Dear Pervy Cockwranglers Who Come Through My Line At Work,
Please stop trying to fool yourself. The only reason that I'm being nice to you is because I'm being financially compensated for it, kind of like a hooker.
The fact that I'm smiling and making eye contact with you does not mean I totally want your flabby, sweaty, I-have-hair-growing-in-the-most-random-of-patches bod.
Please understand that if we had encountered each other under any other set of circumstances, I'd have taken a lemon zester to your testicles by this point.
The only reasons I'm restraining myself now are A) I'm at work and they kind of frown on us mutilating the customers (it's in the handbook somewhere) and B) The lemon zesters are way over there.
In short, I don't want you, and no, it's not because I'm a lesbian. It's because I think people like you should've been chlorinated out of the gene pool before you had the opportunity to take your first, miserable breath.
Stop giving me your number (which I'll just use to pizza you), stop openly oogling my tits (I know, they're lovely and that's the closest you'll ever get to them) and stop complaining to my manager that I was rude because I rejected your awkward, 7th-grade-style advances.
Isn't there a cousin you could be having better luck with?
Die in a fiery landslide you complete and utter waste,
read more Creepy Customer Hell here