Dear Mr. Mercedes,
This is your valet. You were patting me on the shoulder, repeating the name on my nametag and wondering aloud about the costs of valet parking with that humble six-figure car by your side. Despite my attempts to commiserate and offer alternatives your passionate appeals turned into personal attacks. You sarcastically asked if I felt insulted, but that black uniform prevented me from elaborating. Thankfully I now have the chance to share my true feelings: You sir, are a chode monkey with the social skills of a dope fiend in withdrawal. Your arrogant demeanor bespeaks the vapid soul of a man who is dead on the inside. Itās no coincidence that your car is leaking transmission fluid and I canāt wait to āflossā with your steering wheel again. Am I insulting you?
Love, Your Valet (or else)
