No blood spots nor grey splatters of brain matter should have been the first clue. My shirt is clean and my hands still white. Search in vain for shreds of puppy entails.
While we’re at it, I didn’t rape your daughter, embezzle your retirement or bugger your son. Not a criminal or a predator; I’m not a registered sex offender. This morning, I showered, shaved applied deodorant and even put on fresh underwear so you don’t have to look at me with such unbridled disgust. Shit, I didn’t even pull out my dick and started masturbating like a motherfucker.
That’s my wife next to me, not some tramp off the streets. A willow in size, a mountain of class, she’s ignoring your pitiful attempt at a withering stare. You may own a Hermes but it’s obvious you’ve never afforded humanity.
I never spit in your coffee or coughed phlegm on your silk blouse. Nice blouse, too. Dior? Every goddamn thing you own and are wearing has someone’s brand written all over it so we can safely assume you wish to advertise that you, or at least your husband has money, but melting your platinum-tinted plastic in designer boutiques only proves that class is earned, not purchased.
My wife isn’t hitting on your husband and we’re not bad mouthing you at the club. Hell, I didn’t even lick anyone else’s phlegm off of your blouse.
I didn’t fart and I’m not white trash. I’ve never dated my sister or French kissed my mother. So you can fucking stop giving me the evil eye anytime now.
Your loud sighs –not only laments of the cruelty of fate which brought us in such close proximity and repulsion of our ilk but also pathetic pleas for deliverance from disabling discomfort fail to move us, nether emotionally – though it does install much mirth at such madness – nor physically, because while you shake your fists and gnash your teeth at whatever god has forsaken you, the simple fact remains; the movie theater has reserved seats and ours are next to yours.
Staring down strangers for daring to sit in assigned seats if fucking rude, rich bitch. So is rolling your eyes, narrowing your brows and quivering your shoulders. I didn’t start that damn fool war in war, and I don’t slap babies. Save your unbridled hatred for someone who deserves it.
You may wish that no one sits next to you. Sister, I would have preferred sitting next to a deranged, scurvy-ridden toothless whore with bloody gums and open puss-oozing sores, (with all due apologies to any deranged, scurvy-ridden toothless whores with bloody gums and open puss-oozing sores reading this) than submit my body to risk contamination from the pretensions of the obnoxious rich bitches of the world.
Don’t want someone sitting next to you? Buy another fucking ticket. Someone’s spent $20k on that watch, you can afford $15 on buying a buffer seat.
You want a zen experience? Go to a temple. Obviously there is nothing of consequence in your little pathetic life if such non-events as close proximity trigger this level of outrage.
Honey dear, since your mother didn’t take a momentary break from her nonstop bridge games to clue you in, I’ll let you know. The world is filled with people. Other people. People you don’t know and people who don’t know you. And we will sit next to you. Look up “whiny” in the dictionary, note your picture and get down from your fucking high horse.
ANDOHMYGOODGODINHEAVENORHELLORWHEREEVERTHEFUCKHEORSHEISHAVEMERCYOVERUSALL. No. That’s not me pull-starting a chainsaw. But thanks for whirring around to check. I would have fired that sucker up if (1) I had one and (2) you had brought along your dog. No, that’s the sound of my wife quietly reaching into a plastic bag to pull out a sandwich. I’m impressed you’re able to hear the minor rustle over the blaring commercials which preclude the previews which preclude the movie. We’re still 15 minutes away from the show and the house lights are only half off. Obviously, though, you’re completely dim.
With only a little more work on that stare you could dry paint. With your meanness, it’s no doubt that you have dried up long ago. In the last 25 years the closest you’ve come to receiving physical love is the latex-gloved index finger of your GYN during your annual pap smear.
Not happy with people eating in movie theaters, even before the start? Complain to the management which sells the damn food. Or fucking move to a different country, because it’s acceptable here. See the guy in the row ahead of us with his Big Mac?
But watch how hard you push your fingers into your temple. Were you not brainless, not to mention soulless, it may hurt.
You’re too pathetic to provoke, too stupid to scorn. I shake my head in wonder at the terrible fate which has befallen you. That you would have to [del]share your life[/del] come in near contact with ordinary mortals and cannot always be surrounded by Pretty People must be really, really tragic.
Oh, since you are staring at me in obvious discomfort reaching levels of physical pain, I must conclude I’ve been rude. I’m so, so, so terribly sorry. I’m eating in front of you. I hold out one of my fries. Would you like to stare? I only dropped it once!
Shhh! You don’t need to scream, and the movie is starting now.
Have a nice day!