin’ day in your worthless, pathetic life (unless you count spreading your legs and letting every skeeze in the tri-county area take a poke at your gunt until you had three house apes to get state aid for) although that does severely piss me off.

And no, I’ m not talking about your insistence in wearing clothes 16 sizes too small for your gargantuan frame.

I’m talking about your filthy fucking display of lack of  rolemodel skills and general respect for anyone else.  I’m sure the details escape your pea  brain so let me refresh your pussy’s life support system:  at approximately 4:30pm Tuesday, I pulled into the Target parking lot to witness you changing your latest crib lizard’s diaper on the hood of your fucking Hummer (and on behalf of the working population of Illinois — you’re welcome, whore) in front of God and everybody, while cradling your bejeweled cell phone betwixt your line backer shoulder and those feed bags you call cheeks all the time  informing the callee that “Troy is not a re-libel source” and that if they wanted to know the real deal they needed to call you and you would “serve it straight, no chaser.” Now not only was I offended that you were misappropriating the tag line to SISTER2SISTER magazine,  but what you did next was even more offensive.  You finished changing that ugly baby’s diaper and threw the shit packed one in the parking lot:

Wow.

Worthless fuck puppet. Jobless skank. Welfare queen. And just when I thought your spawn had reason enough to be proud of you, you go and raise the bar by adding litterbug.

God, you make me sick.

~*~*~*~

To: the Brangelina of the double wide set, Ronald Cummings and Misty Croslin
From: “That’s not a tear in my eye, it’s a pebble — I’m so not going to cry…I swear!” Dirk Mancuso

It’s like something out of a fairy tale: a child disappears in the middle of the night and the father’s 17-year-old girlfriend can’t give the police a straight story as to what happened and then while a state searches for her body, the child’s father proposes at the local Chili’s and 4 days later they are joined in unholy matrimony in his grandmother’s backyard before jetting off to New York to be lambasted by a nation for their combo honeymoon/TODAY show appearance.

And the most touching part? They get hitched because it’s what the missing child wanted (I’m guessing in hindsight, the poor kid would have probably kicked that desire down a notch on the old wish list and moved “responsible parents” up to her top 3).

Sniff.

Is my eye liner running?

Best wishes and big hugs to you crazy kids — I hope the trailer park is a little bit brighter for you two today.

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.)

To:  over-rated flash in the pan, Miley Cyrus
From:  the Debbie Gibson preferring Dirk Mancuso

Mind if I pull up a chair at the pity party your camp is throwing for you over the latest “photo scandal” that seems to rock the Hannah Montan empire every week or so?

Now granted I’m not all Hollywood savvy and shit, but maybe – MAYBE — these little crises could be avoided if you quit taking stupid pics of yourself.  Oh, I know it seems all fun and precious and stuff, but trust me when I say that anyone with a lick of common sense will regret until their dying day fucking up an (inexplicably) burdgeoning career just because they felt the need to act out some flirty teenage drama shit.  Don’t believe me?  Give Lindsay Lohan a call.

I actually think those lame-brain pics from your phone are more damaging than that damn Annie Leibovitz photo that had everyone abuzz.  All those people made a stink over a pic they call “racy,” “provactive,” and “overtly sexual” which frankly, if you ask me (and face it, if you want to know what’s racy, provocative, and overtly sexual — ask a gay man) wasn’t any of those things.  It sure as hell wasn’t flattering, either.  And claiming your parents were negligent to allow it to be taken in the first place — whatever.

If they want to talk about child negligence, let’s start that name your folks hung on you:  Miley.  Oh, I’m sure there’s some wonderfully pseudo-touching story about how they arrived at it, but when it’s all said and done it’s still a stupid name.  Yet I don’t hear anyone grousing about that.  That’s because they’re the same hypocrites that hung names like Destiny Rose, MaJayla Latrina, and Cade Rockne on their own crib lizards.  (And I will NOT be shocked when Destiny, MaJayla, and Cade grace a DATELINE SPECIAL: WHEN KIDS KILL THEIR PARENTS.)

Oh, I know the opinions of a 42-year-old gay man is of little interest to a cocky teenage multi-millionairess but trust me when I say I don’t think you’d make the first cut on AMERICAN IDOL.  Or even a callback for the late, lamented PASSIONS.  There are tons of people out there with way more talent than you — you just got lucky. 

Now be grateful and ride the gravy train to the end of the line with a little class.
____________

To: BIG BROTHER 10’s Alison Arngrim/”Nellie Olsen” looking April
From: the “You’ve got to be kidding me” Dirk Mancuso

Keesha is jealous of you because YOU are prettier than her?

Bwa-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Stop it — you’re killing me.
________

To: whoever cancelled the order for my computer like 30 seconds after someone called to tell me I would have it on or before next Tuesday
From: a very pissed off Dirk Mancuso

You know, a satisfied customer tells 3 people…and an unsatisfied one tells 300.

Or however many people read his blog.
___________

To: my beloved TDtC, TCtI readers
From: Dirk Mancuso

Okay, so it’s on like a bon-bon (or whatever the kids say these days).

September 8th. 

Mailbag Monday.

Send your questions, queeries, comments, and concerns to dirk.mancuso@gmail.com.  Then look for the response, as well as your name (and link to your blog if you have one) to be immortalized on this piece of shit.  All questions will be answered but send them early since I am apparently going to be riding on the good graces of friends to use their computers until mine finally arrives.

To: my compelled to share every personal detail of her life co-worker
From: the not all that inclined to feel sorry for you Dirk Mancuso

I know this is going to make me sound like total dicksmack, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a fuck about you or your piece of shit daughter. I don’t care that you are 6 years sober and teetering on the brink of falling off that very rickety wagon you claim to be on. Being weak isn’t a cause celeb, a reason for a girl scout badge, or all that paticularly interesting. Honestly, what you do when you’re away from work doesn’t concern me in the least. I don’t give a shit if you pickle your liver as long as you’re reasonably sober and able to do your job when you’re here. And as for your smack addicted pregnant daughter — I place the blame squarely on you. You obviously are a pathetic parent as well as an enabler so quit trying to make yourself some sort of fucking heroine for taking the little bitch in. She’s 29 years old — with 3 kids aged 4, 2. and 1. Wake the fuck up already! — the whore knows how she’s getting knocked up.

Oh and another thing — I’ve had it up to fucking HERE with the trash talk about your ex-husband. After spending 5 minutes with your sad, sorry, reeking of the bottle you crawled out of ass I would’ve cheated on you, too. The man deserves a goddamn medal for putting up with you and your fucking drunken shit for as long as he did. And as for “abandoning” that whore daughter of yours — the bitch was 17 when he finally had a belly full of you laying in the gutter and her laying on her back, so give it up. You’re lucky he was dumb enough to stay as long as he did.

And in case you didn’t get the memo, everybody here has problems…and some of them aren’t of their own making like yours. Lynn in accounting? Her breast cancer isn’t a result of her choosing to nurse a bottle of gin every night when she gets home. And Todd in the mail room? His teenage daughter’s trampoline accident that resulted in paralysis from the neck down had nothing to do with her fucking every stray so she could squeeze out a bunch of unruly crib lizards on the taxpayers’ dime instead of getting a job. Yeah, that’s right — I said it.

Now kindly shut the fuck up about the drama in your life.

Thank you.

~ *~ ~*~

To: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
From: the childless but smart enough to give them decent fucking names if he was lucky enough to have offspring Dirk Mancuso

Knox and Vivienne?

Seriously?

What the fuck are you two smoking?

To: CBS and the producers of BIG BROTHER
From: always a viewer, never a houseguest Dirk Mancuso

I filled out my application. Again.

I made another video displaying my full on gay.

And I put all that shit in yet another manila envelope and once more sent it to you.

Now put my big flaming ass in that house already — a nation demands it.

Plus, the fella I’m seeing deserves nice stuff and I need the cash.

Thank you — that is all.
_________

To: the insipid bitch who insisted on writing out her entire fucking check even though the store had auto-check to print the fucker AND they give it back to you
From: the losing valuable time he’ll never get back Dirk Mancuso

Excuse me — you…in the clam diggers and that too fucking lame for words Garfield t-shirt that looks like it could double as a king sized bed sheet when it’s not threatening to burst at the seams from encasing your voluminous gut.

Oh, good…you can see me. And the other 40 goddamn people behind me in line waiting for you to get your shit together and join the 21st fucking century.

First things first, you have duplicate checks — write the goddamn total in the box and give the cashier the check, whore. And you can skip that fucking bullshit chitchat where you ask what day it is and then go on about how time is just flying. No shit — I lost 20 mother fucking minutes when you dug around in that body bag you call a purse to find that stupid fucking Precious Moments checkbook and then rattled off some brain numbing story about your granddaughter always getting in your purse for Sucrets.

Sucrets?

As big as you are, bitch, I’m guessing the little heiffer was looking for a gross of Cadbury eggs or a fucking case of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

But I digress.

So you write the total on the check. Then you write out the amount in the Queen’s English. Then you survey your fucking penmanship for a month of Sundays. And when all that is said and done, you decide to scribble your stupid fucking name at the bottom with a flourish in a vain effort to separate yourself from the other mouth breathers who don’t get the whole automated check printing thing.

Wake. The. Fuck. Up. And smell the coffee chocolate covered deep fried chicken wings.

Despite being able to lay claim to having your own fucking gravitational pull as well as your own zip code, the black hole that is your worthless life does not entitle you to suck every goddamn ounce of attention you can from random minimum wage slaves who have no choice but to be civil to your hideously clad ass while the rest of the world stands idly by drowning in the cloud of ennui and Jean Nate that surrounds you.

Lonely? Join a fucking book club. Better yet, join Weight Watchers ’cause Christ knows you got plenty to watch. (And I’m not hatin’ because you got some extra junk in the trunk — I’m just saying what God knows: you’re fat. And that Carol Brady pixie cut ain’t helping.)

And as for that little crack you made when I ponied my ass up the credit card scanner (“I better move — looks like this fella is in a hurry…”), you know what? Yes, moving (or more accurately in your case, lumbering) was a very good idea as “hurry” didn’t quite summon up the heady cocktail of claustrophobia and homicidal rage I was experiencing after being trapped for what seemed like hours between you and “crying baby that should’ve been home in bed not out scoring Fritos and Miller Lite with its crackhead whore of a mother at 12:45am.”

As Mama M is fond of saying, “take a flying suck at my asshole, Piss Easy.”

To: BIG BROTHER 9’s he of the tragic second “H”, Joshuah
From: the alternately horrified and mortified Dirk Mancuso

Josh — can I call you Josh? I can? Good.

Josh, I realize there is bound to be a certain amount of pressure being in that house, having to deal with Sheila and Adam and Natalie and Matty and Matty’s fucking annoying accent (“Pah-kuh’s muh boy! Alex is my bro! I’m wicked hawt!”) but why, why, WHY did you have to join the ranks of BB crybabies last night?

It was a letter from home, Josh, not a draft notice. Seriously, dude — you’re in a beautiful house with a pool and you’re in the running for a half a million dollars. It’s not Iraq or even *shudder* Indiana.

And it’s 3 lousy months…12 measly weeks…90 fucking days. So suck it up and enjoy yourself, already — you’re lucky as hell to be given this opportunity.

Plus, you’re much too pretty to cry.

(Call me.)

__________

To: Melina
From: your disgusted co-worker, Dirk Mancuso

Alekzander Rayne?

Were you drinking the fucking bong water when you named your latest crib lizard?

Jesus H. Christ, Melina — when I saw that look what a stupid fucking name my co-worker hung on her baby announcement this morning, I was tempted to haul ass to the hospital, run my hand up your snatch on the spot — sans glove, even! — tie your tubes myself, and then smack the ever lovin’ shit out of you.

You make me sick, you insipid twat.

__________

To: cocky and arrogant “you know you want a piece of this” co-worker Timmy (Tim-MAY!)
From: the offended not only by your complete lack of work ethic but also by your total lack of creativity Dirk Mancuso

After the miscarriage, your great-great grandfather’s death and subsequent funeral, your 2 car wrecks, that bout with the flu, the time your baby stopped breathing, and that one time when the inch of snow had you trapped in your apartment for two days, I was sorry to hear that your brother-in-law was shot in the head last Thursday night. And the shooting must have been quite a shock coming on the heels of your impromptu wedding…because you weren’t married when you left work. And then to discover on top of that that it wasn’t really a self inflicted wound at all, but actually a questionable shooting with either his baby-momma or one of his poker buddies possibly pulling the trigger. That had to be some serious drama you were going through. And as if that weren’t enough, to then spend all that time in the emergency room only to discover the bullet hadn’t gone through your “brother-in-law”s skull at all, but instead had taken off the bottom of his right earlobe.

Wow. I can’t even imagine the emotional roller-coaster Thursday night must have been for you.

Which is why my heart went out to you even more when you called in this morning with the news that your girlfriend’s brother had been shot in the head again last night and you wouldn’t be in — unless we really needed you to come in.

Which we did.

Because it’s hard to fire someone over the phone.

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.