The headline is pretty plain and simple: I do not believe even the worst of the worst murderers, rapists, or thieves deserve to suffer the penalty of death. In fact, I actively voted against capital punishment in the two states I’ve called home.
However, I do believe there should be a simple clause in the Constitution that allows states to punish those who dilly-dally at the Trader Joe’s sample stand while I wait patiently behind them with any of the following capital methods: hanging (preferably in public), electric chair, lethal injection, firing squad, being cast away into the desert in nothing but rags, or shown violent imagery ad nauseam until they’re forced to end it themselves.
Picture me, the very nice, respectful, white human man in a bolo tie and floppy hat behind you, the deranged lunatic who thinks the extremely culpable server at the hot plate cares to know that you ran into two raccoons on your way into work this morning.
Sure, it was daytime, and sure raccoons are typically nocturnal, and sure, in any other scenario and locale, I’d be delighted to hear this whimsical, albeit trite, tale, but right here, right now in this hallowed line known only as the Trader Joe’s sample line, I could give two shits about your raccoons and your horrifically monotonous life. I mean, seriously, what do you do?
It’s severely unfair to the kind person (me) standing in line waiting to sample the newly released Trader Joe’s Shakshouka Starter Kit. In fact, it’s criminal.
I bet this is worse than watching your own son get murdered slowly. And you know what? If I watched my own son get stabbed with a knife like in that one scene from Saving Private Ryan, I’d forgive the son of a bitch who did it so long as they weren’t getting in the way of my damn samples!
You deserve prison time and then death. And your last meal should be this shakshouka sample.
I’m a goddamn thirty-three-year-old marketing exec and I walked here on my lunch break. Who the fuck are you?
All right, maybe I need to cool down.
I’m just going to go over to the coffee dispenser, pour myself a little shot of something hot, and maybe if I sip it slowly, that would give you enough time to finish your awful fucking story and me enough time to just take a step back and not think about ripping your trachea from your mouth.
Okay, you’re done talking about those raccoons? Great, I can finally try that shakshouka.
Oh.
Oh, you forgot to mention one more thing?
Ohhhh, it’s that one of the raccoons was carrying around its baby on its back? Well in that case, let me walk back my previous comments about the state being responsible for carrying out the death penalty for people like you.
I’d like to make an amendment to my initial proposal: I should be given full responsibility for personally executing each and every leech scumbag who decides to strike up a little chit-chat while I’m behind them burying my seething rage.
Don’t even think for once that I’m not perfectly willing to give up my job at my beautiful open-floor-plan boutique creative agency just to take up a job ending you.
Here in this short line, I am the jury; I am the judge! And as sure as the light is day, I will be the executioner! Warden, let me plunge the needle, tie the noose, and kick the stool. It REALLY doesn’t matter! So long as you end up rotting six feet under (in an unmarked grave) and I get my freaking two-ounce taste of the shakshouka I’ll never buy!
