Please Go Get Pancreatic Cancer and Crawl up Paris Hilton's Vagina

Dear Kroger self-checkout Nazi,

Keep your handheld wireless scanner ninja paws off my U-Scan machine. You're not helping me and you did it wrong anyhow. You could fuck up a glass of water. They make helmets for people like you.

Get raped with a box cutter,
Mort


Dear coworker,

The reason I stayed home for four days wasn't to be away from work, it was to be away from you. So while you're anxiously welcoming me back and reminding me that you didn't forget about my birthday, I'm alternately imagining Mission Impossible V: Loathing You Even More Which I Thought Was Mathematically Impossible But Evidently Not So Much Now That You Just Breathed Again and dreaming about urinating on the grass sprouting from the fresh dirt over your grave.

Eat poison,
Mort


Dear accountant coworker specifically,

That dull, vacant, lifeless expression on my face isn't the look of enthralled curiosity begging you, yes, I can't wait another moment, please do tell me yet even more about your tediously uninteresting, painfully repetitious weekend with your "boys." You're old and fat, they're your grandchildren, and it's creepy to refer to them as if they're the product of your own spry, vigorous, youthful loins like you screwed your own daughter. That and the one kid ate a fucking square magnet, for chrissake; he deserves to be in special ed, not post-op. There's a reason your son looks like the mailman and Dilbert is even funnier next to your obituary.

Go die,
Mort