Dear Guy in Front of Me at the “Hunan Panda” Chinese Restaurant,
We don’t know each other, but you were in line ahead of me last week. I was waiting to place a carry-out order and you were waiting to be seated. I noticed you as you came across the parking lot, your large legs causing you to walk in a swaying motion that reminded me of why Dramamine is one of my dearest friends. Now please don’t misunderstand me: there is no shame, NO shame, in having a bit of a belly. It happens to the best of us. However, Sir, there is MUCH shame is wearing a shirt that is 2 sizes too large with “I’m da big dawg” on the front of it. If you purchased a shirt in a size that actually fit your frame, my corneas might not have been permanently and irreparably scarred by the mole covered “back boobs” that hung out of your shirt’s armholes. And, for the record, when one’s feet resemble those of a hobbit from “Lord of the Rings” and fall over the sides of discount flip-flops, one might consider purchasing slightly wider footwear in the future.
While I was standing there waiting for my lo mein, I heard your cell phone ring. And ring. And ring. And. Ring. Not that Travis Tritt’s “I Smell T-R-O-U-B-L-E” isn’t a dang snazzy ringtone, it’s just that anything repetitiously repeated can get repetitive when it is repeatedly repeated in a most repetitious manner, repeatedly repeated repeatedly. As the kindly waitress seated you, was it truly necessary for you to lean over another diner’s plate, deeply inhale, and exclaim, “Thet smells good ‘nuff to eat!”?
I’m certain you don’t remember me, but if you will think back to your surroundings at that meal, I was the one standing at the front door, mouth agape at your manners. Not that your “Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck!” laughter wasn’t endearing, but the fact you kept it up for a full 12 seconds while another diner frantically tried to sop up the glass of water her child has spilled was just wrong. I stood in awe of how your mother, a supposed member of our community, could raise a little boy to behave in such a manner. I wondered how many more times I would have to hear Travis Tritt singing at decibel levels usually reserved for engine takeoff. I wondered who on earth could possibly be trying to get in touch with you so many times in one 10-minute span. How did you get to be so popular anyway?
Please forgive me for staring. Maybe it’s just me, but isn’t digging in your ears with your car keys ever so slightly unsanitary? Not to mention DISGUSTING? Really? Is it just me? Or is it that we have become a nation of slovenly, unkempt, inconsiderate sloths who have so little self-respect that we have convinced ourselves that manners and appropriate attire are relics of a stuffy, bygone era? Is it really just me? Or is the refusal to lower the volume of your cell phone ringer a manifestation of some deep-seated need for attention? Is it really just me? Or has the art of conversation given way to the art of self-service? Is it really just me?
I paid for my food, grabbed my lo mein, and headed for the parking lot just in time to see you use your car keys as a toothpick. Nauseated, I ran for my car and as the door closed behind me, I got the privilege of hearing Travis Tritt … one … more … time. Nope. It’s NOT just me.
With Deepest Sympathies to Your Mother,
© Bertha Grizzly 2011. All Rights Reserved. No duplication or distribution.