Gigantic Fucking Attitude

So you happen to be a giant. Or at least so tall that pulminary adema is a risk for someone trying to kiss you. Maybe you didn’t see me all the way down there, I was wearing the bright red sweater. Since you were so fucking huge, and didn’t give a shit that I wanted coffee just as bad as you, you cut in front of me at Starbucks.

This, I can forgive, you are massive, practically your own zip code, a gravitational field that is measurable at a great distance. I am much smaller in comparison. However, when, in your giganticness, with your gigantic fucking duffel bag that you bashed me with multiple times as you swung your way in front of me in line. Or your gigantic fucking feet that you stepped on me with while you were tooling around in line as opposed to paying for your drink. I don’t give a shit if you have a gigantic fucking Armani Label on your gigantic fucking suit, that you were flashing at the ladies in the line behind me, like some peacock strutting in the yard.

It was your gigantic fucking attitude, that really pissed me off. You didn’t smile at anyone, your disdain at us (literally) “lower” creatures, that really chapped my ass. I’d like to meet you some day, and if you read this, please get a hold of me. I’d like to introduce you to Josh, Trudy, and Dan all of the people you stepped on in that Starbucks to get your coffee, while your gigantic fucking ego almost made your head swell up and float away.

What gives?

Good morning. Or at least morning. You look as if you’ve been hit by a bus. Your beard is not so magnificent, maybe when you hit puberty it will grow in more fully.

You shuffled onto the train this morning, morose, heavy eyed. You were a wiry looking son of a gun. GI-Fucking-Gantic Clark Kent glasses, and too short pants. Dragging your little hello kitty sized messenger bag. You grilled me that entire train ride.

What gives? Did I have something on my face? Was my fly down? I don’t think so, I checked when no one (except you) was looking. Perhaps you are one of the many people I have offended while riding public transportation in Boston. I don’t think so, I usually remember those.

Please sir, when you have a chance, let me know what I have done to offend you. The “fuck you” stare you were giving me all morning left a bad taste in my mouth. Now here I am at work, sucking on a mint because of you. I hate mints.

Please sir, if you are not to busy, get back to me, I would like to meet you in person, and tell you to pound sand when I am in possession of all of my faculties.

Maybe I missed something – w4m – 24 (C line)

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Reply to: pers-806601872@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-08-21, 1:56PM EDT

I’ve been known not to pay attention. So maybe I missed something when you were crowned king of the fucking world. Don’t worry, I saw you standing there, you were in my way, but I went around. The weird snorty noises assholes like you make on the train do not affect me. I can let it slide.

However, when you push me into a helpless old woman so that you can get out of a train door that isn’t even open, I reserve the right to sayL “fuck you.” And volubly. What you shouldn’t do, especially when we are getting out at the same station, is turn around and call me a cunt. I will snap you in half you little turd. There is no place in the world for people so self absorbed as you. I would like to meet you someday so that I can tell you about all of the wonderful things in life you have missed out on being an asshole. I bet you’ve never appreciated a sunrise, or had a lover you didn’t have to tip to perform oral sex.

I really hope that you run into a fucking pole while you are wasting all of your time looking down on us mere humans.

• Location: C line

I am so so sorry – w4m – 24 (B Line)

Reply to: pers-802137360@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-08-18, 2:45PM EDT

I’m not sure you remember me. I certainly remember you. It was 4th of July 2006 the train was packed, you had about six kids with you on your way to the fireworks. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.

There was nothing you could do about the fact that the train was packed. Or that my face was level with your crotch. The only thing I ask in the future, is that you wash your fucking balls. Please. There is nothing more unpleasant than smelling a mans unwashed testicles.

With every swaying motion of the train, the wind generated by your oscillating sack would waft rotten ball stench into my face. Be that as it may, I had no right to embarrass you in front of your children. Or those children I’m not sure if they were yours. Again I am so so sorry.

Location: B Line

• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 802137360

Excuse me… – w4w – 24 (boston c line)

Reply to: pers-801754868@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-08-18, 11:00AM EDT

Even though it’s been two years I feel like I should apologize. I was having a bad morning. By the smug look on your face your “consenting partner” had finally conceded to intercourse with you.

The woman who was sitting in the seat that I was zealously guarding for my own, had finally vacated. In the confusion of her stepping past me, you slipped in and sat down. (Smug face looking up at me)

“Excuse me” you said with your prim 40 something round Andover voice.

I was furious. I could hardly contain my rage. I thought really long and hard as to whether or not I should let you get away with such a travesty. Should I allow you to take from me what I had guarded so effectively up until that final moment.

No. Not for any reason was your theft of my seat in any way okay.

So I cut one, mind you I eat terrible food, which translates to godawful paint peeling scillia killing farts.

I farted audibly in your face, looked down into your eyes and said:

“Excuse me”

Who argues with a man that has no hands? – w4m – 24 (B Line Kenmore-ish)

I saw you standing there. Your pomade spiked hair barely giving in the
conditioned air of the train car. Seasons old emo glasses, and a
striped sweater. I could tell you were proud to wear it, those 25 push
ups a day since you graduated high school are really making a
difference.

I understand not wanting to move up on the train. People might think
you are gay if you stand too close to your handsome friend. When the
man with no hands calls you out for being a smart ass to the train
operator; don’t argue with him. Man up. You have many things to feel
superior about.

1. You don’t HAVE to use two hands to masturbate, you could if you
like, but you don’t have to. He only has one opposable thumb, cut him
some slack.

2. You can hold a beer.

3. Coffee mugs do not trouble you.

So the next time the train operator so politely requests that you step
into the train, (as opposed to standing there like a stylishly striped
lemming), step forward. And say “hi” to the man with no hands.

My love for your beard will live on – w4m – 24 (Boston-esqe)

Look at that beard. Scrumptious. I don’t think a woman has ever told you how magnificent your beard is. I am certain of this, by the vindicated look in your eye when I let you know it was awesome, I’m sorry if I caused any problems with your lady, she seemed full of rage that I would walk up and tell you your beard was beautiful. No offense sir, but a woman that doesn’t appreciate a beard like that doesn’t deserve you. I felt justified in telling her to shake the sand out of her vagina. Although she should have expected that I would dodge the swing she took at me. Just in case you ever want to ditch the bitch and hook up. Holler, Lover of beards

I think it was the light shining off your forehead…. – w4m – 24 (Boston )

I think it was the light shining off your forehead that first drew my eye to you. Sitting so morosely on the green line. I’m certain you sat just to spite the miserable old harpy that was glaring disapprovingly at you for sitting, when she felt you should have given up your seat for her. Either that or she was trying to catch her reflection off your bald spot. You sat there, completely oblivious of my observation or the aforementioned elderly harpies ire. I congratulate you. Not only for shining your bald spot, but for thwarting another of the pseudo old out of a seat on the train when we all know their legs work just like every one else’s.

I salute you.

I am your beard and I am here to stay

I am your beard, and I am here to tell you of all of the wonderful things I have seen and done as your beard without your knowledge. You would know if you actually paid attention to me, as opposed to ignoring me and taking me for granted. Maybe next time you drop food in me you won’t be so quick to wipe it away. Maybe you’ll think, I bet my beard would like a taste of that.