It seems like you move the holiday shopping schedule up every single year. I can understand your desire to have decorations out before Thanksgiving, but I don't know if you need them up before Halloween. I always assumed that post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving was the Christmas decoration arrival time. So what gives? Why is it so early this year? I visited one of your stores a few weeks ago, and you had them up before the first day of fall! I mean, that is still summer. Christmas decorations and things shaped like snowmen should not be out before summer's end. What is wrong with you?
Oh. What's that you say? You only put them out now because you're afraid that our economy is tanking and that come Christmas time folks won't have any money to waste on silly plastic reindeer and cheaply made lead painted ornaments. Hrmmm, makes sense, but surely you could have waited a week or two. Should our horribly failing economy really affect our youth? Don't you think that in these times especially, they deserve to have as much childhood freedom? Why would you rob them of their summer?
Oh. I just read the news, maybe you were on to something. I guess forgive me for complaining. You're probably right. Come Christmas none of us will be able to justify inflatable Frosty and friends. My mistake.
Dear Dude at Pancho's,
Okay, I understand that you just want to get your job done and get out of the door as soon as possible, but did you really have to mop the floor while we were eating? I don’t know about you, but I just don’t think the smell of bleach goes well with tacos.
Is this some family secret you’re letting me in on? Did your grandma serve tacos with bleach, and now you want everyone to experience the delightful combo? Because buddy, this equation Tacos + Bleach =
Delicious is NOT REMOTELY ACCURATE. So from now on, I think you should just keep your math to yourself.
Also, I wanted to mention that I particularly liked the part where you had the entire restaurant to mop and instead chose to mop right next to us instead. If there had been something on the floor I might not have complained, but the floor near us was spotless.
So yah, thanks dude. Thanks for ruining my dinner.
And thanks for the poor math. Tacos + Bleach just does not add up.
Dear Lady Crossing Herself on the Bart Train,
I first noticed you cross yourself right before the train took off, and then I noticed you do it again at each and every stop. Were you afraid of something, or is this just your normal ritual? Is this just in case vampires turn up on the train? Because I really don’t think vampires would ride this train. They would just fly or run fast, or do whatever it is that vampires do to get there faster than the Bart Train. I mean, wouldn’t you if you were a vampire?
Oh wait, were you crossing yourself in case there were chubacabra? I don’t think there have been any reports down here. You’re probably safe without the crossing. There haven’t been any werewolf reports either.
And if it’s not vampires, werewolves, or chubacabras, then what it is? Why are you crossing yourself at every single station? Why are you crossing yourself and making me paranoid that something is going to happen? Do you think the train is going to crash if you don’t cross yourself at the station we will all die? I’m not totally sure that’s true.
Although, if you have a weird Heroes power where you can see the future and crossing yourself changes the path fo fate, then who am I to judge? If this is the case, then please continue crossing yourself, I’m not really ready to die. And if this isn’t the case, then can you tell me why? What are you so afraid of?
Thanks for your time.
Dear Mark-Paul Gosselaar,
I recently saw you in your new series Raising the Bar. The show is so-so and while there are a load of crimes on it, the major crime they are not dealing with is your hair. Seriously, what is up with that hairdo? Was that your choice, or the show’s stylist? If it’s the stylists then you have to ask them why they hate you so much. I mean seriously, it’s not flattering. At all. In fact, I’d say it makes you downright unattractive.
Oh wait, is this your master plan? Are you trying to make people forget that you were once a teen hearthrob and take you more seriously as an actor? I don’t think it matters that much to be honest. To some you will always be Zach from Saved by the Bell, and for others you’re now going to be that guy from Raising the Bar with the awful hair. You don’t want to be that guy now do you? I didn’t think so.
So do yourself, and all of us a favor, and get a haircut.
Please and thank you.
ps: while I have your ear, I would like to know what is up with the crease in the middle of your forehead. care to explain?
Dear Vampire Weekend,
Hi there. Oh is this the band? Sorry for the miscommunication, this letter’s not for you. I have other words for you such as, I don’t understand the hype, and can’t believe the lady on KQED (that’s our NPR affiliate) actually called you “NPR darlings,” but this isn’t for you. This letter is for my past weekend.
For the record I have never really been into vampires. While I know many folks who are hot for vampires, and I once even had a thing with a guy who everyone said looked like a vampire, I have never been interested. I’ve never read an Anne Rice novel, I’ve never seen an episode of Buffy (hipsters back off, I’ll watch it eventually), and I’ve never tasted a bowl of Count Chocula. My point here is that I’m not totally sure how we ended up together.
It all started off when I received a free copy of Twilight (fyi I didn’t even know it was about vampires when I said, “sure I’ll read it” ). And even though the plot has some awful development holes, the characters are a bit shallow, and the climax happens all too quickly in a sort of glossed over unsatisfying kind of way, I could not put the damn thing down. I went to bed late and woke up early just so I could read the entire book. Then today I tune in to HBO and realize that True Blood (their new vampire show) has fallen firmly into the “save until I delete” camp (versus, the “Tivo and hope it doesn’t get deleted for space” camp).
You know vampire weekend, I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say here. I guess I had a good time, and am not asking for any of it back, but going forward, can we cool things down a bit? Maybe take it a little slower? I think I can devote a few hours a week to vampires (after all there are three of those dumb books left to read, and True Blood was just renewed for a 2nd season), but no more entire weekends. Okay?
Dear Crazy Lady on 16th Street,
Thanks for entertaining me this evening. I was about a block away when I first noticed you and your friend. I thought to myself, “oh boy, this is going to be fun.” And you know what? It was! You and your pal sure did not disappoint!
First there was the stumbly drunken walking. I mean there’s nothing like being drunk before the sun goes down. Especially when you’re in public, Second there was the sort of frantic pace in which you were walking in to every single business on the street. You repeatedly walked in and then walked out. I saw you do this to at least three different places. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening until I was right by you and overheard you say to your friend, “It doesn’t matter now. I just had an accident.” That’s when I realized that you were trying to use the restroom in these establishments and they weren’t letting you in!
So now crazy lady, I have to ask why on earth would you tell your friend that you just went in your pants? (Note: your pants didn’t look wet, so I can only pray that it was number one and not two) Also, why on earth did you feel it necessary to yell this down the street. Now we all know that you had an “accident.” Isn’t that something you want to keep private?
Look, you entertained me quite well this evening. And to thank you, I’ll give you this one small piece of advice. Remember this and you might just be okay. No one needs to know if you had an “accident.” No one.
Dear Stupid Hippy Who Broke Into My Car 12 Years Ago,
A little while back my friend Lydia posted some letters folks wrote to people who broke into their cars. And you know what, it got me thinking about you and how I never had the opportunity to say anything to you. Who am I? I’m the girl whose car you broke in to 12 years ago in order to steal my UCSC parking pass. Ringing any bells? In your awesome hippy way you thought you were paying me for it with your stupid Jerry Garcia mug that you left in the back seat. That’s right you left your dumb Jerry Garcia mug in my backseat. I bet you regret that now.
In fact I’m sure you must because that dumb mug, which was certainly not payment enough for a several hundred dollar parking pass, ended up getting you busted. Do you remember this now? At first I was going to keep your dumb mug so that I could at least have a good story to tell, or something to defend myself with next time I ran into a smelly hippy, but then the cops were able to get prints off it and it was considered “evidence.” They told me not to hold my breath because they probably wouldn’t be on file, but then what do you know, you happened to work at the University and so your prints were on file. And it also happened that my parking pass was just part of a big parking pass theft spree, and the cops were happy to break that down.
So yah, I hope it was worth it. I hope breaking into my car and giving me your dumb mug was totally worth it.
By the way, how have you been all these years? I bet you’re a stoner townie now.
Ps. I still hate the Grateful Dead, and your dumb mug sure as hell didn't make me change my mind.
Dear Lady Who Ruined My Dinner,
Who in the world puts on ridiculous smelling oils in a public restaurant? Especially in a place where the tables are about three inches apart? When your meal was over, you and your friend ended up chatting for a while afterwards. That is perfectly fine. What is not fine, is to take out a vial of strong smelling body oils and dabbing it all over yourself, repeatedly! What was that smell anyway? I did not know that they bottled essence de Bengay. Seriously it was strong, clinical, and sort of medicinal. And it did not go well with my lemongrass chicken.
And while I can’t speak for my dinner date Kate, I think you ruined her dinner too. She also stopped eating shortly after you rubbed medicinal nasal passage-unclogging oils all over your body. So in short, please stop being so self-centered. Put your damned oils on outside of the restaurant please and thank you.
ps. Who uses massage oils in public anyway??
Dear Creature Who Ate My Strawberries,
F you creature. Do you know how hard it is to grow strawberries in San Francisco? Our chilly summer and everlasting fog cover don’t exactly add up to prime growing conditions. And yet despite the elements, I finally managed to grow a beautiful pot of strawberries. Not that I would know. Unlike last year where there were only three, this year there loads, and I mean practically double-digits. But I guess you don’t need me to tell you that, because you freaking ate them all. You probably know how many you ate, although for the record it was at least 9, possibly 11.
A few day ago I tried one, it was good, but not quite there, and so I planned on harvesting the rest of them on Friday after work. Well psychic creature, and you must be psychic because I didn’t tell a soul about my plan, when I stepped outside on Friday afternoon I was shocked. THERE WERE NONE LEFT! Only those little baby green ones, and those probably aren’t even going to ripen thanks to the change in weather.
So shame on you creature (by the way, are you one of those birds, those damned squirrels, or something else?). I can’t believe you didn’t even have the courtesy to leave me one! I hate you.
Dear Totally Disaffected Bike Messenger,
I know, your job can probably get a bit tiresome, riding around in circles all day, back and forth, back and forth. And I realize that business may not be as good as it used to be — you know with the economy being crap and oh maybe something called the internets. However I have to question someone with as much disaffection as you exhibited the other day.
You walked in to our office and practically slithered across the floor. You wanted to know who Ashley was, and when we pointed to her desk — which was only like 5 feet away — you glared at it, glared back at us, and then skulked the rest of the way to her desk. You then threw the package on to her desk with so much ennui, I thought perhaps you had just decided life was not worth living. In fact, I was slightly worried that you would just drop to the ground, and that we might end up with a Radiohead Just situation.
If you are this dissatisfied by your job, I suggest you find a new one. How about a career as an undertaker’s assistant? Allison believes it would suit you well, and I’d have to say I firmly agree.