I am supposed to write and tell you that I am sorry for calling you a “rude old crag” in front of the ten people you so casually jumped in front of while waiting in line at Canter’s Deli last evening.
I’ve been told I should apologize for the way I called attention to your wretched violation, for wrinkling up my face in mock expression of yours as you told me that I had a big mouth and that I should just shut up already.
Am I sorry that I shoved you out of my way as I reclaimed my rightful spot in line? That as you formed a crow-like shape with your hand and said, “Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!” I could only prove to you and everyone else that my hands were bigger, that I could make a squawk more ferocious and stylistically realistic?
Should I apologize for foiling your sick and ill-conceived scheme? For hearing you say to your spineless, beer-gutted bag of a son that you didn’t want to wait, shouldn’t have to wait, that you would just cut in front of everyone else as if the world — my world, America’s world, the world of those ten innocent tax-paying civilians waiting their turn in line — owes you a single fucking molecule of pity?
I don’t care that you’re only four foot nine inches tall, or that you can’t apply lipstick in a straight line or choose a hair color the average person should be able to see without the aid of polarized sunglasses.
I don’t care that your pantyhose roll into doughnuts around your ankles, or that your purse requires it’s own seat in the House of Representatives.
I think you should apologize to every other elderly patron who waits at the back of the line with courteous respect for protocol. You should be ashamed for playing the little-old-lady card and preying on everyone else’s notion of sympathy and decency, you miserable wilting git.
In conclusion, Cranky Old Bitch, I advise you to shut up and wait your turn. Did you really need that chocolate chip cheesecake a whole four minutes faster? I may have a big mouth, but you’ve got a big ass.
