What the HELL is WRONG with you?

June 14, 2005 at 3:22 pm (Die Yuppie Scum, Rant Goodness, WTF)

An Open Letter (Yeah, I do this a LOT–shhh!) to the A&W on Grand River Avenue near Wixom, MI:

What the HELL is WRONG with you? Since when does a damned A&W Root Beer stand run OUT of root beer?

Did you have NO clue how difficult it is to talk Honey into a totally unproductive trip anywhere? He doesn't like just picking his happy ass up to satisfy my whims–he does it because of reasons that will make Beo go blind should he read them here!

I managed it, though. I managed to get him to take me to your establishment, promising bribes of cold, frosty root beer, as only you're able to peddle it (with an additional Beo-blinding inducement).

How did you repay me?? How DID you repay three people lusting for just a taste of your sugar-filled, icy, creamy smooth root-flavored crack? You fucked up, that's how! When I arrived at your little hole in the wall, the nice lady behind the counter informed me only once I'd ordered everything else that your fine restaurant was deficient in the very thing that makes driving Grand River Ave. worth putting up with–ROOT BEER! Instead she taunted me with, "We do still have the Diet.."

Fucking inbred, borderline-autistic LOSERS! I can get fucking DIET at the gas station less than a mile from home! I can get a can of Liquid fucking PAIN at any of a hundred places along the pain in the ass route I had to take to get the real deal from the syphilitic tit-squeezers at your restaurant! If I could DRINK fucking DIET I'd just have DONE that instead of braving 90 degree weather in order to get a mug of your fabulous root-goodness. I was even going to have you dose it liberally with ice cream, you taste-blocking, numb-nutted excuses for purveyors of pure heaven!

It did not help my disposition, nor my displeasure at finding you rootbeer-less, to hear the woman behind the counter call out unflattering things about my size in Spanish. Some Serras would have waited in the parking lot for you to get off work after you called them fat bitches no matter what language it was in. Personally I don't think you're worth the sweat off my tits it would take to do it, so you live another belly-crawling day. That should be retribution enough.

In closing, I leave you with this: May the slobbering significant others of all your employees plague you with requests to see your flabby, saggy, grease-stained tits, especially if you're a male A&W manager of this particular store.

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