Dear People With Wheely Bags,
I’m sure you’ve already worked out that I hate you with enough passion to collapse a medium sized universe. You’re unlikely to be wondering why, as I’ve helpfully stated the reason in the address of this letter. What you might be concerned about, however, is what I have against your beloved wheely bag.
Let me first clarify a few things. If you’re female, over 65 and have a perm, big coat and beard, you’re not the kind of wheely bagger I hate. If you’re a holiday maker, heading to the airport wheeling your short sleeved shirts and flip flops behind you in a suitcase whilst looking at the rest of us and thinking “see you later you miserable bastards, and when I do see you I’ll have a shit hot tan,” I (probably) don’t hate you (depending on what the time is). I also don’t hate you if you’re considerate, sensible or just not a lazy cunt.
Is this you? I don't hate you. Well, not for your bag, at least.
I do, however, hate you if you’re on of those fucks that insist on wheeeeeeling your bag around all over the place when I’m trying to walk behind you. Inevtiably, I’m walking faster than you becuase A) I’m a fast walker and B) All the extra effort of wheeling a bag is making you walk slower. This makes things difficult for me. When I’m walking behind a normal slow-walking person, I can judge my distance behind them based on how far away the back of their head is from me. If it’s within arms length, I can punch them to the floor should they stop suddenly. If not, get a little bit closer and maybe my breath on their neck will make them walk a bit quicker. But you fuckers don’t let me get this close. Your wheely bag is in the way. If you stop suddenly, I’m steaming right into you – meaning I’m going to suffer the same pain and humiliation as I would be causing you had you not got your beloved wheely bag to protect you.
Every other person that breathes oxygen knows that, when you reach the top of a busy staircase, you get the fuck out of the way because there’s an endless flow of people behind you. Even more so on an escalator where this torrent of bodies is being mechanically hoisted into the position your body presently occupies. I remember my escalator training when I was a kid. My dad told me to make sure my laces didn’t get caught between the steps, and to focus my entire brain capacity on getting the christ out of the way of everyone else as soon as you step off that thing. I was taught how to judge when to start walking off at the end of the escalator, because people who don’t step off until the very last second get sucked in to the machine and escalated straight to hell. I was also taught that the brushes on the sides are not for cleaning shoes.
Clearly you never passed this training. Or were never privileged enough to have a parent that cared about you enough to teach you how not to be a fucking mindless splatter of shit on a public toilet ceiling, no-one knows how it got there or why no-one’s got rid of it yet but they also can’t help but stare in disgust. Somehow, it’s become your priority on reaching the end of an escalator not to get out of the way for all your life’s worth, but to just quickly get this handle extended on my wheely bag, oops that’s not quite it, sorry everyone, just one minute, oh yes that’s got it, now where was I, oh yes now I can start to slowly walk on trundling my bag behind me, oh my god two thousand people are literally piled up behind me and they’re all screaming for my blood. Oh well, at least I don’t have to bear the extra weight of this awfully heavy bag. Oh look, now I have to get on another escalator, one second let me just push the handle back down into the case, ok now I’ll spin it around, tut at someone trying to walk past me and drag it onto the escalator on the left hand side where everyone is trying to walk past me.
Equally, my problem is with your recent fascination for wheely bags so small that there’s completely no justification for them having wheels in the first place, unless you’re some kind of iron age caveman and all the shit you need for work actually genuinely weighs loads. You fucknuts with a bag no bigger than a briefcase that only contains a copy of the free paper and a pen to do the crossword have no reason to wheel it behind you other than that your brain has been replaced by an easter egg which has since melted out of your ear, leaving only a less-than-generous sized packet of five jelly babies and some purple tinfoil. CARRY THE FUCKER with your arms you fucktard. I find myself wondering if dinosaurs were actually made extinct or if they were some kind of far advanced time travelling species who left a few bones behind, and that humans are slowly evolving from dragging our knuckles to having T-Rex style arms so short we have to put long handles and wheels on everything becuase we can’t carry stuff. But that would make you some kind of advanced evolutionary being, and considering you’re about as intelligent as something I would dispose of in a tissue, this is unlikely.
Raaaaargh I'm a cunt.
The handle attaching your bag to your scrawny, weak as piss arms is so long I think I could reasonably cut it off with a circular saw and tie it to a stray cat and you’d only notice the difference when you tried to open the cat to get out your Sheaffer fountain pen only to find your face is dripping with blood from several deep claw wounds. Even then, you’d probably grab the cat by it’s tail and try to wheel it outside.
Here’s what I’d like to propose to you in order to remedy this issue. Either carry the bag you have until you’re well clear of all crowds (remembering three’s a crowd. If there are more than three people within your gaze, keep carrying it) or get another fucking bag that doesn’t have wheels. Try a rucksack, or a satchel, maybe a briefcase. Perhaps keep it ‘homeless chic’ and carry your laptop in a Tesco’s bag. I could even spare you one of those as I’ve been keeping a few in my pockets for the day I actually get the guts to throw one over your head and suffocate you to death for being a wheely bag using cunt.
Let’s hope we can work something out.
Chris
