Kalah Allen

Dear traveling dirtbags: When you came into the store where I worked, I stared at you in absolute disbelief that grown adults would dress in outfits that little girls run amuck in their mothers' closets would avoid as being too gaudy. No one is impressed enough by tattoos anymore to want to see your doughy belly just to enjoy your ink, and white guys with dreads are bad enough, but cutting holes in your baseball cap so you look like a sagging bunny rabbit is a new kind of low. I know the fact that you sleep on your friends' floors most of the time makes you think that you have a free-floating spirit, but sitting on our floor and putting your feet up on our tables while sampling our wares isn't really kosher. Not to mention that it was obvious that you weren't going to spend a dime on any of the books you pawed. Speaking of paws, that cat you insist on dragging around on a leash didn't keep running away because he's a precocious feline, it's because he's embarrassed to be seen with you. Cats take pride in their grooming nearly as much as you two take pride in not grooming. And I'm pretty sure one of you farted, and I'm pretty sure it was the girl. Nice. I'm glad you two defects have each other to spare the rest of us the grief.—Anonymous