I’d always feared if I really expressed my feelings I’d alienate everyone and no one would attend my wake. Recently I realized it doesn’t matter because I take 82 supplements a day and all of these people will be dead long before me. So I’ve begun venting.
This is a partial list of targets I wish to attack for offending me in recent weeks.
To the woman at work who ignored three greetings from me: You are now officially invisible. If you are stung by a wasp and roll around the parking lot in agony I will stride past, oblivious.
To every female musician I have ever tried to help: I send you info, contact information, possible bookings and you don’t even acknowledge my efforts. Your diva-inflated ego is as useful as a Whoopie cushion. You’re too old, boring, and self-involved to matter. Burn your guitar and leave the country.
To my running club: You want to sponsor charity races, go ahead. Go ahead and find the 43 volunteers needed to stand on the course pointing directions like shivering cigar store Indians. I’ll write a check to Jerry Lewis, lace up my Reeboks and run alone. Who needs ya?
To my present writing group: Do you want to get better or not? Then shut up and heed my advice.
To my former writing group I was kicked out of: PPPSSSSSTTT!
To the dancer who said she would do an interview: I spent time making up questions and you blew it off without explanation. You are 28, over the hill, and your gigs don’t even get listed anywhere, let alone reviewed. Get over yourself. Peel off those sweaty leotards and go plant a garden; it’s over.
To the Hoboken author who eight years ago bluntly told members of the now-defunct Hoboken Creative Alliance that "men were a lower species:" Your writing is boring and derivative. I am ecstatic that no one made a film of your book and your publishers came to their senses and there was never a follow-up. Crawl back into your hole.
To my theater group: You won’t perform workshops of my plays and monologues, yet you expect me to stand out in the rain and direct cars to parking spaces. Don’t even think about calling me anymore.
To my book club leader: Show up prepared to discuss the book you picked. I pay $12 to read a 350 page opus and you haven’t a word of preparation or background and I’m called negative.
To the eight members who didn’t show up that night: I will pound on your door and one by one demand you come outside and discuss that book with me.
To my mechanic: I bring in my car with a knocking under the hood and you replace my catalytic converter and pipe at a cost of $505 for which you wouldn’t accept a check. I drive around and the same damn noise is still there. Get under that hood and fix it or I will knock you down and fart on your face.
To all artists and galleries: Stop calling. I can’t afford your work.
To my barber: DID I SPECIFICALLY SAY TRIM THE MUSTACHE!??
To Robin Williams: If you make Flubber II I’m boycotting the rest of your career.
To my editor: Stop printing desperate letters from horny readers and gimme the whole back page.
To the bird who crapped on my windshield: You think it’s over? You’re wrong. – Joe Del Priore