Farts of Speech (Anger Mismanagement) #1

The inability to stay cool and calm, because why the fuck should you!

People always tell me that anger isn’t good for me. They tell me, it doesn’t accomplish anything and that every time I get angry, I move closer to death.

I am not sure how that works; maybe I shrink in size and stress myself too hard. Maybe one day I will pop and disappear like a soap bubble. Puckk.

Or, maybe, I jump the checkout line and move closer to the Grim Reaper with each frown. I don’t know. Either way, if you breathe and don’t do anything you’re still technically moving closer to your death. So I don’t see their point. Anyway, these people, they tell me that they never get angry. Which I think is borders on pretentious unrealistic delusional bullshit.

Doesn’t everyone get angry? Sure, people express themselves differently when they are angry, but does that mean that they don’t get angry?

I get angry, I stop talking to the person. Pretty childish. I know. But I would still choose that approach over a draining fight. Someone else gets angry and he attempts to kill all the Jews. To each his own – really.



But the people who tell you that they never get angry, are the same people who’d eat a badly clubbed sandwich or sip a highly diluted cocktail at a bar while brooding over it. Then they go ahead and even tip the waiter for the bad service, going against the whole concept of tipping. That’s not called being polite, that’s called enabling bad behaviour.

I don’t do that. Sorry. Not me! I refuse to eat that slushy mustard green carpet stuffed between two pieces of bread or drink that sugar syrup. I yell for a replacement. And I get it. So, fuck you, preacher, being angry does accomplish something.

And then these people argue, often politely, rubbing it on my face, “Seriously, that was uncalled for. You should have asked him nicely.”

Well, let’s see, I did ask him politely. Didn’t I? I walked in here smiling, thanked the gatekeeper for opening the door, thanked the scrawny lady with big nostrils at the reception for pointing out the door to me. Even though there was just one door in front of us. And once I was inside that door, I called the floor manager by his first name and said, “Hey, Bijoy! Bijoy? Are you from Orissa? No? Oh, Assam! Ah, I should have guessed that. Nice! Nice! Listen, could you please arrange a table for two?” Notice, I said, “Could you?” that’s polite. I did not say, “I want a fucking table for two people, get it for me right now you-pumpkin-little-double-chin-bow-tie-and-pocket-square-cunt!”

Then I looked at the waiter, smiled again, and said, “Could you get me a double meat club-sandwich and a long island iced tea please?” Still polite, with a fucking cherry on top. Plus, two “could yous” in a row? Woah! I am on a roll here. My eyes are sparkling at this point. I am wearing a t-shirt with Mickey Mouse on it. I am clearly on a mission to spread happiness in this world.


Free hugs, anyone?

But you see, did all (or any) of that work? No! Because Mr. Joey Tribbiani over here got me something I can make better at home when I am shitfaced. Does he even know that he works at this bar version of Central Perk? His fantastic greased hair and jaw lines aren’t something I am interested in if he makes food with his feet and garnishes it with reluctance.

So now what? Should I plant a kiss on the back of his palm and toss him a pouch of gold coins, as a sincere way to express my gratitude for his shitty service, my lord?

Fuck that!

Get me a pint of non-tampered corona and the complimentary snacks with it, and in return, you get one star on Uber Eats and three fucks in the review. Also, take this mangled carcass and this devil’s cum, and dump it in the next polite person’s mouth that only opens to utter the magic words.


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