Entitled to Your Entitlement

Happy bright and shiny Saturday morning to all my fellow premature curmudgeons.  Yes, contrary to that ever popular debate, that big yellow ball in the sky, you know the one OUTSIDE, is actually good for you.  Hopefully over this holiday weekend we will all pull ourselves away from our computer / tv / xbox  / whatever else has us chained to the couch (unless of course that thing is another person who wants to touch your no no parts, in which case all I can say is good for you, be careful chains can pinch, and what the hell are you doing still reading this drivel?!) and go out and enjoy some of the bright sun-shiny goodness. 

Yes I used 'shiny' twice in a paragraph.  I went to sleep last night watching Firefly.  Deal with it.  I'm a grown man and if I choose to browncoat myself into oblivion this weekend it's my perogative.

Before I drag myself to the gym today and do something so unspeakably retarded and exhausting that I don't have the energy to type later, I thought I'd jump in the kiddie pool and splash some water on a few of the self-important, hyper-entitled douche burgers that have been fuckin' up my picnic over the last few days.  Granted there's more of them than ants on an abandoned remnant of Lil' Debbie resting on a fat kids stomach as he open air bakes during a food coma, but I think I'll swat at them just the same.

That's right kiddies, it's time for a rant.  One of these days I swear I'm going to get theme music.

Dear Princess Tub-o-Lard who doesn't want a library card because part of the library isn't air-conditioned:  I am so very sorry that your fat greasy ass is too sensitive to the heat to wait ten minutes while Stay-Puft Jr. peruses the kids' section for something to read while he eats his gravy covered frito pie after school snack this afternoon.  Trust me sweetheart, natural fibers have a built in wicking action that will pull some of the sweat away from your crumb encrusted and gravity riddled excuses for tits.  That polyester / spandex / bad intentions mixture you're currently corralling your heftier-than-my-ass girth with probably isn't the best choice for a hot day.  Of course, neither is leopard print for any day, but I digress.  Tell you what sweetheart, how bout you stop expecting everything to be paid for by someone else, get off foodstamps, get a damn job, and be able to afford not only some slightly more intelligent sartorial choices but the three goddamn dollars a month it takes for your kid to use a library less than a mile from your house.  Wait, that would require giving up a box of twinkies a month for your child's well being, now wouldn't it?  Sorry, what the fuck was I thinking...

Dear I Wish I Was Paris Hilton When Someone Still Thought She Mattered:  Do you realize that your trampy ass logic of "I'm pretty therefore men should give me what I want" holds just as much merit as "I'm ugly therefore people will give me cheese" when you remove the "they want to fuck me" factor from the equation?  I say this because I have seen you and your ilk scampering about in droves lately and I'm really getting tired of it.  Yes you're pretty and you have money because Daddy does and he's paying for your tuition and your Audi and your implants and whatever else he's doing to make up for the fact that he accidentally stuck his thumb in your ass while changing your diaper, but when it all comes down to it you and most of your friends are vapid pieces of shit that are spending the better parts of your youth as cum catchers.  No one keeps the girl that lets them go ass to mouth honey, I hate to spoil it for you.  So how bout you quit your bullshit, cover up your little store bought titties, and attempt to be a worthwhile human being for a fucking change.  Then maybe the quality guys will stop laughing at you and take you seriously enough to take home to mom.  Just don't tell her about the ass to mouth thing, okay?

Dear I Wrote a Book and Now I'm Special:  Yeah, you wrote a book.  Congratulations on having a dream and following through with it.  The great news is that your tome (or tomes) of awesome means that you are now part of literary history.  You have just as much right to bookshelf space as all of your contemporaries.  Maybe just not quite as much space on the shelf as you think you do.  I have some news for you folks who believe you are the second coming of "the shit" because your little mind birth sold thirty five copies in a year.  There are roughly three million of us scribblers out there.  Some are successful, some are just struggling, and some are clueless.  You did something awesome BUT NOW your bullshit attitude that you are better than others has totally ruined your stock with a lot of people.  Have you noticed a sudden withdrawl of friends since you decided that since you are an Author you now have the ability to talk down to or about others?  Is it suddenly very lonely in that rarified space you share with the ghosts of Poe's quill and Heminway's cigar butts? Do ya think it might have anything to do with the fact that you've become a raging jackass of late and all anyone wants from you is the quiet that the negative space you used to occupy provides?  I wish you all the success in the world but remember that you have to be a worthwhile fucking human being first and foremost.  Assholes tend to deal with a lot of shit, or did you forget that?

Dear I'm Rich / An Elected Official / Someone's Kid / Etc.:  I had something eloquent prepared for this particular glob o' tard but let's be real for a moment.  All they're worth is a collective FUCK YOU and GET OVER YOURSELF.  A fat bank account or a sweet job or an influential family doesn't mean that you can't get knocked the fuck out for being a raging tool box.  All that money, power, and influence should mean is that you have an increased responsibility to look out for your fellow man.  Well, it would if you worth more as a human being than the bag of goo that shot forth from the unfortunate creature to birth your ass shortly after your measly carcass starting screaming for oxygen and Gucci diapers.  I know far too many of these self important dick trickles that would rather sit home and count their money or blow it on bullshit than do something productive like create jobs for the over ten percent of the citizens of this state without one right now.  I swear to God some of these folks need to stop taking the gear shift of their Ferrari up the ass on a boring Saturday night and start paying attention to what's going on around them.  The world sucks, you dillwads have the opportunity to do something about a small corner of it, and yet you'd rather hide out with your buddies than fight through the hangover and see what's right outside the front door.  Time will change and guillotines suck my friends, although I doubt most of the rednecks you laugh at will have the thought to be that elegant when shit and fan become intimately acquainted.

And Finally, Dear Wise Ass Cashier:  It doesn't matter where you work, I've seen plenty of you this week.  I'm a fairly intelligent human being.  In fact, I actually write for somewhat of a living.  IF I NEED A PITHY ONE LINER TO COMPLIMENT MY PURCHASES AT YOUR ESTABLISHMENT I WILL WRITE IT MY FUCKING SELF!  Dear sweet fluffy God am I tired of some moron whose sphere of reference stops at whatever joke they saw last night on the Venture Brothers trying to verbally poke at me because they're bored and hate their life.  I had to run back to a local grocery store yesterday after an earlier trip because I forgot a few critical items, namely caffeine and lightbulbs.  Trust me, hyper and darkness do not mix well.  The smarmy little shit running the scanner better than any trained monkey I've ever seen engages me in banter then says something to the effect that I'm back again in less than an hour.  All I could think to say was "and yet you're still here..."  Believe me, when I go to McDonalds and decide to abuse the $0.79 cheeseburger priviledge, I'm aware that twenty burgers is a large order.  Please stop making me feel like Bill Fucking Engvall every single goddamn time I pull up to the window by asking me if all that is for me.  Open your eyes you stoned at an embarassing early evening hour shit!  Do I look like Buddha and Ganesh had a fucking blubber baby? (Stop right there, I'm just big boned and fluffy dammit!) Does it look like somebody poured Pizza the Hut inside the cab of an F150 and rolled his drippy ass up to your window?  Then stop asking stupid fucking stoner questions before I have to decapitate you with "your sign."  And finally, yes I fully comprehend the fact that 6'8 1/2" tall and somewhere near 300 lbs is large for a human being.  I get it.  Your random exclamations of "God you're tall" et al are as necessary as me asking you how the Lollipop Guild's dental plan is going.  Why does my size seem to startle you when I approach your register when your stupidity ceased to be of note to me long, long ago?  Actually, I take that back.  I'm continually amazed by your stupidity.  Never mind, carry on.

Pant - pant - wheeze - gasp - cough - inhale - and - sigh.  Woo - sah....

Okay, I'm better now.  Who wants waffles?