Dear Sir,

Ordinarily, I could care less whether you are thin, fat, hairy, or Brad Pitt. I just don’t worry that much about physical attributes. However, when you are in front of me, AND you are in a van, AND you are driving 36 mph down the main thoroughfare to the downtown area, AND you are on a cellphone, AND (I know it’s a lot of ANDS, which I hope can only add to this drama) you have the gangsta lean going on, except it’s not a gangsta lean, it’s a fatass lean, AND you have crap piled up in your van so high you couldn’t see out your windows even IF you ever bothered to wash the filth off of them, then you become “The Fatass in the Plymouth Voyager.”

Before you go thinking “hey, bitch, why you wanna pick on fat people” and all, please know that I am an equal opportunity offender. Had you been thin, you’d have been an Anorexic/Bulimic Bitch driving a Plymouth Voyager. Had you been all scabby or something, you’d have been that Loser Meth Head in a Plymouth Voyager. So stop grumbling into your cheese danish from the Stop N Go. It ain’t personal. You were just in my way. Hence your new title.

Thirty minutes — thirty freakin’ minutes — to go approximately five miles. Traffic was bad, yes. But I happened to be behind THE one. I was the first car behind you, so you know what that means. Everyone else was able to get around you. Everyone. Except yours truly. Did anyone let me over? No. Did any of those cars and vans who are contracted for this one day to deliver overpriced flowers let me in? No. Did you, oh Mr. Plymouth Voyager man, even notice you were holding up traffic? No. Did you even notice, when I finally got around you, when it was too late to do any good, that everyone was leaving you way behind? I think not.

Mr. Fatass Plymouth Voyager Man, I wish you a happy Valentines’ Day. Because everyone here knows exactly how much this day means to me.

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