Sometimes I think Travis Bickle had the right idea.
I step into some Nascar-themed convenience store on the way home from work to get some TP (4-ply, cotton cushion, heaven on the tush). I get a 20-spot out of the ATM, pay for my goods, like the honest citizen and moral atheist that I am, and the cashier, she shorts me $15 and point blank refuses to give me my proper change!
I am positive I handed her a 20. I mean, the bill never went into my wallet, and I don't have any other bills for it to be confused with.
And do you want to know what the ridiculous thing is?
I just took it. I walked out, walked home, feverishly dreaming of all these foul vengeances I'd love to wreck on this treacherous witch with a capital B, bolded, italicized and underlined.
And my printer's not working, so I can't even type out a complaint letter.
I mean, I toil for my money. I have to wait on 350 faulty clumps of backfiring genes a day---the rednecks and dope fiends and bums buying Listerine because they can't afford hard liquor.
And here's the killer punchline: Some lowlife was lurking right outside the store, some slacker in shoes worth more than my whole outfit, and he asks me for a fiver!
Urgh! Argh! Grrrrrrr! Must revenge self against the bubonic scum of this wretched planet
I step into some Nascar-themed convenience store on the way home from work to get some TP (4-ply, cotton cushion, heaven on the tush). I get a 20-spot out of the ATM, pay for my goods, like the honest citizen and moral atheist that I am, and the cashier, she shorts me $15 and point blank refuses to give me my proper change!
I am positive I handed her a 20. I mean, the bill never went into my wallet, and I don't have any other bills for it to be confused with.
And do you want to know what the ridiculous thing is?
I just took it. I walked out, walked home, feverishly dreaming of all these foul vengeances I'd love to wreck on this treacherous witch with a capital B, bolded, italicized and underlined.
And my printer's not working, so I can't even type out a complaint letter.
I mean, I toil for my money. I have to wait on 350 faulty clumps of backfiring genes a day---the rednecks and dope fiends and bums buying Listerine because they can't afford hard liquor.
And here's the killer punchline: Some lowlife was lurking right outside the store, some slacker in shoes worth more than my whole outfit, and he asks me for a fiver!
Urgh! Argh! Grrrrrrr! Must revenge self against the bubonic scum of this wretched planet