Listen, you slack-jawed nincompoop.
When I dropped off my prescription on Thursday and you told me it wouldn't be ready until Friday at 5pm, I thought, "Well...I guess I'll live." I told you how much pain I was in and asked if there was anything you could do to speed up the process. Remember how you promised to help and that you would call me when it was done?
I haven't been this angry in a long time. I'm so angry, in fact, that I intend to call your boss just as soon as I figure out your name.
I wouldn't call your boss if you hadn't stood there like a sniveling ninny with your tongue hanging out saying things like, "Unfortunately I didn't call you, but I put it together on Saturday."
Unfortunately??? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?? Is this my fault? Is that what you're implying here? And, you did this on SATURDAY?!? Are you fricking kidding me??
Some day, when you get married, you chubby-faced, wanna-be doctor (if you can get some protuberant fool to marry you), and you have a baby and your wife is at home crying because her breasts hurt so bad that she doesn't want to feed her infant, I. HOPE. YOU. THINK. OF. ME.
p.s. For the record, I don't think you are sorry. Oh, but I will make you sorry.