the pits...

Dear Sir,

While I understand that coming the the grocery store right after finishing up at the gym is less time consuming than stopping off to shower or apply deodorant, I do not think that it is fair to blame the tilapia fillets for the wafting stink causing everyone to cough and wrinkle their noses.

Also, I am glad you enjoyed the selections you cherry picked (ahem, stole) directly from the olive bar, sans toothpick or container. However, nothing in this world could make me accept the pits from your outstretched hand upon checkout. You walked past several garbage bins to get to the lane, and will pass 2 more while exiting the store. I cannot imagine why you think part of my job description requires my letting you drop the spitty pits you've been ruminating into my unprotected hand. And I'm sorry for your embarrassment when I said, loudly, "Sir, I am not going to touch anything that has been in your mouth. It's against the law. Put it in that trashcan right there yourself. And help yourself to a napkin before you pay, please."

You are not the rudest customer I've had, not even this hour. But your particular brand of oblivious disregard for polite social interaction makes me want to pull the ridiculous sweatband down from your ears and choke you with it. Or at the very least, not rubber-band your containers together, so that they leak, and stain your car seats.

Thank you so much, sir, you have a great night!
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