Dear Bo Bice*,
I liked you lots and lots when you were on American Idol. I never voted for you, but, I didn't vote for anyone, so, don't take it personally, okay? But, I thought you were decent enough.
That was until today, when I had the unpleasant chat with your security person, Spitty.
Your bigass bus was parked on Canal, right there by West Broadway, you know where I mean. There were a few of us waiting to cross the street...and suddenly, it started to back up. It bumped one lady, who fell into another couple who yelled at the dogs and I to look out, we were going to be killed.
Being a fan of Dead Like Me, my first inclination was to look up for a falling toilet.
It was, however, the bigass bus backing up even further. We all yelled, in a polite New York fashion, "HEY, ASSHOLE!". Asshole ignored us, and kept backing up.
We crossed the street, a few of the crossers still yelling...I just crossed.
On my way back, I noticed someone walking towards the bus, so, I thought to myself, "Self, perhaps you can point out they almost hit some people." Self said, "What?"
The guy started sprinting to the bus, that had a sign on it saying, DO NOT KNOCK.
Sometimes, I pretend I don't read English.
Spitty came to the door and said, "Yeah?"
I took off my fine shades, and started in a nice way, "Earlier, y'all started backing up the bus, and there were a number of people back there... " I got that far when he leaned over and spit at my feet.
A much better writer than myself, Ms. Model herself, addressed the spitting issue and how horrid it is when men decide to expel saliva from their mouth.
He spit, and I was struck dumb. "Well, we'll just have to look out for you folk, won't we?"
"You spit." was all I could say....and suddenly my voice that has never had an accent sounded like my Momma's Mississippi slur. "You spit. Son, where were you raised?"
I'd have set the pit bull on him, but, the best he'd have done was shed white hair all over his nasty black security shirt.
"M'am...." I put my red sunglasses back on, spun on my cowboy boot heel and walked away, still speechless.
And, I couldn't even come up with a snappy retort.
I sit shamed still.
Son, where were all of you raised?
*name correctly spelled, thanks to Miss Andrea.