Ice, Ice Baby (Seals)

I’m in a real pissy mood.  It seems as if that’s becoming the status quo for me lately and I don’t like it at all.  I don’t like being angry.  It gives you wrinkles.  I don’t know about you, but when I’m angry my brows furrow dangerously close to each other making me look like a woolly headed muppet and my eyes squint from throwing death rays.  Furrowed Brow + Squinty Eyes = Wrinkles.  I’m also convinced I’ve inhaled toxic levels of pet hair and dander from all my huffing and puffing around the apartment.  The plus is that the fur encasing my lungs ensures that they do not freeze during my runs in the Central Park tundra. 

I’ve been carrying this anger around for awhile and it’s really inhibited my ability to write.  My brain is in a fog and the only thing I seem to be able to write is, “Fuck you!” I don’t have the Welsh eloquence of Christian Bale.  I mean, I can understand his anger against the Director of Photography who interrupted his scene three times.  I think we all can, right?  Damn DP all up in Batman’s Kool-Aid.  Who does he think he is?  Doesn’t he know that he’s a little people?  Tiny, really.  But not like, you know, little people.  But Christian Bale dropping the F-bomb thirty-six times in three minutes?  Pure genius.  I could use that gift of gab right now.  Who’s his agent?  Can we get his people to call my people me?  But don’t tie up the line.  I’m expecting Michelle to call any minute.

If I could actually talk to the people on my shit list, this is what I would say:


Dear Jackass,

You are a vile, reprehensible excuse for a human being.  Thank god I don’t believe that blood makes family.  If I did, I’d slice a vein and die a happy desiccated shell to have no further connection to you.  It’s not enough that you left The Cougar for your money-grubbing chippie, but once you realized that The Cougar was no longer going to be your doormat, you set out to destroy her emotionally and financially.  Your latest slime ball antics do not surprise me.  I knew you were a low-life piece of shit.  I’m just pissed that I can’t seem to scrape you off my shoes.  Just do what you were court-ordered to do and get out of our lives.

Sincerely,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck you. 


Dear Chase and Bank of America,

I am one of the millions of people bailing out your mismanaging, wastrel, could-care-less-about-average-Americans, laughing-all-the-way-to-the-corporate-jet, asshat CEOs.  You could not pay your debts so I am paying them for you.  I’m nice like that.  You, however, are not so nice.  In fact, you suck.  You are getting a bonus for failing.  A bonus for failing your company.  A bonus for failing your employees.  A bonus for failing me.  I, however, have done all I can to succeed and I get the shaft.  Well, I also get my monthly minimum payment increased to double the amount it was two months ago.  Thanks for that.  Unfortunately, the money tree Mr. Dingo and I planted a few years ago (species 401(k)) withered away.  I think it’s because you took a great big dump all over it.  I appreciate a good compost as much as anyone but your contribution was a bit much.

Your claim that limiting the caps on compensation will cause good managers to go elsewhere is bullshit.  If you had good managers, I wouldn’t be paying for your bailout.  Let dem bums go!  You know who the good managers are?  The good managers are people like me.  People who are managing to eat less to save more.  People who are managing to heat their homes on fumes.  People who still manage to spare a few dollars to help friends and family who’ve lost their homes or their jobs.  I suppose it’s hard to relate to this when you and your family are vacationing in the Caribbean on the credit card I am paying for.  So, you know what?  Your credit and credibility is denied.  Your credit card has been canceled.  Your debt is due.

So CEOs, Fuck You. 

Sincerely and from the bottom of my bitter broke heart,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You.


And finally:

Mr. Environmentalist,

I appreciate your passion for the environment, I really do.  I also appreciate that when the Environmental shtick isn’t working, you are flexible enough to promote other causes.  However, you’ve accosted me every day for the past year as I’ve been rushing to get to class on time.  Your, “Do you have a minute for the Environment/Gay Rights?” was amusing at first.  Then it got annoying.  No, I do not have a minute.  Do you not see me with a wet head because I managed to shower, get dressed, and dash out of the door ten minutes before class starts?  Do you not see the icicles forming on my still-dripping locks?

No, I don’t have a minute to hand my credit card information over to someone with a clipboard and Birkenstocks.  Really, if you are going to exercise such poor judgment by wearing Birkenstocks in the dead of winter, do you really think I would trust you with my credit card?  Especially when you can’t tell me how the money is going to be spent?  Hey, if you ever get tired of standing in the frigid temps being dissed by hurried New Yorkers, I hear that Bank of America is looking for good managers.  Your compensation would be limited to $500,000, though.  That might buy you one or two pairs of socks to wear with your Birks.

So, no, I do not have a minute.  However, if you do not get your clipboard outta my face, I will take a few seconds to put my gay-loving carbon footprint up your ass.

In the name of baby seals and Ryan Seacrest Elton John,

Dingo

P.S.  Fuck You

Whew!  I feel so much better now!  I’ll be back to my regular snarky cheerfulness real soon!

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