Hey Pissant . . .

Posted on June 29, 2009 by Ranter

You. Yeah, you. The little pissant behind the counter looking at me like I just attempted to explain Schroedinger’s cat to you with sign language – Gimme my fuckin’ latte.

Whaddya mean “did I mean grande”? No, asswipe, I meant large. I don’t speak French. Whether or not you’ve noticed we are in America – I’m not speaking Spanish, so by process of elimination that means I’m probably speaking English. Gimme a large latte.

What?!? No I didn’t bring my own cup. I’m paying you five dollars for a cup of coffee, I just figured you’d throw in the “fabricated from recycled panda assholes” cup for free. Go figure. Just give me a large latte in a paper cup for the obscene price of a pack of smokes, wouldja please?

Oh, I’m being rude? You’re gonna get your manager? Good, go get him.

Wait . . .

Before you do I would like to apologize. See, I’m probably about the same age as your parents so I’m gonna take a leap here and figure that you are semi-retarded like every other teenage male on the planet. So I apologize that when your father was your age he made decisions with his dick too.

I’m not sure what type of 976-suckuoff line he dragged your poor mother out of but I’m relatively certain you weren’t what they had in mind when dear old dad finally got the chance to whip out that 2 1/2 year-old condom he kept in his wallet between the autographed Wham concert ticket and the free arcade token card.

You are the reason condoms have an expiration date.

I would also like to apologize that, because mommy and daddy were young, they had no idea what to do with your screaming, shitting, whining little ass twenty-four, seven. I’m sorry they tried to be your friend instead of your parents for the first twelve years of your life.

That doesn’t give you the right to be a prick.

I am not sorry that after putting up with your dumb ass for sixteen years they finally decided to teach you responsibility and make you get a fucking job. I’m sorry that made you bitter. Welcome to the world. Get over it.

I’m really fucking sorry I’m even in here. If Starbuck’s hadn’t snapped up every square inch of free land on the planet, maybe I could have found a damn Denny’s and bought a real cup of actual coffee. Not a fucking “latte” which, I’m convinced, is French for “coffee that tastes like a skunk’s asshole”. I can’t even stand walking into this place, I’m afraid that somebody else that actually works for a living may see me and I’ll never live it down.

So see, life sucks for both of us right now. It sucks for you because you’re life is hard – I know, I was there once. The world is just conspiring against you and nobody “understands you”. Guess what – we do understand you

We just don’t give a shit.

I feel bad that you had to take time out from your “creative” schedule to get an actual job, if that’s what you choose to call this. And that your daddy won’t just “let you be you”. Maybe now he understands that a “creative arts major” is college-speak for “I’m just here to get laid”. He’s probably figured that out over the last sixteen years. Where do you think your dumbass came from?

Do you think daddy wanted to be stuck for the rest of his life in the shitty can’t-hardly-pay-the-bills job so he could support your rude little ass? Frankly I’m surprised he hasn’t taken a bat to the side of your thick-ass skull yet. He did something worse, though, didn’t he?

He made you get a job.

So now I’m standing in front of your rude little punk-ass in your cute little faggoty green apron in a built-in-ten-minutes over-sized outhouse that smells like a bucket of assholes trying to order a cup of coffee. And you’re giving me attitude? I order a large latte and you can’t even do that? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Listen, Scooter, here’s what you’re gonna do: grab one of those big recycled panda-ass cups, pour some “latte” in it – whatever the fuck that is – hand it to me, take my five dollars, give me a dirty look because I didn’t toss my change into your “tip” jar for pouring liquid in a cup – when did that start to warrant extra compensation – bullshit! Then, if you feel the need, go get your manager Tad, or Biff, or whatever his stupid, yuppie, underachieving ass’ name is, and bring him up here. I’ll let him know what a failure he is too.

Then finish up your shift, go directly home with your tail between your legs, and immediately apologize to your mother and father for completely fucking up all their hopes and dreams and basically being a complete moron for the entirety of your life thus far. Promise them you’ll never breed. Go get a real fuckin’ job. One without a nametag unless it has stripes on the collar and an American flag on the shoulder. Spend the next forty years of your life attempting to redeem the last sixteen. Try hard.

Welcome to reality. Get over it.

And pull up your fuckin’ pants.

Have a nice day.

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Random Yahoo Answers

Posted on May 17, 2009 by Ranter

From time to time I like to relax and help out other people. Yahoo answers is a perfect place to do this. When I do this I will pick out random questions and try to offer my help. Here are the ones I’ve answered tonight.

Question

Help!! Stripper removal.?

I had used a stripper removal in my bathroom. Said to wait 30 min and test and can be used up to 24 hours. I got called into work, and now the stripper has dried. Is there an easier way to remove?

Your Answer:

Wow, that’s a tough one. I remember back in the day when I had a stripper in my bathroom. She just would not leave! You must be using a higher-end stripper than I was, though. Mine would never let me use her after 24 hours. I was lucky to get a half hour out of her before the Rohypnol wore off. However, I digress . . .
Since your stripper has already dried she’s basically all used up and there is no further use for her (but you already knew that).
One option would be to simply lure her out the front door with dollar bills. Depending upon the size of your house, however, this may become a bit spendy.
You could always grab some chloroform and knock her ass out and simply drag her to the nearest K-mart parking lot. To divert her attention while utilizing a chloroform dripping towel you can simply rattle a set of keys akin to teasing a cat. Strippers are usually easily distracted.
If that doesn’t work you can always call up your buddy and get him shit-faced and introduce them to one another. He’ll probably be more than happy to take her off your hands. Continue reading →
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To the Saleman

Posted on May 2, 2009 by Ranter

Dear Sir, actually that may be a bit misleading…How about Dear blind dumb fat-fuck?

I understand that times are difficult at present and you may be doing this simply due to lack of options. So, if that’s the case, I’m willing to give you a few tips and let you know what you did incorrectly yesterday when you materialized on my doorstep.

First tip: Pay attention to everything (anything) around you.

For instance, you walked up to my doorstep past several things that probably should have garnered your attention. There were two vehicles in the driveway with United States Marine Corps license plates on them. That’s a clue that the occupant of the house is probably not in the mood for your training crap, or anything else, for that matter. I also have a cute little bronze yard sign that says “Non-religious occupant exercises his Second Amendment rights – Religiously!” That would have been your second clue that I was not in the mood for your horseshit. The third thing, and probably most important given your current employment choice, the large “No Soliciting” sign next to my front door.

These things taken separately would probably point toward the fact that there is a highly-trained, slightly quirky, no bullshit guy in the house. Instead you, in your obvious zeal for your new-found profession, saw opportunity. Well, God bless America. Tell you what, if you admit that you probably could have made better choices in regard to this particular sales attempt, I’ll admit that I freely volunteered six years of my life to defend your right to be an absolute dumbass. Deal?

I’m not sure whether or not you are aware that in the state of Colorado we have what is commonly referred to as the “make my day” law. It basically says that if I feel you are a threat to my family I can blow your balls off. I’m assuming, of course, that you are familiar with the Second Amendment. Probably a stretch but if you’re reading this you can look it up. You probably don’t feel as if you were being a threat, let me explain something that you may not know since you look about five minutes older than my teenage son. When you have kids, everything is a threat. For instance, if I were to, by some absolute miracle of unabashed stupidity, actually purchase from you the nice shiny plastic piece of foreign shit you were peddling, my eight year old daughter would not be able to purchase the brand new crack-whore barbie lookalike bratz doll that just came out. This may not sound like a threat to my family in your opinion, however, if you’ve ever heard an eight year old girl scream at the top of her lungs because she doesn’t get her way, well, lets just say I’d rather shoot you.

In the balls.

Twice.

I digress. You happened to show up as I was attempting to order my lunch. I was hungry, very hungry. So I’m gonna throw in a free survival tip for you – Don’t piss off a hungry Marine – ever. I will say you caught me off guard so good on you! Well done. When I answered the door with half of my pizza ordered, my four year old complaining about being hungry and my wife wanting a pizza with fucking spinach on it, I wasn’t quite expecting your twelve year old fat fucking Ruben from American Idol looking ass to be standing there holding a sponge. A sponge? A fucking sponge??? What do you want?

Continue reading →

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