You, sir, are a pervert. A no-good, knuckle-dragging, bunny rabbit sucking, keyhole banging, chauvinistic, Hee-Haw-looking, vacuous, mucous slobbering, stuffed-animal-fucking, thick-headed, carrion chomping, imprudent, llama molesting, son of a wanton bitch PERVERT.
Your job is to collect the $6 (or less) that I owe at the end of each day for parking in this fairly nice parking deck. Conversation should be limited to “Good Afternoon,” “Nice Weather,” and other such asinine bullshit. Asking me what I’m doing this weekend is inappropriate, as is telling me that I ought to do “more partying and less studying”. Whistling at me and calling me “hey, beautiful” is uncalled for and even more inappropriate.
But you didn’t whistle at me today. No. The first thing out of your mouth when I drove up today was “Can I marry you?” I can’t believe you get off on this shit. I don’t find your remarks amusing or cute in any way. I think they’re disgusting. What in the Hell is a damn-near 55 year old man doing whistling at an 18 year old girl? For the love of Jumpin’ Jesus Jack Flash on a pogo stick with a beanie cap, go buy yourself a Playboy Magazine or something. They sell them over in the campus bookstore for cryin’ out loud!
In any case, I’m going to complain to the University’s transportation department tomorrow (and move my vehicle to a different pay lot).
Now run along out back and play a nice, long game of hide and go fuck yourself. I’m tired of dealing with you.