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.