I Saw You, your little black dress covering you like an oil film. “I’m twenty-TWO. I just forgot my ID,” you mewled as you batted your mascara-encrusted eyelashes at the club’s doorman, cooing an allusion to certain “favors” should he allow entrance to you and your gaggle of club bunnies. You snorted and stamped your high heels in derision when he didn’t fall for your lie, huffing as if you had been denied a basic right. Hey sweets, just because your mama told you that you’re special doesn’t mean you’re above the law. Should karma do its duty, it will see you as a cocktail waitress in a few years, getting arrested for serving an underage patron.
SEND US your anonymous rants and raves about your co-workers or any badly behaving citizen—or about citizens you admire. I SAW YOU, Metro, 550 S. First St., San Jose, 95113, or via email to is*****@*******ws.com.
