Dear nineteen-year-old church elder,
Your creepy unblinking-ness did not bother me. It takes all kinds. Your wing-man, yeah, you got me. He's creep-tastic, standing right there behind you, watching, vacantly smiling. Your matching clothes...I'm used to that.
Oh, but your haughty-ass smugness...mmmph, that's where we run into some trouble, son, sonny boy, little mister sunshine.
No, I have not in fact read the book of Moron. I only read quality science-fiction from modern-era authors. And that tone? Really? You-should-read-it, in that tone??
Child, I'm not old enough to be your mother unless she was a fourteen-year-old girl...
Oh. Snap.
You're a mormon. I bet she was actually.
But either way...respect, you little drone. Respect. I did you a solid not questioning your ID when I issued you a guest pass for the match-set of computers you and your wing-man used together, creepily side-by-side. I know...I know...that ID was probably expired.
So next time you ask, I'm remembering that head-toss that accompanied your unblinking, creep-o you-should-read-it, and I'm checking the expiration date...because, yeah, sorry, we need a valid ID here.
Hint: if you MUST proselytize, especially to people who are forced to serve you or starve, try not to be SUCH horrible twat about it, okay? It goes over better.
No love,
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