Seamen

Dear U.S. Armed Forces (yes Navy, I'm looking at you),

Let me start here by thanking you guys for your sacrifices and for defending our freedom and all that jazz. Let me close with asking you to please get back on your tugboats and leave.

Once a year, like clockwork, Fleet Week crashes our party here in NYC the week before Memorial Day. This is terrible for more reasons than I can count, but let's start with the first one on my mind: timing. You see, for the better part of 6 months, all of the attractive, single women have been hibernating indoors. It's a really interesting phenomenon here in New York, and one that some social scientist ought to document at some point. And right around May -- especially near Memorial Day -- these women start climbing out of sewers, and drainage pipes, and down from buildings, and the city is suddenly swarming with stunning women in sun dresses. And just like that, 6 months of cold and misery are wiped clean from our heads, and we remember why we spend all year dealing with ridiculous rents, horrendous subways, annoying tourists, and overpriced drinks. Suddenly all is right with the world again.

And then HERE COME THE SAILORS. In droves. Right when us hard working regular New Yorker guys are about to cash in, you come rolling in with your white suits and hats, and every single woman instantly becomes retarded. I mean, are the uniforms necessary? I have no problem with operating in a sausage-infested environment -- that's something that every guy has to face at some point, and fair odds are fair odds. But the uniforms totally skew the odds here, and this is totally a conspiracy to stack the decks in favor of you guys so that you can get a little action before you head back out to sea. You don't see Derek Jeter wearing his Yankees uniform out to the bars to get a leg up. HAVE YOU NO HONOR?

Remember the whole life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness bit? Well, your presence here is making me and my fellow American males decidedly unhappy. Screw Iraq, the real travesty is right here on our shores, in our major cities, and nobody is talking about it. Well it's about time someone deal with this right no...

Wait. What? You're telling me these guys have a CURFEW? They have to go back to sleep on their boats -- alone -- well before 2am??! CHRIST, YOU POOR BASTARDS. I take it all back. Beers on me tonight. :salute:

Become a Fan

Dear Facebook "Fans",

Stop this. Stop this at once.

In case you're not of this new generation and don't know what I'm talking about, there's this new phenomenon on Facebook whereby, if you like something, you can "become a fan" of said thing. It can be anything and everything. And when you become a "fan," Facebook then announces it to everyone on your friend list. So if you've got a couple dozen or couple hundred friends, you're getting pummeled with fandom constantly.

The problem is that there is NOTHING clever about what you people are doing. It's horrendous. If you did something funny, or clever, or interesting with it, then I might buy in. But thus far, this garbage falls into two categories:

Category 1: Obviously-enjoyable activities that everyone likes. Jen is a fan of vacation. Become a fan. Oh, NO SHIT??? ME TOO. OMG we should TOTALLY hang out lolz!11 John is a fan of drinking. Become a fan. John that's so CRAZY! I mean, you're a wild guy, and that totally comes across through your iPersona! You're a guy I'd like to party with! Ultimately people are now battling it out to see who can come up with more mundane shit to be a fan of. Tania is a friend of laughing. Woah. I HATE laughing, so that's really interesting. Up next, folks will be fans of living and breathing. I'm pretty sure I saw someone was a fan of weekends. No shit?

Category 2: Obscure pop culture references, preferably from our childhoods. If you become a fan of a crappy TV show like C.H.I.P.S. or Alf or Small Wonder, whammo, you're insta-cool in the land o' Facebook. Oh man, I remember that show!!

I've just about given up on this feature (and certain segments of the population). Sadly it probably had a worthwhile use at some point early on, when folks could become a fan of, say, a cool band, and I could see that someone whose tastes align with mine became a fan of this band, and I could check it out, and be like "oh cool, I like these guys," and download it and pop it into my iPod and have a nicer commute that morning. You can bet though, without fail, that the girl with the pink-studded iPhone sitting next to me on the subway at that very moment will be becoming a fan of not-getting-punched-in-the-face, and all her friends with studded iPhones will be insta-responding OMG ME TOO!

Well, you know what I'm a fan of? Clever, interesting, and original. And you people suck at all three.

Matlock

Dear Waitress at an undisclosed outdoor bar on an ice skating rink in midtown,

Be honest. I know, with a fair degree of certainty, that you roofied my drink yesterday. There's no reason to play coy anymore. If it will help, I can explain to you exactly why I know you did this.

You see, I'm a fairly regular drinker. By that I mean nary a day goes by without me having a drink. Oh, and "a drink" usually means multiple drinks. By this point in life, my body has become fairly accustomed to the presence of alcohol in my bloodstream. For my life sustaining organs, an alcohol mixture is pretty much the native environment. You know how, like, a manta ray is pretty comfortable doing its thing down there in the ocean? That's my body, functioning to perfection, with an elevated blood alcohol content. With over 15 years of near-professional drinking experience under my belt, I've become quite attuned to the effects of alcohol.

Yesterday it was one of those epic New York City days -- 70 degrees, blue skies, a slight breeze. Really it was the perfect day for some daydrinking, and catching up with friends you haven't seen in a while, and so I killed two birds with one stone. Here is a chronicle of the events of the afternoon in question:

2:55PM - Quitting time, I decided. I went out to your bar to meet my lovely blonde comrade for some drinks and some catching up. What's better out in the sun on a nice day than a few margaritas? I can assure you that I've had plenty of margaritas in my day, and always with a great result. I can also assure you that something on this day was different.

3:20PM - My margarita arrived. You gave my friend a grapefruit juice and club soda. We both looked at you like you were retarded. "I'm sorry, I asked for Grey Goose and club soda." Through your broken English-Russian trainwreck of an attempt at communicating, you informed us that you don't know what Grey Goose even is. And that's why you heard grapefruit juice. How the hell do you get a job as a cocktail waitress and not know what is probably the most-often ordered brand of vodka? Christ, I hate vodka, but I at least know what the stuff is. AND ARE PEOPLE IN HERE ORDERING GRAPEFRUIT JUICE AND CLUB SODA FREQUENTLY?? What the hell is that?

3:23PM - Your exchange with my friend continues. I sit quietly, amazed that you could give her an attitude after your colossal foul up and her nice attempt at correcting it.

3:45PM - You finally arrive with her drink. The one she actually ordered. After we'd been here almost an hour. Epic fail. Seeing the lag time here, I order my second round.

3:55PM - Second round arrives. Quickly. Almost too quickly, but sometimes we don't think much of these details when we're in the moment. I drink it fast.

4:05 PM - I order a third round. We still think you're a moron.

4:10 PM - Changover in waitress shift. This is an important fact, and memorable because the new waitress both spoke English and delivered drinks in a timely manner. I liked her. I wish she'd been there the whole time.

4:20 PM - Things start to get a little hazy for me here. I know there were a few more rounds of drinks, and I vaguely remember some other friends joining up with us as the 5PM happy hour rush began, but this is mostly a black hole for me.

[Approximately 4:30 - 7PM -- Black Hole]

Approximately 7PM - It couldn't have been later than 7PM or so at this point, but I don't really remember. It was a Tuesday. It was still light out. Birds were chirping. Folks were commuting home to see their wives and children. And here I was, a grown man, curled up in the fetal position on the wrong subway home. I got up in a daze at the last stop and stumbled to the street. I hailed a cab.

As an aside, what complicates things a bit further for me here is I had plans to meet a girl at my apartment that night, and I was kind of looking forward to some time alone with her. But at this point I'm not even home and I'm in no shape for much of anything other than lying down and moaning as I listen to the beat of the pounding inside my skull.

Approximately 7PM - 9PM. I don't remember much of anything about the cab ride, though I do remember an ill-advised stop at McDonald's for a nutritious facepunch to my workout regimen in the form of a couple of Big Macs. Thanks for that too by the way. I eventually got home and faceplanted on the couch in front of American Idol. You realize that American Idol is like the highlight of my week, right? Well I was still in such a state of poisoned misery that I don't even remember watching it. I think it was the finals this week. Actually, I know it was, because I've been watching this drivel all season long. But I don't know for sure since I DON'T ACTUALLY REMEMBER SEEING IT.

Approximately 9PM. Cute chick arrives at my apartment -- when exactly, I can't really tell you, because my whole afternoon vaporized and I was in a time warp for the rest of the evening. But she got there, looked fantastic, and given my headache and general state of misery, there was nothing I could do about it. There I lie, in the fetal position, quivering, a shell of the man I was at 2:30 in the afternoon

Now, let's look at the facts:

Exhibit A - Hi, I'm Otis, and I'm an alcoholic. There is no way a handful of margaritas reduces all 215 pounds of me to a slobbering pile of bones given my experience, strong liver, and high tolerance. Unpossible.

Exhibit B - While you're right that I can't tell you how many drinks I had, I do recall how brutally slow your service was. As a result, there's no way I could have had more than a few drinks before blacking out. And there is NO WAY that a few ordinary drinks black me out. Absolutely no way.

Exhibit C - That second drink you brought me, after our little spat, came WAY too fast. It was normal waitress time, which you weren't abiding by until this point. Gee, I wonder why you were so anxious to get me this second drink...

Exhibit D - Motive. You hated us. You were mad because we returned my friend's drink for the drink she actually ordered. What's the perfect revenge? SLIP SOMETHING IN MY DRINK, PERHAPS? Oh, and I've seen those Russian mafia flicks. I know what you people are capable of.

Exhibit E - Opportunity. Who better to poison my drink than the person serving it?

Exhibit F - Flight. Your shift was ending, and you knew you were getting out of there any minute. Perfect, right? Almost too perfect...

You see, waitress girl, the only plausible explanation here is that you slipped something into one of those first few drinks -- possibly the second one -- and I was immediately toast. So as I now see it, you owe me an entire Tuesday afternoon, a few hours of alone time with a hot chick, whatever amount of time on a treadmill it will require for my body to stop hating me for the Big Macs, and a seat at the American Idol finals. Also, I assume you'll take up the responsibility of explaining to everyone who ever had fun drinking with me during the daytime why I will never, ever be drinking with them during the daytime again now that I'm so scarred from this experience. Now, should I forward my therapy bills to your home address, or should I just leave them at the bar?

Coke

Dear Cola Drinkers Everywhere,

What the hell is wrong with you people?

Yesterday afternoon I got hit with a crushing migraine. As an aside, for folks who think they're smart but really aren't, no, a migraine isn't just a "bad headache." It's a whole different animal, and people have different experiences with them. My version starts with me losing part of my vision (I can't see in front of me, only peripherally -- I know, fucked up, right?), and then after a little while that part corrects and I have a crushing headache and want to throw up. Then I'm just exhausted. Bottom line, it sucks, and when it comes on, I'll do whatever I can to try and end it more quickly.

So, yesterday at my desk I feel one coming on, and I figure an emergency caffeine infusion might help here. So I hustle to the fridge, crack a Pepsi, and take a few sips. My god does this poison taste awful.

As a kid I'm sure I drank this garbage like the rest of fat, lazy America. But, at some point, I started to realize how horrendous it is. It's a vile concoction mixed up in drums in a lab. There's NOTHING redeeming about it. Nothing. It tastes like liquid garbage and, literally, has absolutely zero nutritional value. (Yes, that's what the Coke "Zero" means). Jesus, FOLKS USE THIS STUFF TO CLEAN THEIR CARS. And you're DRINKING it? What's worse is that lots of Americans aren't just sipping one or two to get wild on the weekend, but they'll guzzle three, six, even TWELVE of these things every day as they sit in their cubes and rot. Unbelievable.

And you folks drinking diet soda, thinking you're doing yourselves a favor? Absurd. In fact, arguably worse, because you people can't claim total ignorance. You actually understand that soda is vile, and so you drink soda's less-vile-but-still-retarded cousin.

I'll bet money that you people who are hammering sodas all day are the same folks who struggle to clean the cheeze doodle fuzz off your keyboards once a week.

DRINK WATER, PEOPLE. This isn't that difficult.

Sniffle

Dear Swine Flu Alarmists,

You can come out now. The coast is clear. Well, for us it is, anyway. I mean, it actually always has been clear for us. But for you? No, the coast is not clear. You wanna know why? Because you now have to sort through your own INSANITY as you climb out of your sealed bunker from behind a wall of canned goods and batteries. Yes George, I'm looking at you. You have to come to grips with the reality that there was no apocalypse, and you really just ended up looking like an idiot. You know how when there's a loud noise and there's the one guy in the room who looks like a total nancy when he jumped out of his seat and screeched? You're that guy.

Don't worry though. While you were hiding out in your basements in your hazmat suits, we were out here piling up the millions thousands hundreds tens ones of bodies, and all the hard work is now done. The good news, now that this is all sorted out, is that at least you can now put your heads together and start concocting the Great Plague of 2012. I'll warm the popcorn.

Closed

Dear Dunkin' Donuts in Rockefeller Center,

Thanks for leaving me high and dry here today. Super. No really, I appreciate it.

NO, IT'S SARCASM, MORON.

I exited the turnstile from the subway today, change jingling in pocket, eager to get the same cup of coffee that I've had every day for what feels like a century now. I know I probably started this habit voluntarily at some point, but damnit if some of this isn't on you. And today, just like any other day, I wandered over to pick up my daily usual. Medium coffee, milk. I looked up slowly and -- to my absolute disbelief -- the lights were dark. I quickly did a recount in my head. It's a weekday right? Yes, I think so. Yeah, no, it has to be. Look at this crowd. My next thought is immediately "terror threat." Or a shooting. Something. Anything. I needed an explanation. I stumbled towards the storefront glass trying to align myself with reality. And then I saw them. Paper signs. Dozens maybe. Pasted to the front of the store. And in big letters: "NOTICE."

Notice? WTF? I approach to more closely inspect and learn that the store is closed until further notice by the department of health because your PERMIT RAN OUT? SERIOUSLY?!! Talk about the dog eating your homework. You know the old saying "who's minding the store?" LITERALLY. WHO IS MINDING THIS STORE? THE MANAGER? If he were there, I would have asked to speak with him.

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, DUNKIN DONUTS MANAGER? How do you expect me to operate today? Do you want me to just sit here and stare at my keyboard until the whistle blows? Am I supposed to walk across the hall to pick up some of that sludge they're pouring over at the Starbucks? Oh, don't get all defensive with me about it. Own up, and accept some responsibility here. It's the least you can do.

America runs on Dunkin' huh? That's all you got? Well, thanks for officially sinking America. We survived eight years of Bush, and yet this is how we go out...

Tetris

Dear Skinny Girl Who Weighs 105 Pounds Soaking Wet,

I can only imagine what the insides of your closets look like, or what your suitcase looks like when you travel, because I've never seen someone use space as inefficiently as you.

You've got a queen size bed. Now, I realize I'm a bigger-than-average person, but you're way smaller-than-average. Between the two of us we should really have no problem sorting this out and getting a good night's sleep. You'd think that anyway. And yet here I was, with just a handkerchief-size piece of blanket and a chunk of mattress real estate that makes a Manhattan studio look like the Great Plains, with all four limbs dangling off the side of the bed, and with you inching ever closer like the advancing German front in WWII. How did we get to this point? It's like you're sabotaging my game of Tetris here by jamming one of those long pieces diagonally -- ILLEGALLY -- down the middle of the screen to take up as much space as possible. (See Exhibit A, artist's rendering, above).

Nobody has this limited a grasp on spatial dimensions, so I can only assume that you take up an inordinate amount of space INTENTIONALLY because you have some sort of Napoleon complex. I guess if I were that skinny, I'd also walk around with a chip on my shoulder. That's fine for strangers, but I think, Skinny Girl, for all our sakes, it would be best if you could cast the complex aside for bedmates. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS, Attila the Hun, and let's just try and get some shut-eye in a civilized manner, mmkay?

Shower

Dear Girl Who Showers At 4PM,

Seriously, why must you color outside the lines? I'm tired of folks like you, walking around with all your progressive thinking and hipster approach to life. For thousands of years, all of mankind has been showering IN THE MORNING, before we go to work. Why must you rock the boat? Stop being such an attention whore, and stop desperately seeking individuality. YOU'RE JUST LIKE US, SHOWER AT 4PM GIRL, except when we're at our desks working, you're in the shower, and vice versa. That's really nothing to be proud of. If you need so badly to find yourself, please find a more constructive way to go about it.