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Rated: GC · Fiction · Comedy · #2254580
A young man takes his complaints to the correct dept, but his tardy ways spoil the chance.
Intro...This story revolves around a young fellow who has arrived somewhat late at the complaints department. The lady to whom he is speaking initially offers no words and listens patiently to his complaints. To help avoid confusion, I have highlighted the text when he speaks directly to her.


If you are...a Trump voter, American, Brazillian, Columbian, a foreigner with a sexy accent, black, white or a light shade of purple I shall without judgment call lilac, gay, straight or somewhere in between, a soccer player, a soccer fan, a soccer hooligan, Italian, British, Japanese, Australian, a Superhero, a woman, (almost) a man, the owner of a firearm designed to kill humans, a Democrat, disabled, a hillbilly with three or fewer teeth, a redneck from the south, a drinker of moonshine, someone who works in the complaints department, in school, a mass shooter or someone who has thought about becoming one but realised killing innocent people is so not cool.

If you identify as any of the above, or even if you don't, you may find certain parts of the following story offensive.

As for the rest of few...enjoy.

"Is this the complaints dept...or the dept of complaints?"

Not that it matters. I rarely complain unless I have air in my lungs and anger in my soul. Sometimes, I breathe out anger which causes every soul to leave. When I was thirteen, I decided, wisely I might add because no one else seemed to think so, to stop brushing my teeth. The reason being bad breath kept bullies at bay. Of course, I didn't think about who else it would keep away. I do realise that technically, I am that person with yellow teeth, bad breath and no friends, but denial is a comfort I can just afford. And given my life challenges so far, the lies I tell myself are well spent. Life is so much easier when I become my alter-ego, Rancid Breath Man...or RBM as it says on my leotard.

Anyway, now that my secret identity and secret shame have been revealed, I feel less afraid to make official my complaint that I am a citizen of the United States of America...and have been for quite some time. I don't know exactly how much time because unfortunately, time is my nemesis, and clocks, my Kryptonite. Making me feel both shame and failure at the same time. And as strange as this might sound, watches have a similar effect, only on a much smaller scale.

"Lady, did you just roll your eyes?"

I have trouble telling the time, and lived for a long time under the impression that it should tell me the time, not visa versa. To me, clocks only tick or tock. There are even clocks that ignore me. I keep telling the time I don't have the time if I can't tell the time. This time disability makes me somewhat late for most things I should get to earlier...like today.

"You are going to write all this down in your book of complaints, aren't you, lady?"

Talking about books, I bought one on how to tell the time. I decided because I am a superhero, who is worshipped by so many young people in this sordid land, I should be a role model who knows how to tell the time. Just because I am strong, wonderful and idolised, doesn't mean I don't want my brain to be smarter than I am. I practice the instructions set out in my book on how to tell the time, but time and again, I run out of time.

In a perfect world, I want time to be my friend, and our friendship to be timeless. But the more I think about it, the less time it leaves to achieve my goal of remaining goalless...except for that one goal. That is unless I'm playing soccer, but if that sad moment ever arrives, please shoot me in the penalty square. Which will be emblazoned on my most vulnerable area, my soccer Guernsey and if, God willing, there happen to be any English soccer players taking aim at my vulnerability, the chance of me surviving will be boosted because they can't shoot straight, even from that distance.

"You have a glazed look in your eyes, lady...are you paying attention?"

The penalty for being a sissy boy soccer player who fakes injury, before his teammates come running over and begin pointing fingers in every direction, is mediocrity in a sport that is mediocre at best. These foreigners then begin yelling incomprehensibly at the ref in a language only they and others who are from their country understand, but I do have to admit, sounds kinda sexy. That's until they get close enough so the stench of garlic hits you in the face like a sledgehammer, and may even overpower my own super bad breath.

"Excuse me, lady...Ummm, hello...Wake up! Now, where was I? Oh, yeah..."

I suspect these players could be Italian or Japanese or maybe even Australian. No, they can't be Australian because I know a few Australians, and they wouldn't be caught dead playing a game where a match can go to full-time without anyone scoring. Ninety minutes of sheer boredom that has been known to kill. Or was it one of the hooligan's Molotov cocktails?

"It doesn't matter because you and I can at least agree that soccer is the worst game ever invented...right, lady?"

"You must have a great memory, lady."

Soccer is so lame that the final whistle is by far the best thing that happens during a game...because it's the only thing that happens, other than the stupid songs those hooligans sing over and over. Soccer is a game where fake injuries are all the team doctor has to treat, which he does with fake care but genuine disappointment that he isn't helping real sportsmen overcome real injuries.

Soccer is a game where men will sometimes kiss other men who are pretty sure they aren't gay, but perhaps are a little curious...a game where players are so overpaid, they will only pay their bills with credit cards or brand new 100s. They will refuse to accept change because used bills are dirty. When you consider all they do is act like primadonnas, it does make you wonder about the type of fan this pathetic game attracts.

"No, lady, I'm not finished yet."

People pay entry fees to see no action, other than the fake injury acting show. The only solace after another scoreless draw is a penalty shootout. Which sees the hooligans drop their Molotovs without a lyric or a spark. Then lining up like schoolboys against a wall as they break into another hooligan song, that goes over and over..." WE'RE GETTIN DA FIRIN SQUAD!" Unfortunately, it isn't a firing squad.

Penalty shootouts explain why the Brazilian and Colombian players are so good from the square...and might go a long way towards explaining why they are always so egotistically hyped and broke.

The hooligans, upon realising they are not going to be shot, become so disappointed because now they have to find another way to end their miserable soccer fan lives, so they never have to watch another second of dribbling, closet gays disguised as real men, who play the most boring game ever invented.

"Lady, don't think I won't complain about your department if you don't get my complaints complained about to the right people...and don't even get me started on us damn Yankees and our guns..."

Our kids are good at everything in the curriculum except staying alive beyond the three o'clock bell. And any kid who happens to be an African American male between the ages of sixteen and a half and seventeen might as well accept that eighteen is as old as it gets because if it isn't a bullet, then it"ll be a distinct lack of opportunity due to their colour that'll see them off.

"Alright lady, keep your oversized knickers on, I'm almost done..."

What about all these Republican, Trump-supporting rednecks who think school shootings, gay nightclub shootings, workplace shootings and mass shootings anywhere, anytime have nothing to do with the half a billion privately owned guns here in America. Who consider gun control to be what good Americans practice whilst aiming their guns at not-so-good, bad people from anywhere, especially south of the border. Bad people, who are likely (for legal self-defence purposes) black and armed with a cache of stolen, highly modified weapons.

At a recent Trump campaign rally, rumour has it that O'l Bloodnut Almighty said the proper Republican mob crowd policy is to shoot first and ask questions about getting a commendation later. I think he stole that policy from the Organisation of Heterosexual Southern Hillbillies of Intrepid Tenacity...or, OHSHIT.

I also heard a rumour that one of his cronies was screaming through a loud hailer, trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy of Trump love, or even some likes from anyone who's America for America. Advising that whilst exercising extreme gun control, if there happen to be any unfortunate and innocentish victims, who for unknown, but possibly suspicious reasons, are in the vicinity and get caught in the crossfire, then Sir Donald, the future leader of the free world 2.0, will console their kin folk via his newly reinstated Twitter account. Telling them not to be sad because their loved ones died as heroes of the upcoming civil war he plans to incite if he is again cheated by those lowlife Demorats, in the 2024, love me again, PLEEEESE, presidential election.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Complaints Department is closed for the day. Please return tomorrow to fill out and lodge your complaint forms."

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