To whompa-whompa wench with huge bazongas in the sheer peasant blouse: You really need to stuff those things into a bra, honey. I'd give you one of mine but I know it would shred like confetti if you tried to squeeze into it. You may be voluntarily blond but St. Pauli Girl you are not.
To the guy in the rusty Beamer cranking your radio and bellowing loudly: Tune up or die. You were "singing" so loud your eyes must have been closed since you nearly hit me as I crossed with the pedestrian signal. How much dick-ier could you be?
To the old woman dragging your lame dog at a pace quite surprising for a person of your age: You should slow down if you want him to live. He was trying so gamely to keep up with you but it was obvious that every step hurt him. Was your mah jongg game so important that you were willing to whack your loyal companion to get there?
To the scumbag who casually blew cigar smoke into my wet hair as I passed by, minding my own business: You deserve a special medal for being an offensive asshole. Thanks to you, I had to go home and wash my hair again before it was even dry the first time because the stench was knocking me out.
To Father of the Year whose three children were careening down the sidewalk on bikes scattering pedestrians but you didn't notice because you were on the phone, here's a news flash: You do not own the sidewalk. It was not included in your Trust Fund. If you don't want your progeny to grow up as arrogant as you, you need to teach them to heel.
To darling Flip who just said, "You're not going to believe this," to which I replied, "What did you lose?"
"My new Spiderman pen."
Try me. Spiderman may have special powers but you do not. You lose everything. What, exactly, in our long history has even suggested that I wouldn't believe you had lost something?
It's days like this that make me wish I were a drinking person.