Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Dear Jackass, Volume 3
Dear realtors everywhere:
You narcissistic attention-whore. Must you plaster your homely mug on every single flyer, every single ad, every single business card, and even the aluminum signs in front of the homes you sell? Do you really think to yourself, "I've got to get an edge on all the other realtors out there...but how? Wait, I know! If people could only see how hot I am, they would be hypnotized into doing business with me!"
Who cares what you look like? If I don't need to know what my banker or my chef or my auto mechanic looks like, why do I need to know what my realtor looks like? I'm buying a house, not shopping for a mail order bride. Here's the new rule: If you happen to be one of the .001% of the population who is freakishly gorgeous, you are allowed to arbitrarily paper the city with your photo. But you, Realtor, are no supermodel--and no, a tacky Glamour Shot feather boa doesn't help. Adding your frumpy photo to an advertisement is not an extra incentive to a prospective buyer, but more of a puzzle. Now, instead of marveling at the spectacular amenities of this 3 bedroom town home, I'm sidetracked with trying to fathom what your thought process could possibly have been when posting your sad mugshot above the photo of this lovely abode. Please, in the future, save yourself the time and expense of the photo shoot, and save us from the burden of staring at your bad teeth.
Dear parents of seemingly feral children:
How new-age of you to have developed a parenting style in which your children are allowed to express themselves at any moment in any way they choose, even if it includes leaping off a chair and into a potted plant in a hotel lobby, shouting, "I'm Superman!" Everywhere you go, people hate your kids, which is unfortunate since their bad behavior is your fault, not theirs. Back when I waited tables, I remember serving a lovely, well-dressed couple with beautiful twin girls about 6 years old. As the parents calmly questioned me about the wine list and the Caesar salad, they gave no hint if they were aware that the little blue-eyed wildebeests were repeatedly pouring sugar all over the table and licking it up. To those parents, and to all the rest of you who choose to increase your Prozac prescription rather than taking a couple of minutes to teach your kids how to behave in public, I hope your kids grow up and never, ever move out of your house, because you deserve to have to put up with them until your last breath.
Dear nude frolicker in my gym locker room:
I'm minding my own business, changing my clothes, when suddenly, there you are like my flabbiest nightmare. Your belly is charging off to the left while your boobs are scuttling to the right--then suddenly, without warning, both parts change their minds and switch directions. It's like a flesh stampede, with some body parts threatening to trample others to death. I take no issue with your size; the problem is that I shouldn't be so familiar with it. This kind of nudity is something that should be reserved for the privacy of your own home, or perhaps that handy dressing room provided by our gym, not two feet from where you're now practically aerobicising while brushing your hair. I'm no prude--I change clothes out in the open here in the locker room myself--that's what a locker room is for. But I have the decency to do it quickly and without fanfare. You are actually wandering around nude, now strolling into the bathroom stalls, now brushing your teeth. And could you be a little less chatty? You are actually striking up conversations with random locker room occupants, complete with arm-waving and belly laughing, all free from the confines of clothes. Oh God, now you're eating a protein bar. Please, just a pair of panties, that's all I ask. I shouldn't have to see pubic hair and food in the same setting.