Dear Idiots
What’s with all you friendly service providers, store clerks and restaurant servers who cozy up to us customers by calling us “dear”? You don’t know me. I don’t know you. We’re not married, related or old friends. Neither of us is a member of the order Cervidae or family Capreolinae. So why all the dear-ing?
Are you calling me “dear” because I’ve attained a certain age and I have the laugh-lines, grey hair and spreading body mass to prove it? Do you think I’m someone’s doddering grandfather and if you don’t get my attention by calling me “dear”, I’ll wander off into the woods with senile abandon? Perhaps to live with the deer?
That isn’t going to happen (and if it was, calling me “dear” wouldn’t prevent it).
In conclusion: unless you’re buying me expensive dinners, giving me Christmas and birthday presents, and inviting me to your home on Thanksgiving, DON’T CALL ME DEAR.”
Seriously, what’s going on in your heads? /Anonymous
DOE THE RIGHT THING Queen City Confidential is an open forum for Prairie Dog readers to anonymously share their petty rants, workplace gripes, romantic woes and complaints about friends, family and bad drivers. You can say nice things too. E-mail submissions to confidential@prairiedogmag.com (type CONFIDENTIAL in the subject field). Change everyone’s names and identifying details. Submissions must be 100-200 words and awesome. Swear words are strictly allowed.
