Stop Yelling At Me

To the bleached-blonde kept woman driving the brand-spanking-new Lexus in her just-so pink sweats on the way home from her mani and pedi who is fond of catastrophising in that very special super-nasal, suburban C- average of the MRS major who has blessed the city with her presence and is running up the cost of living faster than her credit cards:

Stop yelling at me. I only let you go on that way because I was fantasizing about punching you repeatedly in any one of your surgically-enhanced body parts. That's wrong, so I didn't move a muscle, nor talk, nor breathe too much. Beware the silent flaring nostrils.

To the arrogant youth from a culture that doesn't necessarily appreciate brassy dames asserting anything, much less daring to remind men of the accepted standard of line-standing etiquette:

Stop yelling at me! Don't assume a wounded look or point your finger too close to my nose or call me a liar. The whole chicken-shit line backed me up and thanked me for stopping you from taking orders from every girl in your class who happened to walk past.

All ex-boyfriends and bossy types should also stop yelling at me. I'm feeling raw. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to keep my temper. I am a Taurus, I have been on simmer for days and days and I am deeply concerned for all of our well-being. Please, stop now.

Thank you.