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An open letter

Dear man gorilla elephant unidentified zoo animal that lives above me,

Hey! How’s it going? Oh, never mind. I know how it’s going.

I hear all of the things.

As much as I’d love to list all of the many things that grind my gears about you (like the fact that I can hear your cell phone vibrate on your coffee table, or that you wear cement blocks for shoes), I won’t.

I’m fully aware that paper thin structure of this building built in the 50’s let’s me hear everything regarding every aspect of your life.

There is one thing that has me concerned baffled creeped the fuck out.

Your washroom sounds.

Those deep, loud, animal moans.

I can’t bear to think of what you’re actually doing, but I imagine it’s something like this:

Seriously, man.

You’re creeping me the fuck out.

Just stop, dude.

seriouslydean-what-gif.gif.pagespeed.ce.AxPbTeh-08

 

 

 

 

Fuck you very much

Factual Fact/Here’s some fucking wisdom for you.

If my instructions to download/access/view/use a product work for everyone except for you, then you are in fact the problem – not me. It is not a ‘programming’ problem or a ‘design’ problem.

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It is a problem of:

a) You have no fucking clue how to use a computer.

b) You have no fucking clue how to read an email.

c) You have no fucking clue how to follow instructions.

Fuck you very much!

Middle-Finger-510

It would be awesome if your things stopped feeling me up on the way to work.

Bags.

Bags shoved in my stomach. Bags caressing my leg. Bags pinching my ass.

So many bags.

Why? Why a separate bag for each thing you are carrying? Can’t your workout shoes and your high heels live in the same bag? Are they in a fight right now?

Mkay, sure. I get the occasional traveller that decides for some reason, leaving at rush hour is a brilliant idea, and yes, I’m aware that isn’t always a choice. So to you, random traveller, I offer forgiveness.

In general, though, can someone please explain why my fellow rush hour transit mates are carrying 5 to 7 bags on the way to work?

Too Many Bags

Where in the actual fuck do you work?

Are you a team mascot?

Are you carting around ransom money (can I have some?)?

Are you America’s Next Top Model?

Are you bringing the contents of your fridge for lunch?

Are you the mall Santa?

I know some are necessary, like computer bags.  But,  hey! They make backpacks for that too, in which you can also store: Other stuff!! Mind blowing.

And okay, fine. Work out gear. You need that larger than life GoodLife Fitness bag. I get it. You work out. You look great. You’re fucking fabulous, etcetera, etcetera.

So, can’t you stuff whatever is in the 5 or 6 other bags you’re carrying, into that workout bag?

Or, hey, here’s a thought: No one cares about your Michael Kors/Coach/Versace purse. For real style. No one.

So, assuming that the other purse you’re carrying is your real purse, and the designer one is for show… why not compile the contents of each purse…..

Wait for it…

…………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………

Wait for it…

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Into one purse!

HOLY FUCKBALLS! Who knew life could be so simple?

At any rate, I understand that people need to cart around things. I get it. But wouldn’t it be awesome if instead of carrying 7 little things, you carried 2 things, or even 3 things? You know you wanna.

Mainly, though, it would  be awesome if your things stopped feeling me up on the way to work. I’m spoken for, thanks.

The pusher.

Here’s some fucking wisdom for you (#40)

It’s winter. We’re all cold. We’re all adults (or mostly trying to be).

We are all trying to get on this bus:
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If you intentionally shove me while attempting to board public transit, and continue to repeatedly do so after the “are you really pushing me or was that an accident” eye exchange,  it’s entirely possible that I will:

a) Stop in dead in my tracks.

b) Release an elbow jab (or multiple).

c) Blindly swing a grocery bag full of canned something or other, hoping it nails you in the knees.

d) Pull this move:

Just.

Stop.

Pushing.

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BBQ Farts

Funny-Girlfriends-and-Chips-MEME-and-LOL

Here’s some fucking wisdom for you (#614)

How to eat chips on the subway during rush hour:

1) Don’t.

2) If you are literally dying of hunger and you must..

Do: Close your mouth when you chew. Remember how mommy taught you? Good.

Do: Wait to swallow before speaking so we aren’t subjected to watching shards of chip stick to the front of your coat, and shoot into that lady’s hair.

Don’t:  Touch the pole with the hand you’re using to eat your chips.

Don’t: Lick the fingers you’re using to eat the chips and then touch the pole.

Don’t: Repeat the above 2 steps.

Don’t: Wipe your hands on the coat of the person next to you. Gross.

Don’t: Crumble and throw the bag on the ground and pretend that no one has been watching you eat chips for the last 15 minutes.

Don’t: Let out obnoxious BBQ burps and pretend that no one has been watching you eat chips for the last 15 minutes.

Don’t: Let out a constant string of silent BBQ farts and pretend that no one has been watching you eat chips for the last 15 minutes.

Don’t: Do all of these things before 8:30am. Just don’t.

The end.
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Stop it.

gross

Factual Fact:

Attention! This is not an activity suitable for public transit.

And yes, I threw up in my mouth a little when you blew your DNA onto my coat.

Keep your goddamn nail dust to yourself.

Just…. gross.

Flush this.

Here’s some fucking wisdom for you #18.

To those that have the luxury of sharing public washrooms in the office, two words:

Courtesy flush.

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It exists for a reason. Come on, give it a try and relish in its magnificence. I promise you’ll never go back. Please?

No really, I mean it. You’re grossing me out, man.