You. Yes, you. The person busy unloading their cart in front of me. Yeah, I know it’s busy in here. Yeah, I know you’re in a hurry; we all are. But do you see that sign over the register? The one that says “12 items or less”? No, obviously you didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t be unloading your fucking, overflowing shopping cart in front of me while I try to buy the bottle of aspirin I go through every week due to having to deal with fucking idiots like you.

Yeah, I know 12 is more than the number of fingers you have so you couldn’t count that high without taking your shoes off (and I am profoundly grateful that you didn’t, actually) but didn’t it occur to you that if everyone else in this line only had one of the little baskets that maybe you shouldn’t be here with your fucking, overflowing cart.

OK, so you needed the cart to hold your squalling, fucking little brat, the one with the crushed up cracker in each hand that is facing me, yelling with its mouth open so I can get a good view of the chewed-up peanut butter lining its mouth. You know, the box of crackers you pulled off the shelf, opened and gave to your kid just to shut him up? It didn’t work. I guess that’s why you ditched the half-empty box on the end of the row behind us; so you wouldn’t have to pay for it. After all, what good is a grocery store if you can’t get free food, right?

Or maybe you ditched it because those peanut butter crackers are too healthy for you? Yeah, you and your kid didn’t get those fucking rolls of blubber from eating vegetables. I assume you just eat lard from the can.

At least, I hope that is peanut butter  in your fucking brat’s mouth and not whatever is seeping from his pants and into the shopping cart. You know, other people use these things to carry food around, not as porta-potties for your illegitimate offspring. Of course, looking at the kid’s clothes it seems that you aren’t too concerned about his sanitation anyway. Or yours for that matter; I can tell what the last few meals you had were just by looking at the spills all over your NASCAR t-shirt.

That was you in the parking lot, wasn’t it? Driving your fucking SUV the wrong way down the fucking lane just because you had to be able to turn left into a parking space.

And I loved trying to get down the aisle in the store with you in it. You know, where you parked your cart in half of the aisle where your fucking brat could pull boxes off the shelf while you blocked the other half of the aisle with your blubbery self trying to decide if you wanted the spicy or non-spicy Spam for dinner. Yeah, the whole store is here for your benefit and no one else’s.

Oh, you finally finished unloading the cart? Let’s see… frozen dinners, frozen pizza, ice cream and, oh look, light beer. Like that’s gonna help. And I love the way you slapped that box of condoms down on the top of the pile just so everyone will know what you’re going to be doing tonight. Yeah, I bet that’s the best 15 seconds of your day, isn’t it. I guess the beer is so your husband or whoever you have managed to convince to actually get that close to you can get drunk enough to actually consider wanting to see you naked. Do you have to pay him too?

Now what? Oh, you’re trying to pay by check. And the name and address on the check doesn’t match that on your driver’s license? Great. And why do you think that yelling at the cashier is going to help you. You’re the fucking idiot who can’t figure out the rules that the rest of us seem to be able to follow. Oh great, now here comes the manager.

OK, the store is showing much more intelligence than you by opening up another checkout lane. Of course, everyone behind me will get into it before I do, but I’ll still get out of here before you can waddle your rotund self out the door and to your car. But you’ve still managed to waste the time of, inconvenience and annoy several dozen people. Not bad for someone who probably can’t remember their own name without that driver’s license. Assuming that is correct. Congratulations, asshole.

You. Yes, you. The person sitting behind me. Yeah, I know the tables here in this restaurant are kind of close together; we had to slide our entire table over so you could fit your corpulent butt into your seat. But, do you have to shove your seat backwards every few minutes and slam it into mine? With as much fat as you are carrying I would imagine that any seat you are in would feel nice and padded, but apparently you think that doing chair calisthenics every few minutes will make up for the pound of lard you just shoved down your throat. You know, most people buy an appetizer like that one to share with their entire table, not for one person to gobble down in just a few seconds. Of course the waitress hasn’t come back over here yet; she’s probably afraid you’ll rip off her arm and eat it. I’m surprised you haven’t eaten the kids at your table yet.

On the other hand, maybe that’s why the one on the end is screaming; he’s afraid that mommy is going to devour him for dessert. You don’t seem to care though, you’ve been letting him scream his heart out for several minutes now and haven’t done anything. Maybe you think it’s cute; after all, you do think letting your other kid throw french fries around the room is perfectly all right. He hasn’t hit our table yet but I think the people at the one on the other side of you is getting pissed. Of course, you haven’t looked up from shoving food into your mouth to see what is going on.

Or maybe you just can’t hear the screaming. I mean, I’m only a few feet away and it’s hard to hear over the noise in this place. Why are restaurants so loud anyway? Probably because everyone seems to think that their conversations are so interesting that everyone within fifty feet of them wants to hear it. Listen, I don’t care that your test results came back negative or that your third girlfriend is pregnant, OK?

Of course, the people who are the loudest are the ones on their cell phones. Listen, it’s a fucking phone; it transmits your voice to the other person. You don’t need to yell at the top of your lungs for them to hear you. Look, I know you are thinking “Hey, look at me! I’m on a phone! I’m important.” Listen, talking in public on a cell phone no longer makes you look important; it makes you look like a smug, self-centered asshole, OK?

I mean, look at this table… you’re chatting away on your phone telling your wife you love her and to kiss the kids for you while your girlfriend for the night is looking around looking bored. You know her fee for the night is going up while you’re doing that, don’t you? Yeah, she’s planning her next appointment while you’re trying to look all sensitive in front of her. Jerk.

And what’s going on over here? Hey, there are twelve of you at the table so the restaurant added a tip to your bill. Yeah, they do that. Every restaurant in the fucking country does that. No, they aren’t trying to rip you off; they are trying to make sure that the waitress who has been putting up with your fucking shit all night gets her due. And, no, I don’t think she wants to hop out to your broken-down pickup truck in the parking lot so you can “give her a real tip”.

Or maybe she should. She could take a meat cleaver from the kitchen and bring the “tip” back with her. Assuming she could find something that small on you.

And fatty behind me just slammed my chair again. Oh, grabbing the ketchup off our table? You could have asked first you know. What, mouth too full to open? Or maybe you’ve already drank all of yours and you’re too addled from the kid next to you screaming to remember what you’re supposed to do.

Yeah, this is why I hate going out to eat. Assholes.

You. Yes, you. Up there in your Audi, chatting on your cell phone as you cut into traffic in front of me. What’s the matter? In a rush to get home so you can molest the babysitter before your wife gets there?

Yeah, we’ve got six lanes here and the three on the right are moving slow. Guess what? It does this every day. You know that of course. That’s why you came racing up in the left lanes then slammed on your brakes and cut over to the right at the last moment. The rest of us knew we needed the right lanes; that’s why we’re sitting here. But you couldn’t wait that long, could you? In too much of a hurry to get home to screw your illicit rendezvous that you had to screw the rest of us over first.

You see, the traffic on the left was moving. I say was, because when you slammed on your brakes and cut over the car behind you had to slam on theirs as well. Fortunately they were actually paying attention and managed to avoid you.

Unfortunately the person in the car behind them wasn’t; they were on their cell phone too and so rammed into the car that had just successfully avoided hitting your inconsiderate ass. And the car behind them slammed into them as well.

The next guy tried to avoid the crash by swerving to the left. Unfortunately, there was a car there too. (There do tend to be cars in every lane during rush hour; a fact you and several other drivers seem to be unaware of.) So they crashed into another car.

So now, instead of six lanes of traffic with three slow lanes, we have six lanes of traffic with three even slower lanes, two completely stopped lanes and one lane still moving but having to dodge more idiots getting out of their cars and wandering around in traffic with their cell phones still pressed to their ears.

Listen idiots. There are cars over there. Still moving. And those drivers aren’t paying any more attention than you were. Hey, you yourself just missed seeing a car stopping in front of you. Remember? You just had a fucking accident yourself! Now you’re wandering around the middle of the interstate on foot and expecting people paying no more attention that you were to avoid you?

Maybe we’ll be lucky and some other cell phone addicted driver will hit you. At least that Darwinian act will remove a few more idiot genes from the pool.

As for the rest of you slowing down and looking; it’s an auto wreck! You live in a fucking city! You see them every fucking day! This one looks exactly like every other one you have seen! You don’t need to slow down, look at it and take pictures of it on your cell phone camera so you can tell everyone else about the latest fucking wreck you’ve seen. Just drive!

So now I’m stuck in traffic with all these idiots, and it’s your fault asshole. I hope the fucking babysitter was worth it.