Dear Mrs. O’Blivious,
Thanks for being so clueless and blank at the very crowded shoe store today. It’s only Labor Day weekend, and the outlet mall had a population about the same as a small Central American country. As it turned out, I had lucked into a great parking spot within spitting distance of the store, and you helped me realize that I’d then used up my allotment of good karma this day.
And I needed to build up a little Hulk-like rage in my mind anyway. Thanks for your help with that.
Look, I understand that your preshuss snookums will likely someday be the president or a famous rock star or other suitably impressive world leader. And therefore he should try on EVERY shoe in the aisle to be sure that his feet are appropriately coddled. And I understand that it should be beneath his station (and yours) to actually PUT the rejected shoeboxes back from where you got them. After all, what would the employees have to do if you did that? Nuthin’, that’s what.
No, here’s my problem with our encounter. I’ll grant you that you are more petite in the gluttial area (that’s the assular region to the plebs out there) than many of the moms in town, you still managed to not only block the ENTIRE aisle with your not-so-generous portions, and also arranged to have said body parts totally in the way of the shoe boxes I hoped to get for my son. This was topped off with a classic combination look you gave me of innocent “do you need something from me, strange man in the store?” and the classic “I dare you to try getting those boxes down without touching my ass. I double-dog dare you!” Well played, lady. Well played.
Hulk angry. Hulk think mean thoughts. Hulk buy shoes. Hulk better now.
Mr. Green, but not with envy