just no, bbq potato chips.

this is the meat counter at safeway. this isn't a fucking one-on-one session with a personal chef. why would the guy behind the counter know anything about anything other than meat? if you want gourmet, go to whole foods.

use your brain, banana cream pie.

what is it about me standing here behind the lady who is paying that indicates i may not be waiting in line? why do you have to ask if i'm waiting in line? what the fuck else would i be doing here?

shut your mouth, pad thai.

if you ask me one more fucking time if i need any help in your stupid store, i'm burning the entire thing to the ground.

lay OFF, stuffed pizza.

remember when you called me last week and i said i wasn't interested in buying whatever it was you were trying to sell me? why are you acting surprised when i'm telling you the same thing today? take me off your fucking list, and stop calling me.

why do you think i care, vodka and grapefruit juice?

stop acting too cool for this train and like everyone is in your way, because your headphones aren't that great, and i can hear that you're listening to destiny's child. DESTINY'S CHILD.

you're so rude, biscuits and gravy.

you know why i ran into you right now? because you stopped short in the middle of the fucking sidewalk. next time pull over, ass face.

completely unnecessary, chili dog.

dear sir, just because san francisco does not have a law against public nudity, does not mean that your body is all of a sudden a wonderland for all to behold. for the love of god, put some fucking pants on.