Flibbertigibbet

An Open Letter to the Guy Behind Me in the Grocery Store Line

Dear Sir,

I hope that this letter finds you drowning in your own vomit on the floor of a really cheap brothel. I say that because I'm in a particularly foul mood and you really got on my nerves yesterday.

I guess I owe you an explanation and a reminder of who I am. I'm the youngish, blond guy who was in the check out line in front of you yesterday. Not ringing any bells? Well, I was the one with crutches in the cart and a shirt drenched in sweat.

I was drenched in sweat because aside from using the cart as support while one hops around the store on one foot, there is no good way to shop at the Food Lion when you're on crutches.

You may also remember me as the guy who touched your food.

When I was unloading my cart and you put your stuff on the conveyor belt so that it mixed your stuff up with my stuff, it really bothered me, that's why I touched your food. No, it didn't help for you to slam down the little plastic separator. Fortunately, the nice cashier saw your lack of courtesy and turned the belt off.

Then, when I realized that you were about to attempt to have anal sex with me and I shot you a stern look that said, "Not without dinner and not in front of the World Weekly News" and you refused to move out of my personal space, I was thoroughly pissed.

That's right. I am hopping on one foot, sweating, and unloading my groceries and here you come to invade my personal space and put your things in my way. Perhaps you can't understand why. I certainly don't care if you understand. I just want you to die in a pool of your own vomit in a whorehouse. Is that too much to ask given your recent display of your lack of courtesy?

So, the best I can wish you is that the newspaper will find some creative way to write the headline of your obituary so as to hide your indiscretion. I'm thinking something like, "No Sheep Who Weren't Dressed Like They Wanted It Were Harmed in the Making of this Corpse." You know, something subtle and in good taste.

I hate you with the blazing white-hot passion of ten thousand suns right now.

Sincerely
Flibby