There ain’t no end to stupid. You’ve proven that.
You don’t use enough deodorant or antiperspirant or soap.
You can actually wash or dry-clean a coat, you know.
Your toenails are too long.
Any length is too long for toenails.
If I see you spitting pistachio husks on the floor of the subway again, I’m going to hit you hard, backhand, even though I will probably be arrested.
Nobody likes your screeching children.
Slurping is disgusting, and is worse when you leave drops on the table in the kitchen.
I calculate that it’ll take two more months and four days before there’s no room in the microwave at work for you to put your lidless snap-and-lock lunch in, because you’re responsible for the layers of recooked sauce and rice that absolutely no one will ever clean.
You don’t wash your hands after using the toilet.
Your mother picked up everything after you left it.
She probably still does. And you like that.
Your wife would like to kill you.
Your husband would like to kill you. Or at least have you go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Away.
Two of your children are gay, and the third one will be caught in a Thai brothel with a seven year old girl.
Many things can be explained somehow, but not fucking seven year old girls.
You need a password on your phone.
It is your fault.
I don’t care if your father knew Hemingway. All those guys are dead.
You were very cruel on Tuesday.
Nobody walks around saying, “I’ve written a wonderful book” unless they haven’t.
Leaving a smear of snot on the door of the RBC Bank at Marjory and Gerrard should be a federal crime, punishable by having your nose cut off. And the thumb you used to unsuccessfully blow the snot toward the sidewalk. And when you walk around, you should have to wear a sign that says, “I put snot everywhere”.
Your paintings are horribly bad. Try hanging them upside-down for better sales.
There’s nothing that says “Employable!” like a neck tattoo.
Your little dog scratches my shins with its nails one more time and I’m cooking it.
Your kind revving of your motorcycle engine at two in the morning outside my window makes me wish I were an American in America. One with a rifle. And night-vision goggles.
You had those big trees cut down for no reason.
You take free kittens and then you lock them out of your house,
You are a good neighbour to feed them, but the raccoons in your other neighbour’s roof moved in because of the nightly buffet.
You hit a dog in the road and kept going.
Low keeps falling, and you aren’t helping.
You steal pencils.
Stealing pencils is the stupidest thing imaginable, nowadays.
Like, where’s the market, mystique or joy in that?
Your “graphic novel” is ugly, badly written and outrageously over-hyped.
You are so boring you frighten me.
You never shut up, but you never say anything at all of substance whatever.
Gesticulating wildly and repeatedly in the fashion of Falun Gong does not prevent cancer.
You hit yourself in the head and call it “exercise” and you are a moron.
You spend three times more money than you should on food at “organic” stores and you’ll be dead in a hundred years, like all the rest of us.
Yes. You. Need. A. Hearing. Aid. You. Are. Deaf. DEAF! I! SAID!
Brushing your teeth can’t hurt, even if you start this late in life.
You started an internet fund-raising campaign to go to university and spent half the money on an all-you-can-drink trip to Cuba. The kind people in what the newspaper called “your minority community” should be told you flunked out of first year.
You need to get a job. And go to it. And pay for your own way, like the rest of us.
You falsified your academic credentials and were never punished because the institution would have to admit that it knew all about it and let you.
You let them.
You wrote your book at work. Choosing to write a guide to successful career planning is extra funny, believe me.
You robbed my friends’ coats and purses at the christmas party.
There’s no way you were consuming that much crack or meth or whatever the hell it was without being a prostitute.
No one wants to hear your kid sing over the phone.
Everyone is so pleased you fart in elevators.
Shoplifting isn’t funny. Shoplifting from convenience stores is painful to hear about. Why you would admit to it as an adult is profoundly puzzling.
You hit a man in the hopes he would hit you back.
You threw a woman over a kitchen table in front of her kids and thought of yourself as Not A Wife-Beater because you didn’t use your fists.
You cut photographs out of library books.
You were promoted because they couldn’t find anyone else.
You didn’t look for anyone else.
Your communication skills may or may not be worse than those of the person you promoted, but you are pleased that they are frightened of you and will never say anything about anything.
You invited people to your one-year-old’s birthday party and expected big money presents.
You complained that your wedding gifts were inadequate, even though it was your second marriage.
You complained that your wedding gifts were inadequate, and it was your first marriage.
You spit in public.
You ate the food for the afternoon party at work at lunchtime and left teeth marks in a piece of cheese.
You tire me.
You suggested I write 700 things but you can’t even count change properly, so I’m going to stop here because you won’t have any idea if I made it or not.
You can’t make me think of rotten disappointments all the time.
You’ve got a magnolia tree in bloom on your front yard.