Do I blame St. Patrick's Day or do I blame douchebags?

So I pull into my apartment parking lot after work today (Monday) and pull in near the mailboxes so I can grab my all-important junkmail before I go inside to ingest an 18-pack of Lone Star, watch my new Muppet Show DVDs and pass out face-down in my bathroom as a forgotten pot of water boils down to nothing on the stove. Typical Monday. I'm a creature of habit.




But just as I start to get out of my car, I notice a jackass with a green-striped stovepipe hat standing near the mailboxes, like some kind of busybody cat in the hat.


I think, this can't be good. I glare at him through my windshield as I gather some CDs to take inside. Then I notice he has a clipboard, and all bets are off. Fuck that guy. Fuck him with a handful of porcupine babies. Ain't nobody gonna ruin my evening by talking to me.



I abandon the mail for tonight. But if he's still there after my first 6 beers, I'm gonna go down there, pull his hat over his face and beat him mercilessly. And then sodomize him with porcupine babies.