Kalah Allen

Today I took a call and happened to lean against a building. I saw you across the street, staring at me, holding a paint roller. I didn’t think much about it and went on my way. After a while, I noticed people were giving me the eye. Hmmm. Strange. Later, I passed back by the place I took the call. There you were, contemplating the very wall I was leaning against earlier. Hmmm. Strange. Then, after about the 20th person gave me a look, I thought, “Well, maybe I should have a look about myself.” Yeah. Paint all over my jacket. My nice jacket. The only jacket I have that was an expensive gift from my wife. It all fell into place. Thanks, painter guy! Thanks for not taking the time to put up any caution tape or a “Wet Paint” sign. Great job, fucker! I spent two hours of my birthday in a futile effort—first trying dish soap, then isopropyl alcohol, then acetone. That was some really good paint, because it didn’t come out of my fucking jacket, you lazy piece of shit. I took it to the dry cleaners! They said it’s “doubtful” they can fix it. Something that’s less doubtful is that I am currently considering beating you senseless with your paint roller.—Anonymous