Sometimes, with great effort, I stop myself from saying things I’m not supposed to say.
To the woman who bombarded the check out cashier about her cat’s bathroom and litter box habits while my ice cream melted:
Lady, I and the five other people standing in line don’t give a damn about your cat’s bladder issues. The cashier doesn’t either; he is trapped, paralyzed from shock and unable to tell you to move it.
To people who say they don’t have time to email, text, and stay in touch:
We find time to do the things we want to do. I get it.
To the man who made a vulgar comment about vasectomies at the check-in desk at health club:
Too bad your parents did not know about the procedure.
To the rude woman in the locker room at the health club: (yes, I know I have a few issues about the health club)
You come here often enough to know which areas have more space. Ask for a locker in the corner. Go sit in the sauna long enough to melt 75 pounds. Do not be rude to my bff who had the misfortune to share the locker next to you.
To the mother at the library with three unruly kids who each had a bazillion books and held the librarian hostage at the checkout:
Geeze lady, learn to use the bloody scanner. It is the computer age and the wild bunch probably already know how to operate the darned thing anyway.
To the crone, who ambled up to me and asked what is good about the golden years:
Why are you asking me? I am upright, face up, above ground. That’s what good about any year. It would be good if you would banish the terms “Golden Years” and “Senior Citizen” from your vocabulary.
The weekend is upon us and rowdy, careless drivers will create traffic havoc. I’ll probably say something I’m not supposed to say.
Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.