Dear Pickle,
There is no secret gateway to the magical land of Outsidethecage buried at the bottom of your dish, under your food. Please stop digging it all out and kicking it into the bedding and behind the cage. Food does not grow on trees. On a similar note, your tiny little teeth can not chew through the bars and you can’t chew your way to freedom. For the love of god, stop biting the metal, you freak me out and make me think that you’re going to break a tooth.
Do not eat my books. I don’t care if you’ve claimed the loveseat in the name of your personal country of Pickle-topia, I own the couch and can put my books on it and read on it if I want. Biting my toes will only make me put you on the floor.
Diving into the trashbag filled with poopy bedding and jumping and lunging at me like a wolverine on angeldust when I try to fish your furry little ass out of there isn’t really my idea of a fun time. Likewise for spazzing and jumping into the bag of clean bedding while I’m trying to scoop the clean stuff out with my hands. In fact, any kind of psycho-wolverine-ferret impressions when I’m on the floor and unable to run away or move my hands and/or feet out of attack range is just plain dirty pool.
Just so you know.
Dear stupid little shit(s),
Yes, I gave you a fake phone 3 months ago. I had a bag of fakes for models we no longer carry. And as I’ve told you every week since then, I don’t have any to pass out and you wouldn’t get one anyway because I’ve already given one to you. Please leave the vicinity of my booth before I am forced to take a very dirty fake phone (kept for that very reason) and force it up your throat.
And considering where the phone would need to go in order to go up your throat, it won’t be a pleasant experience.
Dear Giant Bitch at Register 18,
For the love of god, please just shut the fuck up. Yes, the jeans were on the wrong rack. Yes, the tag or the sign said $9. You’ve said this 45 times now. We’ve all heard you. That doesn’t change the fact that the managers are not going to give the $21 jeans to you for $9. The more you yell, the less we like you.
And no, we don’t give a flaming rat’s ass if you’re never going to shop here again. In fact, we’d prefer if you didn’t.
Dear Bearded Dragon Lady,
Please shave. The razors are 3 aisles down on the right.
Sincerely,
The booth jockey @ 20
postwodehouse.com: The story goes that PG Wodehouse never went the post office. He’d throw his letters out the window, stamped and addressed - trusting in passers-by to pick them up and post them. Apparently none of his letters went astray.
It turns out, after some digging, that Wodehouse didn’t even do it. But it did work for someone - his friend, playwright Fred Thompson, from whom he pinched the story. Will it still work today, or has the world changed too much?
