Wednesday, August 29, 2012


I am just about at the end of my rope with you.

Dear Special Lady,

Hi. How are you? How're things? Things good? So happy to hear that.

I don't know if you remember me. But I was at this coffee shop two days ago. And we sat beside each other over at the banquette tables along the front window. Remember that? No? It’s cool. You were obviously preoccupied. Being the WORLD’S MOST ANNOYING HUMAN BEING surely requires intense focus and concentration.

But I wanted to tell you, I really admire your dedication. Like the inimitable Merryl Streep, you are a master at your craft. In fact, I was so thoroughly impressed with your talent to annoy, I stopped pretending to write in order to catch your curious street act.

And, I gotta say, you did not disappoint. It was a riveting, pitch-perfect performance!
From the moment you took the stage, shuffling past in those unironically worn mom jeans and floppy straw hat, I knew we were in for a treat. And the way you went limp and dropped your exhausted, carb-laden body into the long banquette seat, landing with the ferocity of a falling timber. Dear God, I jumped right outta my seat! Literally.    

What. An. Entrance.

I’ll admit, I had a hard time following much of the dialogue of your one-woman show--Oh Yeah, This Is Really Happening Right Now--where you spoke into a smart phone in loud, random bursts. At first, I thought you were recording daily reminders. But no one with the possible exception of the Lord, or perhaps Mr. Seacrest, is so insanely busy. So I assumed you were capturing brilliant nuggets for a future literary masterpiece that would no doubt rival E.L. James' prolific works, earning raves for its added dose of Southern sass.

To be honest, I missed a good portion of this act, because I became fixated on a faulty pair of ear buds that I discovered were ineffective in blocking out disturbing outside noise. But after tossing the piece-of-crap buds aside, I gave you my undivided attention, as I wondered: what in holy hell, fifty shades of utter nonsense sounds like. 

This is it. I’ve found it. I’m in hell.

And that's when I saw the true brilliance of your patented brand of annoying. 

Because who could've guessed that you were having a conversation? A "text" conversation no less! That's right. You. Were. Texting. WITH. YOUR. VOICE. 

I didn't even know that was possible. I had to google it to convince myself it was a real thing and that you weren’t, you know, f**ing with me, with some brilliantly improvised monologue on the decay of our modern tech-obsessed society. 

Nope. It was not an act.   

Apart from the short staccato bursts, I have to say I was really impressed with the subtle way you worked modern movement into your performance by making several hasty, unwarranted exits. By my count, there were nine. In one hour. I kept a tally. 

Without warning, you’d sprint from your squeaky vinyl seat with the urgency of a cat who suddenly decides, Shit, I really need to be over there. And after text-shouting at various spots throughout the cafe--working the room like a true showman to ensure everyone enjoyed the strangely unsettling performance--you’d plop right back down in your indented spot with the same oomph that heralded your arrival. It kept things lively, that's for sure, and made it impossible for anyone to ignore you. 

Take note amateurs: This is how you keep an audience captive.

But if I had to pick my favorite part of the afternoon's entertainment, I would have to say it was the humming. Sweet Jesus, the humming. How to describe it: These whimsical little unmelodious ditties, penned by Saint Lucifer, that assaulted the brain like a hard open slap, triggering a rush of murderous thoughts. Personally, I wanted to choke a whistling Dixie Bitch every time a new tune found its way to my ears. An hour into the show, I found myself staring down at balled hands, clenching and unclenching them in an effort so stay calm. 

One finger won’t make an impact, but you ball all those fingers
into a fist, and you can strike a mighty blow.

It's a testament to your talent the way you were able to illicit such strong emotion. I almost cried. TWICE!! Unable to resist the strange allure of your God-given gift, I gave up the futile fight, closed my laptop and bowed my head in silent surrender.  

Bravo, wicked nymph. BRA-VO

Sadly, I missed the second act, as I became obsessed with replacing those defective buds and had to bolt early in order to beat traffic and make it to the electronics store before closing. But I am back for today's matinee. And this time, I came prepared, armed with my brand new, oversized professional DJ head phones that the salesman assured me would TUNE OUT EVERY LAST ANNOYING BITCH IN THE ROOM. 

That eager young man was not lying. I don't hear a damn thing right now. 

Not the steaming, gurgling sounds of the espresso machine. Not the screaming toddler across the room. Not the unemployed actor one table over, sharing yet another profound insight he'll later post on Facebook for his less enlightened "friends". Nada. All I hear is the tranquil sound of ocean waves crashing against a rocky shoreline, which is currently blasting in both ears in glorious, high definition stereo. I am in a far better place, looking forward to today's muted performance as I get back to work googling more random shit.  

Wait. What's this now? Oh, I see you've added toe tapping to your already impressive repertoire. And hold on, are you dancing right now?! In your seat?! 

Damn it. You. Are. Good. Way to keep it fresh girl! 

This is going to be a really good show. These folks have no idea. Knock 'em dead!

Your biggest fan,
Mad Shady

1. STEEL MAGNOLIAS (1989) Writer: Robert Harling
2. SOUL FOOD (1997) Writer: George Tillman Jr. 

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