BlogFail

Dear Reader(s),

I think it's high time that I come clean. I probably owe you both an explanation for why this blog has, frankly, sucked even worse recently than usual.

Here's the short of it: in a twist of bittersweet irony, I started dating the someone who made me start this blog, and, as a direct result, the blog is driving itself full speed into the side of a mountain. This someone is thusly responsible for both the birth and death of SomeoneMadeMe. I know, fucked up, right? If I may elaborate...

You see, I'm fully aware that the only thing that is even remotely interesting in this blog is my wacky single guy exploits in New York City. You're not here to find out what I had for lunch today, and I'm not here to tell you. And through the early days of this blog, we had a keen understanding of each other. We had a purpose. We were like two doves flying interweaving patterns across a dusky summer sky. It was beautiful, really. Hell, it was magical.

But, as fate would have it, now that I'm dating someone -- the very someone who made me start this blog -- I can't be in here telling you about all my crazy exploits with trashy and/or drunk women. Well, for a couple of reasons, not the least of which being I no longer even have those crazy exploits, but, even if I were (ahem, and I'm NOT), I couldn't really share them here, since someone reads the ol' blog. You dig?

Now, I could continue blabbing on about mundane crap like my favorite flavor of Dentyne or what I had for lunch or why I hate my boss, or whatever other nonsense people blog about, but that's really not why either of us is here now, is it. Blogs are dumb enough, and this one is barely hanging on by a thread of dumb cut from a spool of idiotic shipped over from the boring district.

So, my three friends, it seems we may be at an impasse. I realize this posting will likely creating a tremendous uproar in the blog community. There will no doubt be marches, and rallys, and candlelight vigils, and the like. Maybe some overturned cars. Rock throwing. Whatever. Hopefully we can persevere and all come through to see the light on the other side as better people...

Until then, signing off, and godspeed...

(BRB!!11)

Nuts

Dear Brazil Nut,
It must be high-noon in a Clint Eastwood flick, because I otherwise can't remember the last time I've felt a part of such an epic standoff as this right here. There you sit in my bowl of mixed nuts every day, surrounded by your much more attractive and tasty friends; there's the delicious cashew, the omnipresent and world renowned peanut, the delectable walnut, the hazelnut, whose flavors I even enjoy in my Dunkin Donuts ™ flavored coffee on occasion, and even the healthy but aromatic almond. And then there's you. All frumpy and sad looking. You're the chubby girl in the wedding party.

I'm not gonna eat you. You're way bigger than the other nuts, and you don't taste any good, oh and YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING BEETLE. This isn't Fear Factor. I don't even want to look at you when you're on my desk alone, and when you're surrounded by so much awesome, you're even that much less interesting to me. So, I pour the bag, and I pick around you. And then there's another of you. And I pick around that. And another. And another. When there's enough of you, I just scoop you up into my palm and toss you in the trash. THAT'S ALL YOU ARE TO ME, BRAZIL NUT, IS TRASH.

When was the last time anyone talked about you? You're not in a Snickers bar. In fact, you're not in any candy at all, are you. You're the unwanted bastard of the nut world, and I feel like the guys packaging these mixed nuts just throw you in there as filler to make an easy buck.

You're fighting a battle you can't win, Brazil Nut. You're not gonna win me over. Please just give it up, and let's both move on.

FerrariCatastrophe

Dear Ferrari Guy for Hire,

Sweet Jesus. The next time I get into a debate about the existence of god with some religious nut, I'm sending them a link to your website, because I'm pretty sure you're proof positive that there is no god. There is no way that any all-seeing, all-knowing being would let this happen. I don't care about all the beauty in the world, and the complexity of our cardiovascular systems, and all that jazz -- if I were God, and I knew you'd be around one day, I'd have nuked the whole thing and started from scratch. Yes, you're that awful.

My short list of nits, in no particular order:

1. Why do you hate shirts?

2. Sammy Hagar must absolutely LOATHE you. Does he send you hate mail? Be honest here.

3. WHAT'S WITH THE FUCKING GUITAR? ARE YOU GONNA PLAY IT WHILE YOU DRIVE ME AROUND? My favorite is the second picture in your gallery, in which you are hovering over the engine of the Ferrari as though you're working on it, and you're shirtless and, well obviously, HOLDING THE FUCKING GUITAR.

4. Does the coke come free with each ride, or is that extra?

5. You do weddings? And ANNIVERSARIES? Is ANYONE seriously taking you up on this? "Honey, so for my present to you this year, I'd like to put you in a red and gold Ferrari with the drummer from Stryper, and he'll be shirtless, and with his guitar, and you guys can do some lines off the dashboard."

6. One of the services you provide is "Special Gift." I'm almost afraid to ask.

7. How much do you HATE LamborghiniGuyForHire. You guys are like the retarded version of Batman and the Joker, except I can't figure out which one of you is the good guy.

8. 1985 called, and it wants to know if it left a gold chain and cross at your apartment last night.

9. "Most photographed man in the Country. Next to the President!!!" LOLZZZ!!11111tnger9

10. You're getting 300 bucks an hour for this? Please do me a favor and send me your customer list, so that I have a handy reference identifying people living on the west coast whose faces I'd like to punch. We're in a recession here, and I can't possibly think of a worse way to spend $300. Or an hour for that matter.

Ferrari Guy for Hire, I'm almost at a loss for words with you. The good news is that you've helped me decide to take on a destructive alcohol habit starting tonight, if only so that something interesting might happen and I don't have to write about iCatastrophes like you anymore.

Writer's Block

Dear ... erm...

:sips beer:


:puffs cigarette:


:sips beer:


:looks at ceiling:


Ugh.

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.

Waaaa

Dear Girl We Spilled a Beer on at a Lower East Side Bar Last Night,

You pretty desperately need to recalibrate your priority meter in life, and learn to take yourself -- and your designer handbag -- a little bit less seriously.

First off, I think it was fairly obvious to anyone within shouting distance that as my harmless-looking buddy and I saddled up to the bar to try and get drinks, we were really not there looking to stir up a fuss. A couple of young, vibrant, enthusiastic single guys obviously just looking to enjoy a few drinks, catch up, and maybe even chat up some cute strangers. We didn't need a sign to announce WE COME IN PEACE.

Why all frowny? I mean, was your childhood that miserable? Did they raise you in a cage without any toys or love? There obviously wasn't a ton of room at the bar, so the fact that my buddy accidentally dropped the beer as he tried to reach across the ROAD BLOCK you and your equally bratty friend created at the bar was sort of your fault too (and yes, I'm not sure you are aware of this, but it really was an ACCIDENT -- he didn't mean to unleash my Guiness all over the bar). Seriously, are you two trying to stop convicted felons here? This looked like a checkpoint from the Terminator movies. Were you girls planning to charge a toll? And would it have absolutely killed you to lean over, just a touch, while my buddy reached over you to get the beer? Oh no, please don't trouble yourself.

So here we are, my buddy playing Operation to get my beer out of the tiny space you've left us, and me being really, really thirsty, and he grabs the drink and it slips through his fingers (the glass was allegedly "wet and slippery"), and it bounces on the bar and there's a shower of Guiness and three drops get on your bag and your ugly excuse for a scarf, but the shower of beer is no match for the shower of BABY ASS TEARS you are shedding as you explode into a fit of adolescent rage. SIMMER DOWN, TOOTS. Poor guy did everything right. He said "excuse me" when he tried to get past you, and he said "I'm sorry" when he dropped the beer. We were not here conspiring against your terrible outfit. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. As it is, he is probably feeling pretty crappy about himself, (1) because he dropped his good thirsty buddy's drink and (2) because everyone is looking at him like he just dropped a tray of food in the high school lunchroom. He doesn't need you piling on here, wenchzilla.

Oh, and by the way, WE GET IT, your bag was expensive and your clothes are expensive and you are uptight and horrendous. You didn't need to keep reminding everyone within earshot. Seriously, do people date you? And I don't mean date in the biblical sense, but date as in "want to spend any appreciable amount of time interacting with you." I have to guess no. I don't even know you or like you and I was still on the verge of slitting my wrists after listening to you screech for ten minutes.

Do yourself a favor. Stay home, have Thurston the butler serve you mimosas on your daybed, and you'll never have to worry yourself with dirtying interactions with the hoi polloi ever again. And please, for the love of all things holy, stop crying. You'll pull through these most trying times.

Editor's Note

Dear Readers,

Good day to all five of you.

Apparently my staff have received numerous complaints in recent weeks: one complaint by an expecting mother, apparently upset about our take on babies in bars, and the other by a single woman in the NYC area who claims that I "sound like an ass and a manho." I can assure you that my staff and our writers here at SomeoneMadeMe have been working round the clock to deliver the crappiest, time wastingest blog content they can drum up, and I can also assure you that their goal probably isn't to piss people off (OK, I'm not 100% certain of this). But these folks are working hard, people.

That said, given that we've now upset 40% of our readership, and given the alarming news my staff passed my way this morning regarding the estimated value of this blog, I'll be conducting an internal review to try and get to the bottom of this. While it's true that I know you're here, wasting your time, and you know you're here, wasting your time, I think it's important that we here at SomeoneMadeMe consider this reader feedback carefully and respectfully. Frankly, a decline in readership of 2 could significantly impact our profit forecasts, and the investors don't want any part of that.

Accordingly, we will be doing everything in our power in the coming weeks and months to ensure that that our readers remain satisfied with the time they waste with our crappy content. A wise man once said, "you can please some of the people all of the time, and please all of the people some of the time, but you cannot please all of the people all of the time." Then again, I think he was talking about way more than 5 people.

We thank you for your dedication to the wasting of time and the rambling prose of others.

Yours truly,
The SomeoneMadeMe.com Family

Exfoliate

Dear High-Maintenance Girl Whose Apartment I Crashed At Last Night,

Thank you for leaving me that fresh towel before you left for work, because I otherwise can imagine myself having dried off with baby wipes and a curling iron and ending up in the E.R.

Why must you, and all the girls out there like you, have so many beautification products in the bathroom? What are you DOING with all this crap? Seriously, leaving me on my own in there is about as bad as just dropping me smack in the middle of the Martian desert. I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the place.

Let's start with the basics here. WHERE'S THE SOAP? There wasn't any. There were fifteen different implementations in there that could have been used either for cleaning or as instruments of death and torture. YOU'VE GOT A GIANT ROCK IN THERE. Who the hell needs giant rocks in the shower? And don't get me started on all those poofy things. Frankly, I'm far too concerned about my safety to screw with any of this stuff. The closest thing I could find to good old-fashioned liquid soap was some of this exfoliating emulsifying body wash stuff. It was infused with apricot and crushed peas and some other ingredients, and it smelled fantastic. Seemed like the right place to start. So I gave it a whirl.

Apparently this stuff slipped under the FDA's radar and was never tested on humans, because I can only imagine that this is what it feels like to get stung by a giant killer jellyfish down there. SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE THIS POISON OFF THE SHELVES. Or at least stick on a warning label for gentlemen, so we know not to mess with it.

I recovered as best I could, stumbled out of the shower with my eyes still watering, dried off, and pulled the old "brush my teeth with my finger" routine (I wasn't about to try and operate that rechargeable ultraviolet sonic tooth cleaning apparatus I saw on your shelf; I'd have surely been maimed). Of course, if you have a sharp edge on one of the fillings you got when you were a kid, you ought be careful with how hard you press down on that edge, because it could open an ENORMOUS GASH in your index finger (right now, as I sit here and type this, I've got my right index finger covered in a makeshift bandage of napkin and scotch tape).

I did my best to clean off my finger and stop the bleeding, but now my eyes are watering even worse. Still, I'm running late for work and have to get a move on. I next borrowed some of your hair gel. Or at least this stuff looked like hair gel. Seriously, watering eyes or not, no way I would have taken it to be anything but hair gel. I tried to manipulate the stuff with my one uninjured hand, and I'm not quite making any progress here, because the hair in front that I usually make a little spiky isn't looking spiky at all. It's at this point that I look closer and realize this isn't hair gel, and also that I start feeling like I stumbled into the house from Home Alone and you've intentionally booby trapped the jesus out of it.

Well, I finally made it into work, no thanks to playing Duane Reade For the Blind and/or Disabled at your place. And, here I am sitting in the office, and my undercarriage stings, and my teeth are sort-of brushed, and my hair is flat and soaked in shaving gel, and my finger is dressed in a ridiculous bandage that looks like it came out of Lord of the Flies or Lost, and all of this is tied up neatly with a little bow of "yes, I'm wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday." Lesson learned, High-Maintenance Girl. From now on I'm taking a bar of ivory soap with me everywhere I go.

Is it Friday yet?

Mitts

Dear Girl I Left At The Pizzeria On 2nd Ave,

Sometimes in life there are things that are out of our control, and we really can't be blamed for the consequences. Other times, well, not so much...

Listen, trust me when I tell you that I also wasn't expecting that I would be running at full bore down 2nd Avenue drunk late at night in flip flops. Really, that wasn't part of my plan either. But in retrospect I'm pretty sure there are two reasons this happened. One might not have been your fault. The other? Yeah.

1. YOU HAVE MITTS THE SIZE OF A GRIZZLY BEAR. This one's not your fault. I can't help that baby jesus made me a certain way, and he decided that I would be attracted to small, dainty women, and that's just how my internal circuitry is rigged. I don't like beasts. I can't change that. Neither can you change your affliction, which is why I feel bad holding it against you, and I wasn't going to ding you based on that alone. This is America. Land of opportunity.

2. I've had that late-night drunk thing going on, you know, where you're ravenously hungry and need to fill up after a debilitating happy hour on an empty stomach. I get that, and I get why you suggested we go to the pizzeria across the street. I just don't think this was the best move on your part. If you weren't 6 feet tall with gigantic paws, maybe it works. But for a girl like you? Christ. Go home and eat in the dark. Because when we sat down at the place, and you started cramming that vegetable pizza in your cake hole with those enormous veiny mitts, and all the various toppings were stuck either between your teeth or -- even worse -- stuck to the front of your lip gloss like a yardwork face mask, it was just all way too much for me. There we hit the point of no return, and this part was really all your doing.

So, I did what any gentleman in my situation would do: I picked up my phone, said hello, excused myself to take the important call on my cell phone that had been vibrating in my pocket (all a lie), stepped outside as I chatted with NOBODY, slowly shimmied out of sight, and then -- gracefully -- hauled ass as fast as I could, in flip flops, blind drunk, down Second Avenue.

No hard feelings? Trust me when I tell you that I did you a favor -- I saw the way you were looking at that pizza, and I'd only have been a disappointment after that.

The Internet

Dear Readers,

You'd find it odd if I told you that me and my best buddy met up at a bar with a strange guy from the internet, got blind drunk, and then all went to a strip club together, but that's exactly what happened.

No, I won't explain.

Barbabies

Dear Bar Patrons Everywhere,

I can let this kind of thing slide once, but this has now been two Saturdays in a row that I've been at the same bar and seen the same guy with the same baby in his arms. Not like "oh man, just an emergency, and I'm stepping in to get coins for the meter," but like "hey, here I am, and this fifth Guinness is delicious, and whatdya think of my fat fucking BABY??" This is ridiculous, and I'll explain why.

Honestly, I don't care about the welfare of this child. He's not my child. If he ends up repeating the tenth grade three times because daddy raised him in dark seedy Brooklyn dive bars, that's no skin off my back at all. I'll probably never cross paths with the runt again. In fact, I hope I don't, because I don't need the little thug knocking off the one liquor store I happen to be standing in on some lazy Saturday afternooon.

But a baby in a bar is a problem because, for the rest of us, this bar is a sacred place. We're here to NOT think about babies, and life, and responsibilities that await us at home or in our futures. We're drinking, we're laughing, we're making smalltalk or funny nonsense talk about this and that. We're breaking the bartender's balls about his crappy local sports team or his ridiculous accent. We're flirting with the cute girl sitting next to us, and while our minds may be wandering to what the flirting might lead to, we DO NOT want to be reminded of what the thing the flirting might lead to could later lead to. Get me? I mean, imagine if when you were trying to conceive that baby somebody posted a giant STD prevention poster on your headboard, with some close-ups of some open sores or something. HAVING FUN YET??? Some things just don't mix well. Oil and water. Cigarettes and jogging. Babies and bars. Seriously, it's in the top three, at least.

I have thought long and hard about this, and I've come up with one and only one solution to this problem, and consider this a plea that you all join in with me:

Give the babies the finger.

I know it sounds extreme, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and we need to remain vigilant and defend the honor of our sacred spaces in this overcrowded world. Say it with me. Give the babies the finger. If enough of us give babies the finger in bars, then Daddy Buzzkill might be a whole lot less likely to show up toting the tot next time around. Hell, maybe then Junior actually ends up having a chance in life too. YOU'RE PRACTICALLY DOING HIM A FAVOR.

Fight the power, my drink-wielding comrades. Give the babies the finger.

Jackhammer

Dear ConEd Guy Operating The Jackhammer Outside My Apartment at 1:43 AM,

It doesn't take a keen ear to realize that you're an annoying asshole.

I suppose it doesn't matter to you that some of us have work in the morning, because you have work right now, and technically it already is morning for you. But here's the difference -- when I shuffle papers across my desk tomorrow morning and F5 my Facebook page to death, I won't be doing any of that so loud that your teeth rattle. No, I'm fairly certainly you'll never know I even went to work. This is a completely different situation. WAY TO COMPARE APPLES AND ORANGES, JOHNNY HARDHAT.

And don't give me this "buddy, I'm just doing my job" bullshit. First off, we're not buddies. I hate you. Second, imagine if halfway through the attack on Pearl Harbor we pressed pause, and carted one of the Japanese pilots in and asked him, "dude, WHAT. THE. FUCK!?," and guy just threw up his hands and said "hey man, this wasn't my idea." THE HELL IT WASN'T. This was absolutely your idea the minute you plugged that thing in and started pummeling bedrock in the dead of night, which was coincidentally precisely the moment I and my neighbors decided we aren't very fond of you.

You know what? I'm coming over your house tomorrow when you're trying to sleep, and I'm bringing a stack of papers from work and the loudest stapler I can get my hands on, and I'm going to staple and read out loud and make obnoxious speakerphone conference calls about my fantasy football team. Oh, I'm sorry, is this annoying you? I'M JUST DOING MY JOB, GUY.

The Recycler

Dear Ex Girlfriends (yes, all of you -- sorry, I know this is a little awkward),

I met my best buddy for lunch today and apparently my predilection for calling you all every time I become single has earned me a reputation of sorts. Recently-single-me has apparently also earned a new nickname: The Recycler. It's bad enough that I'm aware of how comical it is, and I'm aware that others are aware of how comical it is, and that folks have been so kind as to give me a nickname for this, but my buddy today over lunch hands me this t-shirt. I think folks are trying to send me a message.

So anyway, point is, I can't really call you anymore. We can't hang out. No more texting, gchats, booty messages, or any of that good stuff that's got us (me) through for so many months/years in between relationships.

As a symbolic gesture, I'm now gonna drink this 12-pack of miller lite and -- no, not recycle -- throw the cans in the trash. I can't vouch for what transmissions I'll send out on my cellphone thereafter when I'm half in the bag, but I'm sure there are lessons to be learned here. The bottom line? Please turn your cell phones off, starting...... now.

Manners

Dear Alvin,

Yes, I'm aware that's not really your name. But you're short, chubby, and have those round cheeks and that ultra blue-blood prepster thing going on, and I can totally imagine you wearing a big nerdy sweater with your first initial on it. Admit it, you have one in your closet at home, don't you. And your two friends there? Dead ringers for the other two, because you've got the tall lanky one with the glasses, and the middle-sized nondescript one, and you all look like you're out for a big night of Glee Club Gone Wild.

And you know what? I wouldn't even have said anything if you hadn't been rude. AND THEN FOLLOWED IT UP BY BEING FAUX THREATENING. Look, if you're gonna push past me at the bar to hand drinks to the rest of your a capella group -- and I appreciate that you don't want to spill your drink -- why not just hit me with an "excuse me"? You can do it in a single breath, and quietly, and it makes everyone including me a little less sad that we're packed into this bar like tuna in a net. But you didn't, so I excused you. "Oh, excuse you." I guess what I'm trying to say here is I DON'T KNOW WHAT PREP FARM YOU WERE RAISED ON, BUT THEY DID A SHITTY JOB OF TEACHING YOU MANNERS. And then you started getting feisty, and this is where I don't think you've done a very good job of evaluating the situation.

I'M TWICE YOUR SIZE, ALVIN. What are you trying to prove here? What exactly is your plan? This isn't a game of Who's Got The Most Popped Collar. If we go down this road I can only imagine one of two things happening, and neither of them is really any good for anyone, but in either event you end up looking even worse than you do now. IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE. SERIOUSLY, DO YOU OWN A MIRROR? But look, this obviously is not why I'm here. I'm smiling, talking to a pretty girl, and enjoying the drinks and company after a long day in the office. I don't need to make you relive the horrors of your adolescent years, EVEN THOUGH I CAN. All I'm trying to say here, Al, is let's not do this, for everyone's sake.

Oh screw it. You know what? Schoolyard, 3pm. Bring your sweaters, I'll bring a big can of sit the fuck back down, and we can go from there.

Cameraphone

Dear Crazy Cameraphone Chick,

Got your "text" last night. Thanks for that. Look, I don't wanna sound like an ingrate here, and the picture message was really great and all, but I think it's time we have a little talk.

The first few times you sent me the cameraphone nudes, I thought to myself, "oh. cool." No, wait, that's a lie. I was totally and completely psyched. It was one of those items on the long scroll I keep in my pocket identifying all of the things I want to accomplish in life. "Get girl to shoot some nudes of herself to my phone." Check. Sweet. It seemed like a pretty cool accomplishment at the time.

Trouble is that was, what, FIVE YEARS AGO now? And how many times have we hung out since then? Zero. That's how many. Exactly zero. Oh, and I've since grown up a little, got a real job, got a work-issued PDA, and decided that I've outgrown a few things that I used to think were fun. Incidentally, as I've gone through this transformation from slug to delicate butterfly, you've taken things in a different direction. The first pictures were, I suppose, harmless enough. But somewhere over the years they started to get weird. I mean, like, waiting-for-the-late-night-knock-on-my-door-and-ice-pick-into-the-back-of-my-head weird. I'm not gonna get all graphic here because baby jesus reads my blog and is probably already weeping, but the world doesn't need that kinky stuff, cameraphone girl, and I certainly don't need it shooting over the airwaves at my Blackberry.

Now, maybe you've dated legions of guys over the years and you have a huge distribution list you fire these things off to now. Hell, maybe I'm just not that special anymore. But at some point -- probably around 4 years and 11 months ago -- I decided that I was OK with that. Actually, I think this realization coincided with the night you grabbed your purse off the counter and stormed out of my apartment after talking to someone in my bathroom, and later proclaimed in complete honesty that you just had to leave because, as you put it, "Otis, your roommates were freaking me out." (I lived alone at the time, and it was just you, me, the walls, and, apparently, the voices in your head).

The bottom line here is we all need to move on in life. I mean, I'm now authoring a wildly successful blog with hundreds dozens single-digits of visitors, and I just don't have the time for these antics anymore. Please stop pummeling my Blackberry with smut. Kthx.

Angel

Dear Sarah Mglo... Sarah Mc... Angel-singing-lady,

Is there a reason you had to write the SADDEST song that anyone has ever heard in their lifetimes?! Was it NECESSARY? What exactly did you think you would accomplish with this stunt? Why, Sarah, must you always dwell on the NEGATIVE. You must be a huge hit at parties. Look, the nineties were miserable enough, and you're not helping here, not at all. I mean, look at those guys from the Spin Doctors. YOU DIDN'T SEE THEM WRITING SAD SONGS. They were writing about FUN, and parties, and bong hits. Or was that Phish? WHATEVER, SARAH, DON'T CHANGE THE SUBJECT. And don't be smug. You know exactly what I mean.

Tuxedo

Dear New York City Alpha Males,

:sigh:

Come on guys, we do this every year. Every single year I go to this ball (yes, a ball, seriously), and I have to wear this goofy tuxedo, and I get silly drunk with a bunch of professional-types, and we make a jolly enough time of it. And then afterwards I'll bring a small squadron of people out to invade some bar to spread some good spirits and cheer and maybe even a little good-natured disorder. And EVERY SINGLE YEAR, without fail, one of you fancies yourself clever and makes the same exact comment.

NO IT'S NOT PROM NIGHT, ASSHAT.

Jesus Christ. No wonder you're all here alone. If there's a price on wit, you guys apparently aren't paying enough.

Chess

Dear Nondescript Blonde Girl I Made Out With At A Nondescript Lower East Side Bar Last Week,

I may owe you an apology, and this has been on my mind for the better part of five days.

You see, it wasn't right for me to sneak out of the bar like that at the end of the night without saying goodbye. But, in fairness, you forced my hand. You see, I spent the first few hours I knew you mostly trying to shed you with the old textbook pick-and-roll move I learned playing basketball -- so that I could talk to your much cuter roommate. You didn't seem to get the hint, which may not be entirely your fault, because I'm a relatively friendly guy and not very good at sending people the "BACK OFF" signal. But for every bit I tried to lose you, you'd try doubly hard not to get lost. And then I'd have to step it up and try harder. As the night wore on, it became an all-out arms race.

It got to the point where you were buying me drinks -- multiple, stiff drinks -- to get me drunk. You complained if I wanted a light beer, and called my masculinity into question. When I didn't drink it fast enough for your liking, you chastised me for "nursing it." At some point I vaguely remember thinking "I'M NOT A GIRL, WE'RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL, AND THIS ISN'T THE PROM."

To be honest though, I commend you for your effort. As I look back, I can see how well thought-out all of this was. I mean, first you get me drunk, and you do so subtly, by ordering me the strongest alcohol you think I'll actually drink, and you gauge it just right. Knight to C8. Then, when you finally figured out that I was interested in your roommate, it was smart of you to call her out on a bunch of stuff, pick a fight with her, and get her to leave. Rook to A6. Genius. Seriously. You then move us to a more crowded and darker bar where you could make your move. Bishop to E3. You're looking like Gary fucking Kasparov at this point, and I'm struggling to keep my liquor down and keep myself upright so I don't topple and knock all of pieces off the board. This was a masterful rout. Then you start mining my molars for gold, and I'm too stupid and/or drunk to resist, and at this point, I'm actually starting to fall prey to your "charms." I'm starting to think, "yeah, ya know, maybe, yeah. I mean why not." I've most definitely done dumber things in my life.

So here we are, you've got my king lined up for the taking, you've convinced me not to leave a dozen times, and you're all but thinking you've got me bagged here. On my 13th attempt to leave, you follow me out and say "ok sure," and follow that by whispering something into my ear that no proper lady should know how to say. QUEEN TO D-FUCKING-8...

With that, and with me teetering on the brink of disaster, you reach across the table to make your final move. I walk down the stairs first, fighting through a crowd, and you were a little behind. I get to the landing and look up just in time to watch your heel miss that first step. And, just like that, the best laid plans went awry...

As you came barreling down the stairs LIKE A HERD OF DRUNKEN, WILD ELEPHANTS, shedding every ounce of grace or style or intrigue that you may have had before that first fateful step, grasping and groping at a railing or a person in between tumbles (SERIOUSLY, WHY BOTHER AT THAT POINT?), leading up to your ultimate faceplant at my feet, it all became clear to me. I considered helping you up, but there you lay in the aftermath, surrounded by the shrapnel of the pieces you'd aligned so delicately all night, and a tangled web of what was your pride and dignity. And I slowly, quietly, backed away, into the crowd, then out the door, then into a cab. ALONE.

CHECKMATE, NONDESCRIPT BLONDE GIRL.

Twitter

Dear Twitterers,

Can someone please explain this awesome new thing to me like I'm five years old and raised by wolves?

Here's what I've got so far: So these guys invent this service where you can send short messages to your friends. Ok, sweet. But what's even CRAZIER is that you can actually send and receive all of these messages -- back and forth between you and your friends -- on your cell phone. That about sum it up? Great. Well, I feel like I'm destroying the Santa Claus fantasy for a bunch of hopped up first graders here, but when I was in college A DECADE AGO I had a cell phone that -- wait for it -- let me send short text messages to my friends. And they could send messages back. And we could tell each other shit like, oh, I dunno, WHATEVER IT IS WE WERE UP TO AT THE MOMENT. zOMG!!1!11136

Wait, before you say it, lemme try and guess where you're gonna go with this.

You: "No, but Otis, you don't get it, because this is TOTALLY different, because you can like, FOLLOW people."

Me: wtf?

You: "Yeah, you know, like, you can see what your buddies are up to."

Me: wtf?

The other day I sat at a bar with one of my buddies watching the NCAA tournament. We were hanging out with all our other buddies. He was on his blackberry tweeting. And in an experiment to try and help me figure this thing out, we set up an account for me on Twitter. And then they set it up so I "follow" him. (Me: still wtf?). And so then we're all sitting around, and so he has a funny thought, and he says it out loud, and we all laugh, and then he takes out his blackberry and twitters (am I even saying this right?) this thought to all of his tweeters. Oh, by the way, his tweet people include me and his sister-in-law. That's it. Well, I'm right here, and I just heard what you said, and I know that's my blackberry buzzing in my pocket from your twitter. What's stopping him from just texting this to his sister in law? NOTHING. That's what. Absolutely NOTHING.

So I got people following me, and I'm following people, and we're all texting each other and whatnot, but somewhere in my gut I have this unnerving feeling that I'm not really following any of this shit. The inernet -- no, the world -- has officially passed me by. But I give these twitter guys credit, because they've sold you all a bill of goods, and you folks can't pay up fast enough. I've never seen anything like it. I mean, look at the freaking logo that they put on your account when you join -- it's a stupid emoticon picture of a confused face with one big eye and one little eye. (I only know this because the good people at Urban Dictionary say so). Even the brain trust AT TWITTER isn't really sure what the hell this is all about. They are so totally screwing with you, people.

By the way, I had this killer idea as I'm sitting here writing this blog. You know how you can, like, read it? Well, here's what I'm thinking. Wouldn't it be cool if I could send you my blog, VIRTUALLY. Not like on a newspaper, but, like, over the internet. OH OH. And if you have anything to say back to me, you could send ME a virtual message too. You with me? This will be all the rage with the kids especially. Folks will be messaging each other back and forth all day. No more sending letters. NO MORE POSTAGE. We'll call it something crappy and gimmicky, like booter™ or something. And in a year some asshole will ask in a blog "how the fuck is this different from e-mail?," and we'll just shake our heads at him. YOU DON'T GET IT, ASSHOLE. You just don't get it.

Receipts

Dear Girl Behind The Counter At The Convenience Store In The NBC Building,

Why do you hate America?

I know you probably don't appreciate the complete havoc you wreak during my daily trip downstairs to your store, and maybe I'm either too laid back or too conflict-averse to bother raising this with you, but can you please, for the love of god, stop giving me a receipt for my purchases. I know, it sounds like I'm making a big deal out of nothing here, but bear with me....

You see me standing here, and I've got a protein shake in one hand, and my wallet in my other hand, and I haven't put my wallet away yet because part of this transaction is you giving me change. Now, maybe it's my own fault that I didn't have the time to precalculate the amount of the purchase plus tax and hand you exactly four dollars and thirty seven cents, but, frankly, I wasn't expecting this to be a big deal.

So I've got a wallet in one hand, a big cup in the other, and you're now handing me back the change. And my problem starts where you hand me a big fat receipt sandwich, with the bills underneath, receipt in the middle, and the change on top, like a big goddamned precarious Jenga that's ready to spill. Do you realize how difficult it is to sort all of that out with no free hands? It's impossible, that's how difficult. Impossible.

I BOUGHT WATER AND GUM. I'm returning neither. This wasn't a plasma television or a bicycle, and you DON'T work at Sharper Image. But now I'm left bumbling with all of this in my hand and I'm trying to pull a fancy coin sorting technique with my pinky so that my coins all flow into my pocket so that I can drop the receipt in the bag (I'd rather just throw it on the floor to be honest, WHILE YOU WATCH ME) and then put the bills back in my wallet. Because, yeah I'm not carrying a red polka dot hobo sack at the end of a stick that I can just toss this all into. No, like 99% of your other customers, I too have a wallet to sort my bills into. DO YOU WANT CHAOS, SALES CLERK GIRL?

Oh, and I'm under pressure here. DO YOU SEE ALL THESE PEOPLE STANDING BEHIND ME? That's a line. Every second I stand here screwing around with your receipt sandwich is a second wasted from each of their lives too. Times ten people, times every day for a year -- you do the math. IF YOU CAN, THAT IS, WITHOUT YOUR REGISTER.

Does anyone really want their receipt for gum and water? Are people scanning these things into Google databases for future reference? I know times are tough, but are we now BUDGETING gum and water? Christ almighty.

By the way, I know it's not just you -- I know that every one of the girls who works next to you behind the counter does the same exact thing. IS THIS PART OF THE TRAINING PROGRAM THERE? Should I be discussing this with your manager? Is that asshole doing this on purpose? Tomorrow I'm gonna watch his face as this goes down and, so help me god, if I see him smirking, I'm stuffing his cake hole with a receipt, a pack of Dentyne, and a bottle of Dasani.

Remember when Obama ran on "Hope" and "Change"? Guy is a fucking genius, that's what. Because yes, I'd like my change, and I hope you can give it to me in a way that makes some fucking sense. If I wanted a brain teaser I know where the Rubik's cubes are. However, unlike the Rubik's cube, I can't find a Youtube video with the solution to the problem you give me every day.

And you know this whole economic crisis we're facing? Yeah, well, it doesn't take a degree in economics to see what's really going on here. If it weren't for the billions of man hours per year that working schmucks like me wasted trying to unravel the clusterscrew of receipt and mayhem you spat in my hands every day, we might actually be, oh, you know, making stuff. But the terrorists have already won, haven't they, sales clerk girl, and you're in on it. YOU'RE ALL IN ON IT.

The Teacup

Dear Girl Who Bartends at a Certain Bar At or Near 7th and B,

Look, I'm not gonna lie, I know I come off looking like a total drunk when I roll into your bar drinking scotch out of a teacup. But you know what? I happened to be home enjoying a fine evening of NCAA basketball and decided to meet up with some folks for drinks, and this was a pretty fantastic scotch I was enjoying here in my apartment (good enough not to waste), and I don't think it makes me a bad person to want to take my scotch on-the-go to finish during my cab ride. So I did what any self-respecting drunk does, and I emptied it from a scotch glass into a small ceramic teacup. It had a little country print around the side, with a farm, and a fence, and some ponies. It was really a nice teacup.

I arrive at the bar, and I spend maybe 94 seconds saying hello to the folks I was meeting with, kisses on cheeks, sipping what was probably the last 2 fluid ounces of my tasty scotch. I was feeling good, frankly. I had just rocked some great new music on my iPod during the trip, and I was excited about the prospects of the evening, and the great unknown adventures that await me. The world was my oyster. And your crappy little bar was my supermarket-bought oyster. I walked in, I thought to myself "this place sucks," and then said out loud to my sister, "this place sucks," but I wasn't going to let the fact that these girls picked the worst bar in the east village dampen my spirits. With a smile on my face, I approached you at the bar eager to order a beer for myself and 6 or 7 assorted drinks for my friends here. You asked me what was in my teacup, and you had this scowl on your face that looked like like I'd just run over your dog with my vespa and then made him into a rug. But I'm happy, and feeling fun, and trying to spread my cheer to the masses, so I smile and respond "tea!", and give a little wink. Anyone else in the city would have just giggled it off. Anyone else...

Now, I had a hard time understanding why you felt the need to tear the teacup out of my hand and smash it into the garbage behind the bar. That made me (and the ponies and the farm) sad. My oyster suddenly smelled like it had been left out on the counter a little too long on a hot summer day. But I had a harder time understanding why you had to THROW ME OUT OF THE BAR. OVER A TEACUP. I didn't understand then, but through the haze of this hangover it somehow all makes perfect sense...

It was funny that as the "bouncer" (he was literally half my size) you summoned escorted me to the door -- you know, because this teacup incident with a mild mannered, friendly, sober patron required immediate backup -- your short bartender chick companion with the lazy eye screamed out "cheap asshole!" Now, that's funny on about 14 different levels, not the least of which being that anyone who knows me knows I am ANYTHING but cheap, I am notoriously terrible with money and spend it like a drunken (teacup-toting) sailor, and I'm a generous tipper. But what makes it funnier on this particular night is that I'd just raked in about $4k in online poker before I left my apartment. So, really, as I saw it, I was playing with house money here tonight, and I was so excited to buy drinks for anyone and everyone who'd have them and then leave a big fat tip for you and lazy eye at the end of the night. I mean, what fun is success if you can't share it with others?

But, like I said, I get it now. Honestly, and I don't want to get all Tucker Max here, but if I were you, I'd hate me too. I'd be angry -- no, furious with the world. Especially the bastard who walks up looking all ... HAPPY. And SMILING. No, if I knew that I was stuck spending the rest of my life being you, I'd probably hang outside the teacup factory with a baseball bat after work and smash every teacup within reach. I would make it my life's work to eradicate teacups from the face of this earth. I'd probably set up a cool lair in the side of a mountain, and I'd have some thugs and a large screen with a Google map of the world with little tags on all the major teacup locations.

We ultimately found a bar that did not suck (I say "we" because: thanks sis for getting yourself kicked out too -- that's what family is for, and I'd have done the same). And out of spite -- no, principle -- I tipped the bartender at the next place $100 after he served me a PBR in a can. He seemed like a friendly guy, seemed like he was working hard late on a Saturday night, and so I figure he deserved it. You and lazy eye? No, you don't deserve it.

So that's that. As I said to the bouncer after he apologized profusely to me at the door, "hey man, life's life, this sorta stuff happens." I'll just cross your sucky bar off my list and work my way through this hangover and move on.

By the way, whenever I'm hung over, I like to start my day with a shower and hot cup of coffee. Well, I'm just out of the shower, and I'm sitting here right now enjoying my coffee, and you wanna guess what I'm drinking it out of? (It was a set of eight -- suck it).