Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Apartment 718, Open Letters
Dear Guy in the Short-Sleeved T-Shirt,
It’ was roughly 40° in Miami this morning when I left for work. I saw you snicker at my sweater as we passed; frankly, you were pretty obvious. Well, fuck you. I’m cold.
I’m sure you’re a pretty big badass, what, with your flimsy t-shirt offering almost zero protection from the elements. I’m also sure you’re a pretty big douchebag who needs to make it known to everyone he sees in a jacket, that people in Miami don’t know what cold is.
Oh, I wonder how many people have stopped you on the streets to marvel at your incredible powers of self-insulation. One? Two? My guess would be none, because nobody wants to hear your mindless dribble about being born in New York and how much colder it is, up there, in the winter. Dude, you lived there till you were 3 and your mom dressed you like a fucking eskimo every time the wind blew. Now, go put on a fucking coat.
Fact is, we live in Miami and it’s below 60°. Because of that, I’m wearing a sweater and I’m comfortable. Really, really comfortable, mind you. Now, go away and try to hide the fact that your teeth are chattering and your body is shaking worse than a San Francisco aftershock. Michael J. Fox is more subtle than you.
Enjoy pneumonia, fuckface.
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