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You can burn my house
You can cut my hair
You can make me wrestle naked
With a grizzly bear

You can poison my cat
Baby I don’t care
But if you talk in the movies
I’ll kill you right there

It’s the little things
It’s just the little things
Aw it’s the little things
It’s just the little things
Yeah it’s the little things
That drive me wild

I’m like a mad dog
I’m on a short leash
I’m on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread

I’m on some thin ice
You push me too far
Welcome to my nightmare
No more Mr. Nice Guy

All right, now you've done it. I wuz keeping it pent up inside but I have to say it now. It's about...no, not importunate cultural Nazis laying guilt trips on everyone because it gives them control of the discourse. Nosirree, nor is it about the sanctimonious Greenies who ride bikes screaming "I'm not stopping traffic, I AM traffic" and then they veer onto the sidewalk to where I suppose they think they're the pedestrians they're running over too, no, not them either. Not the smiling politicians who vomit vague inanities like they're received truth, no, those guys run right off my back. What gets to me, what pushes me over that last little gravelly edge into the cliff fall of insanity is the miserbobble sumbitch who I politely thank for doing something for me that it's his job to do anyway, like filling my water glass in a restaurant or topping off my magazine when the zombies are swarming, and what does he say? What does that stupid, supercilious traitor to everything that is right about politesse say to me to totally ruin the occasion, huh? What does he say, huh? Huh?

"No problem."

Well of COURSE it isn't a problem, you brachycephalic cretin! A PROBLEM? Hell NO it isn't a problem, it's your gotdang JOB, you moron! Problem? Problem? AHHHHHHH!!!

I mean, a simple "you're welcome" would have served the purposes of discourse perfectly well, easing the social transaction into the arena of adulthood with the unstated but vital structure of mutual respect and a sense of boundary. But no, it has to be "No problem." You want a problem, punk? HUH? YOU WANT A PROBLEM??!? I'LL GIVE YOU A PROBLEM!!!" And in truth no one on the grand jury would blame me for ventilating that miserable specimen's torso with eighteen new belly buttons. Well, they didn't, anyway. The judge said never to let it happen again except if it was in a Starbucks where he figgered it was understandable anyway.

No problem, huh, you bastidges? I gotcher problem RIGHT HERE!

Oh, and as long as I'm venting I don't like service stations that charge you for air either. I mean what the hell, AIR?

(Hey, that rhymes.)