Just who in the hell do you think you are, anyway?

I don't give a damn if you are part of "The Industry" (and let me say here and now that your "Industry" is about as vital and important to the survival of mankind as the production of Cheez-Whiz), you can't break the rules.

When you and your buddies showed up at my theater and started causing trouble the night of the screening, you put me on the spot. I had just started this job. My manager was nearby. Not only did you make me look bad in front of her, you made me look bad in front of an entire crowed of people, people who will now think that I'm some brainless ticket-taker who doesn't know when to let important people in.

First, let's get something straight: you are not important. Anyone who is such a mindless prat that he can only get a job in PR or marketing or some other gateway-to-hell job has the importance of a fruit fly. You and the rest of your Armani Exchange-wearing buddies amount to nil in my book. All you do is kiss the right ass and make sure that the bottled water shows up. So, fuck you on that count.

Second, I am not brainless. I have this job because I need to eat and I love the place. I'm writing and coding full-time at home, all while living off tofu and ramen. I'm actually *producing* something from my own sweat and blood; what have you produced other than a bad case of dandruff? Fuck you on that count, too.

Third, you should thank your lucky stars that we decided to put up with you and your company's shit for that screening. Our theater is old; I'm sorry if it's not up to your exacting standards, but we like it. It's not some gutless Edwards Gigantaplex for a reason; we got more soul in the popcorn machine than you do in your whole office. Fuck you once again.

And, lastly, fuck you for making fun of my suspenders. I'll have you know that every woman who sees me at work gives me a smile and a compliment when they see the Snoopy print on those babies. I'd say "Fuck you" again, but that'd be a wasted effort.

I hope your cell phone gives you premature testicular cancer, you miserable glad-handing sack of suet. Don't come back to my theater.

Sincerely,

Adam Rakunas