Dear Mrs. Wigglebottom:
I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the garbage men are just as afraid of you as you are of them. If you would please stop shaking and cowering when we go by them, I would appreciate it.
Dear Garbage Men:
That’s right. My dog will eat your face off if I just give her the word, so don’t fuck with us. You seem nice, but don’t try anything hinky.
Dear Old Man:
I’m trying to eat. Look, right here, you’ll see a plate of food that I was ingesting. But I’m not now. You know why?
Because I watched you pull your contact out of your eye, swish it around in your mouth for a good five minutes, and then put it back in your eye.
I could have forgotten about that, except that you spent the rest of the meal facing away from me, picking at whatever was on the back of your head that was leaking puss all in your hair.
Can I reiterate? I was trying to eat. If you have to pick at some kind of puss-filled head sore and then twirl your hair around in the excess, go out in the hall. Better yet, seek help.
Gah, it makes me want to throw up just to type this.
Holy shit! I’d say more, but I don’t want to compromise your anonymity. Still, wow, and holy shit.
You’ll have to tell me how your yodeling went. Did you have to yodel?