So many jackasses, so little time to blog about them all.
Dear Meaningless Phrase-Repeater:
When you constantly pepper your tedious monologues with the repeated phrase, "Know what I'm saying?" I tend to stop focusing on the point you're clumsily trying to make, and instead focus on how it seems like you're using that nonsense phase purely for filler, in the same way a third grader will add extra, bullshit words into a writing assignment to make it longer or seem like more work went into it. I suspect that your 20 minute soliloquy could be whittled down to a (still boring) minute and 45 seconds if we could pull out all the "Know what I'm saying"s. Fortunately it's not much of an issue, since I started tuning you out almost the moment you opened your mouth. I find that the greater the number of times a person is likely to ask, "Know what I'm saying?" the lower the likelihood that anyone will actually know what the hell he's saying. Or care. Know what I'm saying, Jackass?
Dear Cheapskate Homeowner:
You just had to have a big house, didn't you? "Look how big it is! And the price is great!" Good for you. Now that you're all moved in, it's suddenly occurred to you that the bigger the house is, the bigger the heating and cooling bills are. Good job, Genius. Now you spend all winter pretending it's normal to wear seven layers of clothing around the house like a hobo, while your guests sit around visibly shivering because you're too cheap to turn up the heat. Likewise, all summer long you sit stewing in your own sweat, loudly insisting it's not hot in the house in spite of the fact that every time you get up to grab another handful of ice cubes to shove down your pants, you leave a big sweat stain on the couch to mark your spot. Fabulous. Now that you've got a house big enough for entertaining, no one wants to come over lest they die of hypothermia or heatstroke. Have a nice life, Cheapskate, sitting all alone in your big house battling the elements like primitive man. Jackass.
Dear Overly-Excitable Passenger In My Car:
A small request: Do you think you could refrain from shouting, "Oh my God!" while I'm switching lanes at 70 miles per hour? Because although you're really shouting because you just remembered something funny your mom said last week, I will almost certainly always interpret the sudden, hysterical scream of an auto passenger to be a reaction to a runaway Mack truck about to sideswipe me, or a white-tail buck darting in front of me on the highway. By the time you get a chance to explain that, no, you were simply thinking of something cute you wanted to tell me, I will have already panicked and yanked the wheel to the left to avoid the imagined Mack truck or 10-point buck, which will cause us to crash into the guardrail, careen over the embankment and roll 8 times to our fiery death; then you can explain the misunderstanding to me in Hell, where we'll both have a good laugh. Jackass.