Dear Starland Ballroom Security Personnel,
I appreciate what you do. Honestly.
However, while I am in the photo pit about to exit at the conclusion of the third song of a set, I could really do without the shady, crew-cut-blonde, slightly paunched one of you continually putting his hands on my hips to move me.
When I say, "Watch it buddy, above the waist," that isn't supposed to be an invitation for you to ogle my rack. It's supposed to be an implied "I won't tolerate your hands on me anywhere, except maybe my shoulders, and that's even a bit unnecessary," only a lot less verbose because it's hard enough to hear with all the shit going on around us.
You're lucky you guys don't wear name badges, because I'd have you, the aforementioned offender, reported in an instant. In fact, I might just make a request that you guys have to do that from now on, if for no other reason than they check my bags at the door and would inevitably find the crowbar I'd try hiding in my purse to bludgeon you with the next time you cross my path, so I have to find another way to teach you not to degrade ladies.
I'm not sure what women from your planet put up with, but over here on Earth, things don't work that way.
Take heed, for you've been warned,
Hell hath no fury like Jess Sager scorned.
*Jess, who finds inspiration in both Shakespeare and Twisted Sister