It takes you another two steps before you realize it was addressed to you. You stop, frown, and turn to see a lanky guy in an eye-searing blue hoodie grinning at you. “…what?”
His expression falters into amused confusion. Blinks before trying again. “Good morning?”
Seriously, is this douchebag for real? No, no fuck this, you’re not letting some chipper polehumper trot his happy-go-lucky attitude over the wreckage that is your life. That is your wreckage thankyouverymuch; it is off-limits for inappropriately affable wunderwursts.
And what a wreckage it is. Waking up exhausted with a screaming ache in your back and some asshole bird screaming unholy salutations to the sun right outside your goddamn window and then your darling mongrel of a meowbeast had puked up the overpriced gourmet meat in gravy all over your shoes in a moist display of gratitude and left you screaming with impotent ire.
Your only pair of shoes.
So really, you are perfectly content quivering through the seismic aftershocks of your nine-point-zero ragequake just fine, you don’t need some overly friendly pillock telling you otherwise.
“No, no it’s not a good morning, you failure magnet. It’s a fucking awful morning alright? So just re-ingest your lukewarm pleasantries and tenderly inject them up your anus. Who the hell even greets random strangers on the street these days? Did you fall out of a eighties sitcom?”
Frank angrily attacks Elaine when she doesn’t give thanks for “the work our veterans have done.” “Not all veterans,” Elaine replies. Frank explodes. “Whaddaya mean, you numbskull! It’s Memorial Day! Memories of veterans!” “Only the dead ones,” Elaine insists. “Veteran’s Day is for the living ones.” The two go back and forth until they’re yelling more at themselves than each other, and eventually, each forgets that the other exists.
Kramer uses his toilet, but finds that the flushing mechanism has broken, so his deposit must remain in the bowl until he can repair it. Feeling overly dirty from the experience, he takes a hot shower, but this has an unintended side effect: The combination of the hot steam in the air and the contents of his toilet create a vast cloud of stink. When he attempts to leave the bathroom, he finds that the door is jammed – he is trapped inside. He has no choice but to breathe the putrid air, stifling gags in between horrified gasps for air. The smell eventually makes its way over to Jerry’s apartment; Jerry, assuming the worst, simply calls the coroner’s office.
The Myoclonic Jerk Store calls just as George was about to fall asleep.