heads up, corn nuts.

look, if you're walking behind me and i shift direction 1 millimeter, and that makes you run into my back? it means you're walking too close to me. back the fuck up.

stop all-capping me, denver omelette.

every day you're berated for having the lousiest privacy controls of all time. then you finally copy someone else and get your shit together, and you yell at me every time i sign on about how great the new privacy controls are. i get it! they're great! fine! if i need to know how to use them, i'll look it up my fucking self.

ummm, homemade cinnamon rolls.

there is no possible way. in all of eternity. that it takes you that long to put your stuff in the car and pull out of that parking spot. you're so fucking slow, you're going backwards in time.

i can't stand looking at you, cool ranch doritos.

watching you chew gum or a muffin or cud or whatever the fuck is in your mouth, is like watching a lion at the zoo, masticate a piece of raw meat. like, why is your mouth wide open? your gaping maw at 8 a.m. while waiting for a train is making want to vomit.

how dare you, popcorn shrimp?

i don't understand how you are taking up the entire sidewalk. you're just one person. is zigzagging really the most efficient way of getting to where you are going? why are you a fucking slalom walker?

you're so loud, california roll.

your big booming voice behind my head, yelling at the pitcher, the catcher, the umpire, the third baseman, and the guy selling churros 15 sections away, is not making me enjoy this game any more than your whistling and clapping are. just stop talking, for once.

get off my jock, bagel bites.

can you see me? well it doesn't fucking seem like it, because you're literally standing on my toe.

why are you here, chicken quesadilla?

free tip: if we are in a crowded store and i look like i need to get by you, it's because i do. i gave you a hint when i said "excuse me." that's why i said "excuse me." that's what "excuse me" means. step aside, you fuck.

you might be the worst ever, cream puff.

you think you're so funny, with your german accent and your heckling and your pretending that you don't know what's going on here. i'll tell you what's going on here: we're at a karaoke bar and you're being a dick. does that help? get off the fucking stage, this is my song.

how do you solve a problem like your face, orange chicken?

this is supposed to be fun after work time. a hobby. we're doing a theater production together. why are you acting like it's life and death? it's a fucking musical, and we're not even getting paid for this. here's a suggestion: stop being an insensitive diva, and start learning your lines.

you're too slow, braised short ribs.

can you pick up the fucking pace? this isn't leisurely stroll time. we're downtown on a wednesday morning. people are trying to get to work.

just wow, kielbasa.

i understand you're a slave to fashion. and i get that those jeans are designer. but you're at least 75 fucking years old. there's no reason for your pants to be that tight. while you're sitting next to me. in public.

just saying, orange julius.

i've been walking behind you for 5 minutes on the busiest street in the universe, with no hope of passing you because it's too crowded and everyone is a dick. i get that you're an addict, but was it necessary to light up a cigarette just now? you couldn't wait till you stopped at your destination? the last thing i needed on my way to work today was lung cancer.

you are in my face, hershey's chocolate syrup.

you're jogging. you don't have to shout "on your left!" like a lunatic when you're coming up on my left. you can easily move around me. we're not riding bikes, you idiot.

what a joke, steak and lobster.

here's how the world works: the unemployed person does not get to make restaurant decisions. especially when the choices are between two michelin-star-rated restaurants. that's called chutzpah.

why are you talking, chicken mcnuggets?

if any type of spicy food will "send you to the hospital right away," and you definitely can't have spice in any of your food, why are you at a fucking thai restaurant ordering curry? go to olive garden, you prick.

where's the fire, garlic mashed potatoes?

look, we're all walking in the same direction, trying to escape this fire hazard chaos that's the underground public transportation. you won't let me merge into your line to get up the escalator? it was really more important for you to be on the steps ONE person sooner? well, thank god you made it in time. if you would've let me in, you might not have. dick.

give me my money, waffles.

you've had 750 of my dollars for three months now, and you haven't delivered the furniture piece i ordered. so basically, you're a liar and a thief. that's exactly the right way to get repeat customers.

just don't, taco bell mexican pizza.

unless you literally are a prostitute, you shouldn't be wearing that outfit. just a suggestion.

what planet are you from, banana bread?

look, i didn't hit your fucking car with my car door. that's why there's not a huge dent on the side of your car. but keying my car as retribution was a great idea. i'm driving a fucking zip car, do you think i care what happens to it? the only thing that suffered through this exchange is your 2-year-old, who witnessed the entire thing, and your karma. drink your kombucha and calm the eff down.

omg, you're so annoying, bearclaw.

i get that you work for whatever charity organization it is that you work for, and that's great, but harassing me every time i step outside my office about signing for whatever it is you want me to sign for, is annoying. and then making me feel bad about not signing is you being a dick. it's hard to care about an organization that sends dicks out to get people to care about it.

what is your problem, ice cream cake?

why are you continuing to move forward, even though the cars in front of you are stopped and you're clearly going to be caught in the middle of the intersection when the light changes? there, see? the light changed and now you're stuck in the intersection like an asshole. and now all these other assholes are honking at you. you are a morning ruiner.

i hate you, fried calamari.

you left me 1 millimeter of space to get out of this parking spot. 1 millimeter. i can't even fit a piece of paper in between our bumpers.