Dear Karaoke Master

I've been at this bar for an hour and you've been up onstage five times so far.  I have seen you more than my bartender.  You are a pasty guido wanna-be wearing too much CK-1 and way too much hair gel.  My bartender is a saucy little Pacific Islander who gives me free drinks.  You stand about as much chance of being my favorite out of the two as I have of finishing a marathon. 

I put in a slip to sing, but the forty other songs you already have in have swallowed it like Madonna on date night.  I wasn't aware that Ratt had that many songs.  On top of that, you were threatening to pour sugar on people and then rock them like a hurricane. Well, buddy, I don't negotiate with terrorists. I will turn this bar into my own miniature version of Die Hard if it means I get to drop you off a roof at the end.

If the noxious stench of the half gallon of cologne you are sweating out through your pores didn't make me nauseous, your stage act certainly would push it over.  I can only imagine how many times you practiced this in front of an episode of Glee.  Last time I checked, you didn't need to close your eyes soulfully while singing Bon Jovi, and the only things giving love a bad name are the urgent pleas for sex you are throwing at every girl too drunk to run away from the area around the stage.

I see what you did there.  Originally, the bridge of "Paradise City" is just, "So far away" repeated four times but you changed that to "Hey, you in the stripes.  Wanna go out behind my car and suck it?"  Had Axl thought of that, the band may have stayed together. 

I keep hoping you will get too drink to get onstage, but it seems that you've only just gotten drunk enough to sing songs meant for women singers.  I wish I could write something horrible and witty about this, but once you got into Adele's "Someone Like You" I simply stood up, yelled "Nope" and walked out of the bar.

Dear Guy Standing In A Parking Spot To Hold It For His Friend

It is not often I have lunch with my mother and sister.  Mostly because they won't let me come unless I promise not to make a scene.  I don't make promises that I cannot keep, so I don't get to come out to lunch very often.  However, every once in awhile, they forget that I have a tendency towards righteous indignation, and I get some free lunchtime chicken wings. 

All was going so very well.  I'd gotten in the car, and I didn't freak out about anything.  We'd ridden through town, and I didn't scream out the window at anyone because they had wronged me.  The restaurant was in sight, and there was a spot in front!  I was so close to ruining my shirt in a sauce related incident that I could taste to garlic and asiago that would gently be caressing the lovely wing meat.  Predictably, this is where you came in.

As we angled towards the spot, lo and behold, we see an old fat guy (this is you, assface) jump out of the car in front of us, and run into the parking spot.  We nudged forward, waiting for you to get on the curb and go to the restaurant, and you just stood there.  Confusion took over, was quickly replaced by panic, and was then put to rest by my old friend, hellfire rage.  You girthy little bald bitch, you were standing in the spot as your friend circled the block, since he had been too far forward to pull into the spot before us. 

Unfortunately for the world, my mother was quick to hit the window locks before I could act.  She also veered back into the street before I could jump out of the car and carve the word "Pie" into your porcine forehead with a shard of street glass.  All you could hear was my muffled screams and see me giving you the crazy eyes as we rode past and found a spot a block away. 

I was surrounded by 3000 pounds of metal and flammable liquids.  You were surrounded in a sad looking scarf and a cheap overcoat that blind gay men would instinctively shun and ridicule.  I think we know who had the upper hand. 

What you owe me is a letter of apology to my mother.  You ruined her lunch by making me belligerent and revengalicious.  You made my mother cry, as far as you know.  You also owe her thanks, because she was the only reason I didn't pretend in front of the entire lunchtime crowd at the restaurant to be your illegitimate son come to finally confront you after years of neglect.  You owe her big time, because that scenario usually ends with me crying, asking why you never send birthday cards, then sobbing while I eat all the food on your plate.

Dear Type II Diabetes

I like food.  I really like food.  I have already paid for this in blood, sweat, tears, and the taunts of "Fatty fat fat fat" from the local school children.  I don't need this from you.

There I was, trying to enjoy my holidays, one cookie at a time, and you had to rear your ugly head.  I felt like my strategy of "pretend you don't have diabetes" was working out way better than the "blow off fun stuff to exercise and don't even think about eating the foods you like" plan I had been on.  Apparently, diabetes is not like Paris Hilton.  If you ignore it long enough, it doesn't shrivel up and die like the unfathomable whore that everyone knows that it is. 

Just because I don't go to my endocrinologist, don't regulate my diet, rarely exercise, and lead a mostly sedientary lifestyle you think you can waltz right in and make my legs fall off.  Not cool, man. 

So, now I have to eat sucky food, stab myself with little needles and let out my sweet, tangy blood for a computer to eat.  I am not fully convinced that the tester will not develop a craving for my blood and slit my throat while I sleep, so now I have to worry about both it and Ed Asner doing that to me. 

All in all, I liked it alot better when I just had worms. 

Dear Guy at the Bachelor Party

We're all friends with the groom. That's why we are all here at his bachelor party. We are all, however, not friends with you. Maybe that's the problem. You've spent the entire night injecting yourself into every conversation like you were heroin at Lindsay Lohan's sweet sixteen party. You've tried every off color joke you know, and tried to make up several on the spot. Unfortunately, you are terrible at telling jokes, and have so far made sure that any lesbian, black guy, homosexual, Polish person, giraffe, and male from Nantucket would kill you had they heard what you said. A couple of people here would gladly play Noah and round up two of each of those to line up and take turns donkey kicking you in the taint. All this because you were trying way too hard to fit in.

Here's another tip. The words "nipple" and "pussy" are welcome at a bachelor party, but they should not be used in the name of the shot that you are ordering for everyone. They taste horrible, and it doesn't help that you yell out things like "Yeah, wrap your lips around that pussy!" when we drink the awful Pink Pussy shot you were stupid enough to buy a round of. You make me glad I am the designated driver.

The worst thing you did all night was order a Yagerbomb for everyone. This was wrong for several reasons, a few of which are as follows:

1) We are not in a Fraternity
2) We are not even in college
3) I have not had a recent head trauma to where I can no longer taste horrible liquids
4) Red Bull tastes like piss. Yagermeister tastes like licorice piss. Put them together and they make dolphins cry out in horror at the tragedy of what the world has become.

And the worst thing about Yagerbombs is that they apparently change the chemical composition of everything else in your stomach into Yagermeister and Red Bull. I know this because the guy I gave a ride home to projectile vomited onto my windshield. Even though he had several beers, other shots, and food, the only thing I could smell was Red Bull and Jagermeister. It was as if his body only rejected the Jagerbomb. I might have marveled at that fact if it hadn't been the third worst thing to ever happen in my car.

I hold you to blame for this. One day, maybe when your first child is born, maybe when you are sleeping, or on your deathbed, or when you are making an impassioned plea to a jury of your peers, I will make sure that my friend runs up to you and vomits a Jagerbomb into your mouth. My only worry is that you will enjoy it.

Dear Kia Motor Company

What in the name of all that is good and decent with the world is wrong with you people?  I am referring to the gigantic dancing hamsters you have on my television, hocking cars and raping my good night's sleep.

At what point in the pitch meeting did fat, human/hamster hybrids wearing douchebag clothing and acting like rejects from Lady Gaga's Zoo of Neverending Nightmares and Bowel Evacuations seem like a valid outlet to sell your cars?  Was the thinking that most car companies try to sell their cars by showing how safe and sporty they are, so you needed something different?  Well, granted, making it seem like you car is the choice of grotesque furry monstrosities that want to kidnap children and use them to fuel their wood shavings factories is different than saying your car is safe and sporty, but it probably isn't the best choice.  It's almost as good as trying to sell minivans by filming a commercial where Carrot Top rides around in a Ford Aerostar, throwing pills at children in the street and offering to let people take naps on the stained mattress he installed in the back.

Maybe you are trying to market your cars to the Furries population.  If so, then shame on you and your racist commercials. 

I can only assume that your company has made a deal with Maker's Mark, Irish Spring, Kleenex, and Mark's Bail Bonds, because when I see your commercials, all I want to do is get drunk, cry in the shower as I try to wash the horror away, then get in my car, drive to the zoo, and punch a koala so hard that is falls out of its tree.

Dear People Wearing Shorts In December

I really shouldn't have to write this.  This is common sense, yet, as with all those previously addressed in my rantings, you just don't get it.  You are running away from reality like a hobo with a stolen sweet potato pie. 

It is forty degrees out.  You are wearing a jacket.  Obviously, you understand it is cold, because you are taking measures to keep your upper body warm.  Why would you wear shorts?  Men, insulate your lap rockets.  Ladies, keep your yippee bogs warm this holiday season. 

I have seen both men and women doing this.  And I can't even blame the hipsters this time.  You idiots are wearing sport shorts and hoodies.  You look more like jocks than anything, and that's what makes this even worse.  You aren't letting me blame the hipsters.  This makes me so angry that I had to whittle down a Lincoln Log into a shiv and stab myself in the leg with it.  Then, I forced Tang into the wound, just so I had a pain that I could control.  Are you happy that you made me do this?  Why can't you just buy pants?  Why do you have to ruin lives?

There was a time when the only person you would see wearing shorts after October would be a big ol' fat guy.  He'd pair off those shorts with a Hawaiian shirt, sandals, and white socks pulled up past his calves.  We let him have this, because he added his own unique flair to the ensemble.  You, however, are not pulling this off. 

The only thing worse than you Mensa rejects strutting your pale winter legs around in Umbros in December are the frat boy preppie freaks that wear plaid shorts, sandals, and pastel polos in the summer.  You look like Zack Morris and Spaulding from Caddyshack got drunk on wine coolers and gave into temptation in Mr. Feeney's toolshed from Boy Meets World.  You are not the love child of this unholy union.  You are the afterbirth.

Dear Preschoolers in Barnes and Noble

Congratulations.  Your school is having a book fair at Barnes and Noble today.  Know where a better place for that would be?  Your school, where I would never go.

I didn't go to some fancy preschool.  I spent my time before kindergarten reading in the lobby of my Dad's auto detailing shop.  I didn't get dragged off to Barnes and Noble to get some new shiny books and hang out with my little nihilist preschool friends.  I didn't get to take a nap in the comfy reading chairs near the magazines.  If I fell asleep on the waiting room bench, my uncles would tie my shoelaces together.  Then, they would yell that the Three Stooges were on in the back room, so that I would try to get up and run to watch the TV.  It was Vietnam in that detailing shop.  I slept with one eye open.

I will go on record and say that I did not try to trip that little boy in the Fiction A-D section.  He ran between me and the shelf and tripped over my shoe, so his mom doesn't need to give me the stink eye.  It's not that I wouldn't have tripped him had I thought of it.  I just wasn't paying attention. 

You see, children, you've forgotten what respect is, or your parents never taught it to you.  If I went running through a store, I would have been in big trouble.  Your parents don't seem to care as long as you are leaving them alone so that they can have a moment's peace.

You know what else you've forgotten?  You've forgotten that you need to be afraid.  That little girl shouldn't have turned to her mother and said "That big man just growled like a dog!"  She should have done like her mother did and looked at me quickly, then move to another aisle.

Guess who Barnes and Noble likes more: me or you?  It's me, a return customer with disposable income.  I have that because I have a job.  You just sit around all day sipping juice and being read to.  Child labor laws are crippling the motivation of today's youth. 

Oh, yeah, and do you little terrorists know where all of your mothers got the money to buy you those books?  I put it on their dressers when I left in the morning.