Dear John Letters #7

It's been quite some time since we had an installment of these here at Exxy HQ. So clearly, you're all due. And I just so happen to be in a horrible mood. What timing.

Enjoy!

Dear Guy Wearing Sunglass at the Gym,

What the hell is wrong with you? Are you afraid the roof is going to open up--3 floors above us--and allow the sun to burn your retinas? Didn't you notice it was foggy out? Or, do you think you're sooooooooooo famous that you must remain incognito even as you sweat your man-boobs off on the elliptical machine? Guess what? You just look like a blubbering jackass. No one cares who you are. But they ARE all pointing and laughing at the moron with sunglasses on inside. At the gym, for crying outloud!

Jackhole.

***

Dear Quark v4.1,

I hate you. Probably more than I hate wannabe actors. Why is it that you cannot figure out that my document is landscape? Why must I reselect this option each and every time I print my marketing collateral? It’s a very pretty piece but you refuse to recognize this and continue to butcher it in portrait setting. Microsoft Word has no issues with this setup. You create a landscape document, it will print a landscape document, without my needing to request it pretty please with a fucking cherry on top! Do you know how many precious moments—and how much paper—I've lost with this stupid idiosyncrasy of yours? Why must you waste my time? I’m sure your newer versions don’t have this problem, but I’m stuck with you because upgrades are unheard of around here. I hateyouhateyouhateyou!!! Hard.

***

Dear Cobalt-blue Z 350 Driver,

One of the few happies I can find in this overcrowded city of ours is Mulholland Drive. With its windy switchbacks, amazing views, and a full 10 miles with only four traffic light interruptions it's about as great an open road as you can get. That is, until you decide to test your braking system 3 inches from the back end of my car. What the hell possessed you to hot dog your way up my asshole all the way from Runyon to Cahuenga? Do you know how scary it is to see your bright blue shitbox in the rearview suddenly screaming to a stop so close I think you're actually IN my backseat? Did you notice the lack of turnoffs for me to escape your vicious tailgating? Did you see the car inching its way down the hill in front of me? I nearly hit him trying to a modicum of distance between me and you. The last thing I need while I'm revisiting the areas I've spun out on up there is a heart attack.

I hope you took a turn so fast, you fell off the hill in a huge, fiery explosion.

***

Dear Loudly Yapping People Working Out Next to Me,

Do you seriously think that professional hockey players are underpaid? What the hell is wrong with you? They're playing HOCKEY for a living! It's a GAME. 60 minutes of stick jockeying for a teeny black disc. On ice. With helmets. And fighting. I'm not saying it's not enjoyable, especially the fighting, but give me a motherfucking break. To say that ANY professional athlete isn't getting paid enough is like saying that Paris Hilton is a virgin: ridiculously laughable and patently untrue.

Also, the salary cap isn't $300,000 like you thought. The median salary for the team with the smallest payroll in the 2006-07 season was $850,000. If you're going to complain about the world's worst atrocities, at least get your facts straight. Assholes.

***

Dear Gum-cracking Twit,

I was supposed to spend 15 minutes on the stairclimbing machine. I chose the one next to you so I could watch the basketball game on tv. But listening to you crack your gum every 30 seconds was driving me so batty, it took all of my resolve NOT to punch you. Right at the base of your skull. Who the hell chews gum while working out? And didn't your mother teach you any manners? Cracking gum is like drinking OE out of a brown bag while sitting on a corner in the middle of the workday:
G-H-E-T-T-O. Not to mention you look like a cow chewing its cud. The laws of common decency, and the fear of going to jail for assault on a twiggy bitch-cunt, made me give up the machine after a mere 10 minutes.

But I really wish I had kicked you in your flat butt before leaving, you masticating asshat.