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.

Dear Lady that brought her dog to Target

I had to go to Target to buy some outdoor Christmas lights.  I had drunk a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper 10, and I had to find a manly outlet for my surging testosterone, so I elected to hang Christmas lights.

You were in the Christmas section with your daughter.  I would have noticed you from the ungodly jogging suit you were wearing, but you amped it up.  You had some sort of Terrier running around in your cart.  I can even see how you got it in here.  You have a purse in which your ten year old daughter could have been smuggled into the store.  I should have called those lunatics from PETA then and there, and they would have choked their rivers with your dead. 

What you are teaching your child is that if there is a rule that you don't like, you can break it.  I mean, who cares if she has a dog in Target?  I do, because I have to live by the rules, so you should too.  Society agrees upon rules that you must follow to be a part of that society.  If you break those rules, I should be allowed to hammer punch you in the clavicle. 

I stared at you, then got angry slanty eyes at you, and you just smiled at me then got in my way.  You stoked my anger with your indifference, so I went middle school and told on you to the nearest store associate.

Which brings me to the next point.

Dear Target associate,
When I tell you that the soccer mom in the Christmas section has a dog in the store, which has to be against store policy, do not tell me it isn't hurting anything.  You could at least humor me and pretend to call it in on your walkie talkie.  To tell me that the dog isn't hurting anything is to spit in my face.  So, when I lost my cool, it was your fault.

I told you that it must be ok to smoke in the store then, and pulled out my pack of cigarettes.  You threatened to have me ejected from the store.  If a dog, which people can be highly allergic to, is allowed to be in the store, then I should get to smoke.  If the rules are being thrown out the door, I intend to party.  Again you threatened to throw me out.  I proceeded to make the valid statement that apparently, I should be able to walk around the store with my penis out, and you became even more beligerent.  My penis isn't going to hurt anyone.  Why can't it get some air?  Is it because my wang represents justice, or is it becomes my penis is a becon of truth illuminating the hypocrisy of Target's store rules that apply to some, but not to all?

I demand an answer, or when I come back on Tuesday, you will know me by my trail of smoky, wang dangling vengeance.

Dear Guy in Line in Front of Me at the Gas Station

There's a game I like to play.  It is called schizophrenic or bluetooth.  The basis of the game is to decide whether the person that appears to talk to themself is either mentally unstable or just a dick.  Guess which one you are. 

I swear that if you raise your little sausage finger to the clerk and mouth "One minute" one more time, I will be forced to destroy and degrade everything you love. Admittedly, this seems to be limited to pies and the tv show Shasta McNasty.

You do not look "hip" or "fresh" talking on your headset in public.  No one needs to hear you ask your doctor why your rash won't do away, or to hear you say "Oh, god yes.  Now do it like Jimmy Stewart" to your wife while she seductively sings the Gummy Bears theme song to you.  Your private life should be private.  No one needs to hear this. 

Just looking at you, I can make a list of things that you are not accomplishing over the phone right now while you hold up the line at this Citgo.
You are not:
1)  Buying a treadmill
2) Engaging in an intense discussion regarding the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. 
3) Trying to locate a decent pair of pants.
4) Thanking your barber for the most convincing comb over ever.

What you are doing is pissing off me and everyone behind you in line.  We are not here for our health.  In fact, I am trying to buy cigarettes, and the meth head behind me keeps muttering something about how Tastycake Tandy Takes are responsble for the decline of the American sitcom.  He does not have a bluetooth, and he keeps breathing on my neck.  All we need for you to do is tell the attendant what you want, and then we can all get our turn and get on our way.  Only you can stop this, yet you choose to let us suffer. 

This is like being at a Ben Stiller movie.  I'm not certain why I haven't left yet, and I am certainly not entertained.  And absolutely no one is laughing.

Dear Kid Playing Magic the Gathering at Witz End Comics in Augusta, Maine in 2004

You do not know me and my friends.  Therefore, when we enter the comic book store you apparently never leave, please do not announce, "Oh, look! It's the caravan!".  Yes, there are several of us.  I do not, however believe that constitutes a caravan.  Even if it fits the Webster's definition of the word caravan, you are still wrong, because I feel like you were wearing a cape.  Maybe you weren't.   You just really seem like the type of kid that would be wearing a cape out in public.  This is not a compliment. 

I do not want to be in this store.  I only came in because apparently when the group takes a vote, six "yesses" overrule one prolonged groan, a series of whines, and me lying down on the sidewalk in protest.  You being all cheerful that the caravan has arrived does not help matters.  I have subsisted on a diet of red hots, fiddle heads, and brandy for the past week.  I have been bathing in a lake and I haven't shaved in days.   What out of any of that leads you to believe I will be glad to hear your greeting?

As I wandered the store, I heard you conferring with the rest of the nerds of the round table.  Apparently, a "white deck" in Magic is the equivalent of being hung like Ron Jeremy, because you announce that you have one at every possible instance.  At one point, someone asked a question, and your answer was " He-LLOOOOOOO.  WHITE DECK!"  This, young street urchin, is why you are not allowed to have nice things.  This is also why I left the store and stood outside, glaring at you through the window.  Had you turned around and waved, I would have set the store on fire.

Dear Guy at Backstage at the House of Blues in Atlantic City

I am here to see Lost in Paris, and maybe to see the gogo dancers as well.  But mainly Lost in Paris because they are kick some serious ass.  Yes, my friends and I are wearing suits, because we are in the middle of being awesome.  Perhaps we are overdressed for this lounge, but so be it. 

I have just returned from the bar with a nice cold glass of Diet Coke, because that's how I roll.  It's a good thing too, because apparently you have cleaned them out of all the Yagermeister and Red Bull they have.  From the looks of your outfit, you are celebrating your newly completed sponsorship by TapOut.  Kudos to you, sir.  If what you wear is anything like the saying "you are what you eat", then apparently you went out and ate a warehouse full of Summer's Eve, and then you bathed in it. 

You must also think that every woman on the dance floor needs some liberally applied douche, because you are grinding up and down their legs so fast they are in danger of friction burn.  The only reason you and the lady you are currently performing outercourse on are not currently engulfed in flames has to be the fact that you are sweating so profusely that you look like Gary Busey when he was told that there were no more drugs left in the world.  I've seen basset hounds hump a leg with more grace, and they slobbered less too. 

For a bit, I thought some poor woman had actually left with you.  Then I realized that you were dancing very intensely in a corner, directly in from of one of the gogo dancers.  At least, I assume you were dancing.  You just kind of writhing around while holding your pants up with one hand, staring directly at the dancer from three feet away, never blinking, never smiling.  It was seduction at it's finest.  If you hadn't stopped to get another Milwaukee's Best, she certainly would have been yours.

You probably think strippers like you, too.

Dear Dr. Pepper

I don't care if you don't want anyone to know what the 23 flavors in your recipe are.  That's fine.  You make a tasty product.  I do however, believe you have gone a little crazy.

Yes, your regular soda is very good.  The diet version tastes remarkably like the original, just as advertized.  Sure, you did alot of crazy flavors in the past, like Vanilla Cherry Dr. Pepper, Cherry Chocolate Dr. Pepper, and Caramel Rosemary Dr Pepper.  We forgive you those trespasses, but Dr. Pepper 10 has gone too far.

Men do not have a problem drinking diet soda.  I am not gay for drinking a calorie free soda, just like I am not gay for ordering a salad in a restaurant.  No one I have encountered has ever made that claim, no matter how close minded they are.  When I crack open a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, I do not feel the need to pop on some Cher, squeeze into some leather pants, and go to a club to just dance my worries away.  Therefore, I do not understand why you feel that you need to market a soda directly for men. 

You are basically paying for a new can.  Dr. Pepper 10 tastes like Diet Dr. Pepper, which tastes like Dr.  Pepper.  Is this something they covered in your medical school Dr. Pepper?  That a new can will make everything good with the world?  If I drink a Diet Dr. Pepper and immediately think, "Gee, that was refreshing.  Know what would go great with that?  Some wang in my mouth!", then there is more at play than just the supposed stigma of a diet soft drink.

I write this to inform you that I am moving over to Mr. Pibb.  He went to a small liberal arts college, got a Bachelor's degree in Refreshing, then took a couple years off to work a job.  Ultimately, he decided not to go to grad school, but that's ok by him.  He's an easygoing guy.  He doesn't worry about what people think of him based on what he is drinking.

Dear Woman Who Took Her Shoes Off at the Restaurant Where I Was Eating

This restaurant is decorated with a slight Irish flair.  It is not decorated in early 21st century whore, therefore, this is not your home.  No shirt, no shoes, no pity from me when you get tetanus from stepping on a rusty harpoon.

The fact that you curled your legs up onto the booth and are sitting on them does not help.  In fact, it makes it even more appalling, because your hobbit feet are even closer to the table.  Now, no one can eat off of that booth bench or that table.  Congratulations on ruining every child's birthday that is being celebrated as we speak, not just at this restaurant, but worldwide. 

This is Bennigan's madam, and we look for a little more class in this establishment.

Dear Family in the Minivan Driving over the Delaware Memorial Bridge

I have bataphobia.  This is not fun for me.  One of the worst places for me is the Delaware Memorial Bridge with its tall towers.  What helps even less is when dear old dad in the minvan ahead of me decides to go ten miles an hour under the speed limit when we get on the bridge.  Ever tried to drive while also trying not to vomit all over yourself and your passengers?  You made this worse for me.  I began to scream at you, until I saw that you were already in your own hell as well.

There is no need for a sane human being to put those ridiculous stick figure family bumper stickers on their car.  Why are you even worse?  Because after stick dad, stick mom, and stick kids, you had four stick figure kitty cats.  My nausea grew threefold, and I knew at that point I had to pass you.  As I sped past your banality-mobile, I yelled out "Why don't you buy some more cat stickers!" 

Sadly, you foresaw my gem of a quip.  As my awesome car pulled along your depression on wheels, it was revealed that YOU PUT MORE CAT STICKERS WRAPPING AROUND TO THE SIDE OF YOUR CAR.  I could see you and the fam, giggling in the garage as you got high snorting piles of cat dander, thinking how you were going to blow everyone's minds when they realized you didn't have four cats, but NINE!

Did we lose a war?  Did your lack of a patriarchal iron fist lead to a cat rebellion?  Are the feline overlords demanding we pay tribute to them on our vehicles?  All I know is at this point, should something terrible happen in your house, you have let the numbers sway out of your favor.  Should a democratic vote be called, be prepared to lay in a swatch of sunlight on the carpet for several hours instead of taking little Billy to the hospital to remove that inflamed appendix.  Cats don't give a damn about appendectomies.  All they care about is sleeping and violence.  They are just smaller, slightly cleaner versions of Danny DeVito, and you have let them into your house in large numbers.  They are going through your things as we speak, because they do not respect you.

No one respects you, because you paid good money to let everyone that sees you drive by know that you and your family suck.

Dear Netflix

As you know, months ago you got me addicted to a horrifyingly addictive drug called "Friday Night Lights". I smoked up all the FNL you had in your glove compartment. I knew there were 13 more out there, but you didn't have them. I locked myself in a room and slowly got myself off of FNL by freebasing some Sons of Anarchy, but I can only get that from the clinic once a week. I started to get my life back together.  Then you showed up in a dark parking lot, late at night. You tracked down those last 13 hits of FNL, and you wanted to give me a deal on them, since we have a history. 

So now, I am ignoring my children and locking myself in the bathroom just to get a fix on it. I have six episodes left, then there will never be any again. And maybe my life can move on after that. Unless you get the cast back together for another episode, then make me do unspeakable acts in an alley to earn them.  

 Please get scabies from a rabid panther.

Dear Citizens of My Neighborhood

So very sorry I am picking blackberries with a flashlight at 11PM.  Not everyone has cushy jobs with set hours that allow them to do gardening during daylight hours.  I had to work today and it was too hot to pick before I went in. 

Also, sorry I am playing Beverly Hills Cop loudly on my garage tv.   I don't have creative ways to make lots of noise when others are sleeping like having a stupid rooster, or having a son with a terrible heavy metal band.  I have to dance around a blackberry bush in the dark, rocking out to Axel F. and gorge myself on sweet, juicy blackberries that are better than anything that any of your children will ever create. 

Finally, I am deeply penitent about the fact that I was shrieking, threw my flashlight, took my shirt off, and threw that into the night. A spider living in my grapes tried to rape my head.  Hopefully I didn't awaken your silken slumber with my unholy cries of horror as an arachnid forcefully tried to take my ear's virginity. 

I hope you get a horrible sunburn, you unsympathetic daywalkers.

Also, dear spider living in my grape arbor,

I sincerely pray that I killed you good. Seriously, I hope you get the spider equivalent of herpi-gonhorr-syphyl-aids.

Say hi to your mother for me in spider hell.
 

Dear Aging Hippie in Acme Market

You can't block the entire aisle with your cart and sing "Margaritaville" while you try to determine exactly what pretzel will assuage your munchies.  The pretzel aisle is also where the soda lives, and I love soda more than anything.  This includes family, liberty, and not going to jail for bludgeoning a dirty ponytailed balding man who can't make up his mind between zesty ranch and honey mustard explosion.

Also, when someone says "Excuse me", you move out of the way. You don't say "I'll be done in a minute" and then start singing "Boys of Summer".  

 I will eat all of the pretzels and make you watch, just so you will cry.