Dear extremely lanky man napping with his shins stretched out in the aisle on my 6 a.m. bendy bus to work:
Mondays suck, mornings suck. So I get it, you wanted a nap. But couldn’t you do it in the back where I didn’t have to dodge those matchsticks you call legs? I was half-tempted to “accidentally” kick you in the shin, until I remembered that’s the kind of behavior of spoiled children. Y’know, like what you’re doing right now, taking up space in a walkway! At this hour, we all want some shut-eye, believe you me. But the Metro driver’s hauling our asses to slave another day in the salt mines. And I nearly tripped over your goddamned blue suede shoes!!
Why did Cotton Hill get his shins blasted off? Couldn’t it have been you instead? I bet you didn’t even kill fitty men.
Do you need to get something off your chest? Submit an I, Anonymous, and maybe we’ll illustrate it! Send your unsigned rant, love letter, confession, or accusation to [email protected]. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and the guilty.
