EDITOR’S NOTE: Mr. Roper once again proves that file 23 is metaphorically speaking, his Glock, and the Internet is his Columbine.
You know who you are. The schmuck that careens across three lanes in front of me, too busy using that cell-phone to use your turn-signal. You’re the chickenshit weasel who trots his punk ass into the bosses office and talks shit about me (“…oh, and you know what else he said?…”) and then gets paid to stand around with your hands in your pockets while I get demoted to the lowliest position in the shop. The sack of shit who pushes his shopping cart across the store parking lot into my truck. The asshole who drives by my house with blaring 400-watt rap at 2am. You’re the prick at work that pees all over the toilet seat and doesn’t flush. The moron who can’t read the “LANE ENDS” sign on the highway. You’re the pinhead who ties up every machine at the laundrymat. The dipshit carrying on a loud cell-phone conversation at the restaurant. You’re the idiot who parks six inches away from me when there’s fifty other parking places. The scumbag that carefully picks all the fish and shrimp out of the Thai lunch buffet, no doubt the same doofus that scoops all the mushrooms out of the coconut soup. You’re the redneck troglodyte with your chrome Harley-Davidson logo affixed to the back of your Hummer, as if your $50,000 Tonka toy isn’t enough of a status symbol. You’re one of the kids today who all look like Jim Rose Circus rejects, with your tattoos and piercings. What’s next; Ubangi plates in the lip? Halloween’s no fun anymore when every day is Halloween.
You’re the way-too-cheerful guy behind me in the Tom Thumb express lane singing along with the Christmas Muzak ( “slowly I turn…” ) The black guy who’s been standing around the convenience store panhandling money for the last five years telling me he’s a Katrina victim one day, a Rita victim the next. You’re the big brave MAN who drives by and shoots out my windows with a pellet gun at night.
Look at what you people have done to me. I’m light-years beyond anti-social; I’m anti-YOU. You weren’t invited; you just showed up. You haven’t fallen into my trap; you’ve merely stepped into my pothole of negativity. Come in, set a spell, and bask in the warmth of my white-hot hatred. Welcome to my world. Sorry about the smell; it came with the place.
Christmas is coming up like a hangover and I’m not ready for another two weeks of forced socialization with Christmas parties, etc. If someone wants to be nice to me, why does it have to be a photo-op? It’s perfectly OK to be nice to me those other 51 weeks, you know. I wouldn’t mind. Honest. I promise not to tell anybody; it’ll be Our Little Secret.
Or would that be just a little TOO Christian for you?
May Santa drop a phosphorus grenade down your chimneys and burn your houses down.
Ho ho ho indeed.
(Thats MISTER Scrooge to you )
Dec 11 2005