|Letters I haven't sent
||[Aug. 21st, 2009|04:25 pm]
Dear Mr. Subaru: Please do not bother to put on your turn signal once you have suddenly slammed on your brakes. Frankly, I am so busy trying to get my heart out of my throat, the adrenalin rush out of my head and my fingernails pried out of the steering wheel, that I do not give a rat's patoot whether you are going left or right, or just came to a complete stop on a whim. |
Dear Dude Rocking Out and Playing a Drum Riff in Your Car: My personal recommendation is that all riffs should be played with your hands in clear view, or at least visibly NOT in your lap. We were stuck at the light for a long time, and honestly, to me, behind you, it looked like you were having a wank at the red light. Especially since you'd suddenly stop, look in both directions and then start again, leaning your head back against the seat rest. Thankfully switching radio stations and obviously winding up on the one YOU were listening to, absolved you in my mind. But not everyone is that resourceful and many would just assume that you had very, very poor judgement.
Dear Colleague: Today you got a major warm and fuzzy from a customer that got forwarded through the entire food chain here, which generated all sorts of good job buzz to your credit. I have given you an entire day to at least thank me for saving your bacon and, when you were laughing at the customer request for edible insects and typing up an e-mail telling them to go to their local Asian market, I sent you a bunch of links where they could be bought online. I did that for you. And you sent it off as your own work. Which is fine. But, really, internally? You acknowledge that s***.
Dear Person Picking Your Nose in the Car: We can see you. Always. And it's always disgusting.