Dear Mrs. Rimjob
(there is a hidden link in this 'letter'. see if you can find it!)
Dear Mrs. Rimjob,
Of course that is your pseudoname. Or is it? I like it this way better.
It's always a pleasure doing business with you. First the phone call I received over a month ago when you screamed at me because your show was canceled. I explained to you that we needed to start over with the conversation, that I was unclear as to who you were, I need more information. You were erratic, rude, and would not stop yelling and would not let me talk. I told you that I could not talk to you and hung up. I wrote you a letter, explaining that I do not cancel shows, that you would need to call me back with proper information, that you could get free tix to any future show of your choice, that I was sorry for the inconvenience.
I learned then that you the type of person I would classify as old, crotchety, crispy, extreme, ugly, manmeat, muppet like, and flashy. I could just tell that this would not be the end of our encounters as you seem the type of person that would hold out for the right moment to terrorize me. My letter would not be enough.
Then last night, as I sat in the box office, happy and smiles, you approach the window. I should have known it as you-the fake red hair, the fake red lips, the flashy spray painted gold Target purse, the largeness of your aura, and the eyebrows drawn on. The outfit MUST have been borrowed from Blanche on The Golden Girls. Except that she was a classy bitch.
You came to my window and asked for me. You told me how you felt about me in a passive aggressive manner whilst demanding a receipt of your refund. You did not give me your name or any information that would help me to look up your account. And you felt that I was being difficult by not remembering your account number off the top of my head. I told you I would need a date of purchase or confirmation number. You dug into your purse for your date book but all the while speaking rudely to me and telling me the type of person you think I am. I told you to refrain from speaking to me in that manner or I would ask you to leave. You said "oh really" as if nothing would stop you. But you bit your tongue. I hope it bled.
The thing is you are more than just a muppet plastic lady with a string coming out of your back. No pulls it for you. You make the choice to pull that string because, as doctor Phil would say, "There's a payoff." But what is it?
You are more than plastic, acid, money, and anger. You are the type of energy that contributes to a bad economy, a poor political depression, parts of the environment that are suffering, minorities that get shit on, road rage, garbage dumps, and other dark sides of the universe. What lonely life that would be, out there in the darkness.
After I gave you your receipt and your fingers slipped when you grabbed it you looked up and into my eyes with such anger. In that moment I silently told you to evaporate like nail polish remover. Open the bottle and let it all go.
Dear Mrs. Rimjob,
Of course that is your pseudoname. Or is it? I like it this way better.
It's always a pleasure doing business with you. First the phone call I received over a month ago when you screamed at me because your show was canceled. I explained to you that we needed to start over with the conversation, that I was unclear as to who you were, I need more information. You were erratic, rude, and would not stop yelling and would not let me talk. I told you that I could not talk to you and hung up. I wrote you a letter, explaining that I do not cancel shows, that you would need to call me back with proper information, that you could get free tix to any future show of your choice, that I was sorry for the inconvenience.
I learned then that you the type of person I would classify as old, crotchety, crispy, extreme, ugly, manmeat, muppet like, and flashy. I could just tell that this would not be the end of our encounters as you seem the type of person that would hold out for the right moment to terrorize me. My letter would not be enough.
Then last night, as I sat in the box office, happy and smiles, you approach the window. I should have known it as you-the fake red hair, the fake red lips, the flashy spray painted gold Target purse, the largeness of your aura, and the eyebrows drawn on. The outfit MUST have been borrowed from Blanche on The Golden Girls. Except that she was a classy bitch.
You came to my window and asked for me. You told me how you felt about me in a passive aggressive manner whilst demanding a receipt of your refund. You did not give me your name or any information that would help me to look up your account. And you felt that I was being difficult by not remembering your account number off the top of my head. I told you I would need a date of purchase or confirmation number. You dug into your purse for your date book but all the while speaking rudely to me and telling me the type of person you think I am. I told you to refrain from speaking to me in that manner or I would ask you to leave. You said "oh really" as if nothing would stop you. But you bit your tongue. I hope it bled.
The thing is you are more than just a muppet plastic lady with a string coming out of your back. No pulls it for you. You make the choice to pull that string because, as doctor Phil would say, "There's a payoff." But what is it?
You are more than plastic, acid, money, and anger. You are the type of energy that contributes to a bad economy, a poor political depression, parts of the environment that are suffering, minorities that get shit on, road rage, garbage dumps, and other dark sides of the universe. What lonely life that would be, out there in the darkness.
After I gave you your receipt and your fingers slipped when you grabbed it you looked up and into my eyes with such anger. In that moment I silently told you to evaporate like nail polish remover. Open the bottle and let it all go.
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