Open Letter to Douchebag Old Guy

Dear Douchebag Old Guy,

I'd apologize for not catching your name, but, seeing as you're a douchebag, I wasn't really interested in it.

You're probably wondering why I'm writing you this letter, because again, you're a douchebag, so your douchebaggery is probably completely invisible to you. It's like the dirty, smelly guy in your Statistics class in college. He doesn't know he smells because he just lives with the stink, even though he should know if he never so much as looks at running water that he is probably giving off an odor. Similarly, you live with your douchey ways all day, every day, so why would you notice them?

Now I'm sure you enjoy working out and taking a walk in your neighborhood in the morning. That's cool. Good for you, staying healthy at the ripe old age of ancient. I do have one little piece of advice, though, if I may be so presumptuous. How about you don't dress in the dirty, faded jumpsuit with holes in it and tatters around the ankles. Why, you ask? Well, see, combined with the sunglasses you've probably had since the early '80s, the look of begrudged dickishness you're wearing and the Terminator-style walk directed right at me, in the street no less, you kinda sorta looked like a serial killer.

I only mention this because you seemed so offended when I didn't smile and wave "hello!" like your favorite rerun of Leave it to Beaver, even going so far as to call out a douchey "Well good morning" after you were safely past me. Now, maybe it's just me, but I tend not to engage people who look like they are about to stab me and eat my pancreas in polite conversation. As a matter of fact, I tend to walk as far away from them as possible whilst still heading toward safety, which is exactly what I did.

Now I get that you're not a serial killer, (maybe), so my bad, but when you dress and act like one, you lose the right to be offended when someone draws that conclusion and avoids you. It's like if I went around looking like Santa, then got all douchey and passive-aggressive when you wanted to sit on my lap at Christmas time.

Anyway, just thought you'd like to know.

Peace,
Steve

Goodbye, Bobby E

I don't usually do the dead folks posts, because Jason is really the most morbid person on the crew. But this death--this one hit home.

Bob Evans
Sausage King/restaurateur
May 30, 1918 - June 21, 2007

Jenni and Steve mourning outside the Bob Evans closest to the Cleveland airport. Not pictured: Bob Evans in toy form.

Bob Evans, a man who created the best sausage I ever put in my mouth (sorry, Steve), has died. But let's not dwell on his death. Let's celebrate his life--and that freaking delicious sausage. The man's sausage was a thing of beauty. No man, no woman, no child--possibly no creature living on this earth, even the dirty vegetarians--could resist Bob Evans' plump, juicy, perfectly spiced and fragrant tube of meat. I could eat Bob Evans' sausage all night long, and beg for more.

But it's not just the sausage--oooh, the sausage. Bob Evans' sausage empire included hundreds of excellent Bob Evans restaurants in (apparently) 18 states, including, of course, Ohio, where it all started. I remember hearing once that Bob Evans would only ship sausage (and I guess place restaurants) within a short drive from the Bob Evans Farms epicenter, to ensure a quality product. That's great, but it kept Bob Evans restaurants from being out West, where I've lived for seven or eight years. I suppose it's possible that will change now that Bob himself is gone, but in a way I guess I hope not, because I like that a company put quality and customer experience over profits. You know, if that story is even true and I didn't make it up in a sausage-fueled fever dream. I get a little crazy on the sausage.

I look forward to going to Bob Evans every time I'm home (which I just happen to be at the moment), and, in fact, it's typically our first stop when we land. Sometimes, I even order non-sausage food, though it's rare. I loves me some sausage.

Since this post isn't long enough, I'll share a recentish Bob Evans anecdote.

A while back, a few months before Bob Evans went totally smoke-free, I was grossed out by being seated too close to the smoking section, and so, I picked up a crayon and wrote, with my left hand so it would look real, a message somewhat like this:

Dear Bobby E,

I love your food but my mom says we can't eat here anymore because the smoke in the air might make my cancer come back.

Please, Bobby E, get rid of the smokers so I can eat at your restaurant. I love it because my name is Bobby, too.

Love,
Bobby

Hmm. I remember the original being funnier than that. I know there was cancer, the Bobby E thing, and the cancer kid was named Bobby.

Yeah.

Sausage!

Sure, Dad. I Swear.

The other day I got an email from my father, full of family news and all that. It was so nice, 'til I got to the end. And then...ugh. Lemme just show you:

Hi, Sweetheart--how have you and the guys been?
(personal stuff excised)
Let me know all about you and the guys. All the latest gossip.
Love, Dad
Your blogs are great, just cut down the swearing, you can write above that.

We all have parents, and we all know how they can be. But my Dad isn't usually such a priss. I dunno, it was unexpected. Usually my parents are kind of realistic about the type of person I am. It's not like I've changed much...ever.

So I wrote back.

Dad,

Write above that? Uh, no thanks. That's an embarassingly "Bill Cosby" sentiment but you know, it would mean more if you didn't ever ever ever swear yourself. But um, you do. So. How 'bout you leave the writing and entertaining to me, and I'll leave the selling cars to you.

Look at that. Whole paragraph without swearing. And it SUCKED. You are getting old and weird on me. Stop it. If you start wearing Bill Cosby sweaters, then I'll probably disown you.

Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time at Momo's birthday, and that your health is ok. I've been mostly supergood myself on the health front, eating salads and vegetables and stuff so I can get knocked up and get you people another grandbaby. That too blue for ya? Huh?

There's nothing really going on here, I have been working a whole lot, and you know, cussing every other word. I got a new boss I like, and I'm working on more game development, which is great, but I also have to do some of my old stuff, which isn't any fun. I got you a t-shirt, but it's only an XL. Pretty big one tho. I'll try to send it. If my cussing doesn't get me kicked out of the post office, that is.

The boys are ok, Jason is working a lot, maybe even more than I am. He is such a hard worker. Steve's office is moving but that's about it. He's a hard worker, too. We're a very hardworking bunch. We did a ton of cleaning and all that. Except for our rooms which are as dirty as our mouths. The place looks good.

I hate my couch and want a new tv, too. We're looking for a new place to live, so we can spread out. We need a couple of rooms for our toys and video games. And, all those cuss words take up a lot of space.

I think I might post this on the blog. Because it's squeaky motherfucking clean.

Oh applesauce, I messed it up.
Jenni

P.S. I really am going to post this on the blog. I'll edit your letter. That will get us both something, I'll get an easy post and you'll get a mostly clean post. Thanks, Dad!!!

He replied. I'll spare you the details, save these few--quite ironically, my Dad's reply includes (Da da DUH!) cusswords. The evidence:

"a couple fu---, screw ups"
"These as---- gentlemen would give it to you in the as----"
"they can kiss my Mexican ass"
"take the damn pills "

Yeah. I got on my total high horse for my reply, and again, I'll take out the personal details:

Think of how much better your response would have been if you just could have used the cusswords. We both know which words you meant there. So, what was saved with the dashes? Do you see how these words are necessary and useful? How they add meaning, punctuation, emotional heft, gravity and style to what you're trying to express? Plus, they drive right to the point and everyone knows exactly what you mean--so many other words are so easily misinterpreted.

Yeah, you can write without them, and usually when I'm getting paid to write, I do without, but for my own stuff, why would I want to limit myself? Maybe as an interesting challenge, if those words were something I didn't think I could do without.

But honestly, I can turn it on and off since I've had to write clean so often. My personal voice happens to include the dirty words I grew up hearing daily. It's me. It's honest.

(personal bloody details excised)

On that up note, I'll say goodbye, and thanks for being a sport about being on the blog.

Jenni

Yeah, I think we've all learned an important lesson here--old people are fucking weird. Parents, doubly so.


(For non-dorks, the image above is of Helena Wayne, the Huntress, who also happens to be the daughter of Batman and Catwoman. She so feels my pain.)

An Open Letter to Nerds, pt. 1

Dear Nerds,
Hey guys, 'sup? It's me, Steve, your representative on the Hands in the Air crew. I need to have a word with you all, so grab a frosty Mountain Dew, set down the 20-sided dice for a second, and switch over your attitude modulators from "creepy Internet troll" to "open-minded, hygienically challenged person." Ready? Okay.

I was perusing the Internet, as we all like to do. As many of you, my fellow nerds, I too have taken to the World of Warcraft as a leisure activity, although I'd say the majority of my fellow players have me beat in terms of sheer devoted fervor. So it's not surprising to me when I see the trends and news of the real world bleed into the digital one. It's a pretty natural phenomenon.

But I have to tell you, this kind of shit really depresses me. For those too lazy to click the link, I'll sum up. Basically, someone is planning to pay tribute to the late Steve Irwin, in World of Warcraft. The plan is to get a bunch of avatars into one virtual seaside location and spell out the word "Crikey," then frolic about in the digital surf to, y'know, celebrate the dude's life and shit. Then, if somebody could post the whole thing on YouTube, that would be great. Um, as you guys like to say, WTF (that's "what the fuck," non-nerds)?

Crikey! Let's blow this World of Warcraft wake that these nerds threw for me -- I hear that Paul Hogan is having a Halo party!

I can understand that you're mourning Steve Irwin and you want to show your support, but this kind of shit is just not normal. For one, it comes off as gimmicky at best and outright disrespectful at worst. Don't you see how staging a mock funeral for a person who really died, IRL ("in real life," non-nerds), is patronizing and actually trivializes his death? His avatar didn't die in some reef off the coast of Kalimdor battling Murlocs. He died here on Earth where the real people are. The least you all can do is pay some respects to him in the world in which he actually, you know, lived and died.

But second, this shit has been done before, with disastrous results. What happens when some guild of assclowns raids your memorial service and turns the whole thing into a debacle? You know some of our nerd brethren, despite the ill-used flowery prose and self-appointed "intelligence," are cocks. Straight up, fucktarded cocks. They will fuck with you just for the immature pleasure it gives them because Lord knows we all need to feel powerful sometimes in our lives, even if for some nerds it's in a videogame, ruining the experience of fellow nerds. So what was already an immature display (holding a videogame funeral for a real-life dead person), will be coated in yet another layer of nerd-ridden bullshit.

Third, don't you all understand how bad this makes us look? This shit, right here, is why we all get the shit kicked out of us or teased or bullied or whatever. It's not because we're so smart and people are jealous. It's not because mom says we're special. It's because we have our priorities all fucked up. It's because nerds tend to put this kind of bullshit before actual real, honest-to-goodness human connections. Are our priorities any more fucked up than any other groups? Not necessarily, but our stuff seems to be harder for outsiders to grasp and shit like this is NOT HELPING!

Artist's rendering of Steve Irwin spinning in his grave

So if you really want to pay tribute to Steve Irwin, and not just get the geek clusterfuck that you and your friends put together in WoW on YouTube, then here are some things you can do that will actually mean something:

1. Donate some money to an appropriate charity.

If all of you assfaces would just pull $5 or so out of your pockets and put together some cash instead of meeting up in World of Warcraft, you could make a serious donation to something like, gee, I dunno, THE AUSTRALIA ZOO. You know, the place where Steve worked, which I'm sure can always use more generous financial support in order to better care for its wildlife. The WWF (not the wrestling thing, the animals one), has an Australian branch. They could also use some cash, I'm sure.

There's also your local zoo, or even your local animal shelter. A big donation, or even a small one, in Steve's name, to the cause he obviously was so passionate about makes a MUCH bigger statement and a much more fitting tribute to the man than spelling out "Crikey" in imaginary Night Elves.

2. Learn more about animals.

The man was passionate about wildlife and went to great lengths to spread that passion to everyone he could. So if you take up that curiosity (I don't mean grabbing poisonous snakes or wrestling crocodiles here, but actually learning more about them), that gives his life, and by extension his death, some real meaning, or at least more than frolicking in the virtual surf with some videogame Dwarves.

And spread that passion to others. If, by some miracle or loop-hole in the justice system you have access to children, spend some time with them to talk about animals. Pique their curiosity in wildlife. I can't think of a much better tribute than passing on something like that.

3. Go the fuck outside.

This one is pretty easy and, frankly, some of you need it. Shower first, please, then actually go out and spend some time in the sunshine. Get some vitamin D for Christ's sake! Go on a picnic. Go camping. Go for a walk. Spend time getting to know this planet while you still can. Steve Irwin obviously cared a whole hell of a lot about it. Aren't you curious why? Maybe you can find out. Just go the fuck outside!

Okay, that's all from me for now. I'll send you guys another letter the next time you do something asinine. Okay, maybe not that soon, but whatever.

Love and Natural 20s,

- Steve

Dear Ms. Lohan

Lindsay Lohan has recently been scolded for partying too hard in an infamous letter written by the producer of Georgia Rule, a film she's currently shooting. It seems Lindsay has been showing up late to the shoots because of "exhaustion" that her producer James G. Robinson chalks up to her late-night partying. Lindz is apparently compromising the integrity of the film -- this coming from the guy who produced such classics as Juwanna Mann.

If Lindsay decides to stop partying to concentrate on acting, what will become of the Hollywood nightlife scene? We have a letter of our own that argues against Robinson's complaint.

First, read the original Lindsay complaint letter from her producer here.

Then, expand our counterpoint letter by clicking on it below.

CTU Los Angeles - Incompetence, 24 Hours a Day

I'm a really big fan of the show 24. Like, HUGE. I've seen every episode of every season. I even considered buying the videogame until I read some of the reviews. If you have also enjoyed the show, you may have noticed that Jack Bauer's co-workers at CTU (Counter Terrorist Unit), Los Angeles leave a little something to be desired when it comes to actually doing their goddamn jobs. Believe it or not, CTU really does exist and surprisingly, things are just as bad there as the show suggests. Take this memo I managed to pick up yesterday as I was strolling through. No one even asked me who I was or what I was doing there.

Click on the image to read the Top Secret CTU Memo

Baggage Claim

Delta/Song Airlines are hearing some complaints from me. I just flew back to L.A. from a trip in New York on Sunday, but my luggage didn't make it back in town until 8:30 p.m. Tuesday night. That's the last time I check my bags on a Delta/Song flight. The night I flew out of NY was a windy one, so 100 bags had to be removed from the flight so the plane could be loaded up with extra fuel to make the upwind flight. The kicker is that none of us passengers were told that 100 bags weren't going to make the flight until after we landed at LAX.

Day 1 without my suitcase:
It'd be nice to have a toothbrush.

They actually had the nerve to tell us that 100 bags were removed from the flight the precise moment we were about to deplane at our final destination. They obviously were removing the baggage before we left NY, but they didn't bother to tell us while they were in the act of inconveniencing us. If we knew that we would be without bags before we departed, we could swing by the gift shop to stock up on the toiletries we had packed in our bags. I could have made sure that someone brought me my extra car keys since my other set was packed in my suitcase.

Day 2 without my suitcase:
Where's that one shirt I like?

It's one thing for Delta to inconvenience us on purpose by removing our bags because of weight issues, but it's another thing for Delta to inconvenience us on purpose a second time by being afraid to notify us of the baggage issue as soon as they knew it would be an issue.

Day 2 without my suitcase:
Suitcase is still in New York. Come home, Suitcase, come home!

There were 100 angry passengers arriving at LAX. It was like winning a bad lottery -- we found out that our bags didn't make the trip when we consulted a list posted outside our terminal gate. All 100 of us had to file a baggage claim at the airport office. And this was at 12:30 a.m. And no one ever thought to apologize or offer us some sort of compensation.

Night 3:
Suitcase hitchhikes home. Suitcase has a longer trip than I had.