Hello there, fair reader! I made this website in order to share some notes of correspondence that have entertained me greatly. I hope that they entertain you, but I can’t promise that they will. The only thing that I can promise is that while you are reading this sentence, someone, somewhere in the world is having uncontrollable diarrhea. If that person is you, my condolences. Otherwise, let us be grateful for our health and laugh in harmony at this hour’s crop of the intestinally challenged.
Don’t worry, it’s not all poop jokes from here. This is a website of letters. Letters I have written to various companies or people to beat back life’s inexorable tide of boredom because I never could quite get the hang of alcoholism, despite my better efforts. Some are stupid, most are silly, and all of them are abundantly self-indulgent. I hope you’ll enjoy. If you don’t, then I'll probably be sad, because my sense of worth is directly tied to the approval of others in deep and unhealthy ways.
I suppose that we should begin things ab initio, which is Latin for “instant abs.” The first letter I ever seriously wrote in jest was as a sophomore in college. I had just received a citation for parking my car in a University Vehicles Only spot for about an hour. While I'd like to claim that it was an innocent mistake, I was really just being a dick and hoped I wouldn't get caught. Of course, when I came back to my car there was a nasty little piece of karma neatly tucked beneath my wiper, which informed me in unkind formalese that I owed the usurious fee of $50.
Now, that was a lot of greenbacks to College Me (as well as to Current Me, as I am an eternally frugal asscake). So, I righteously stormed onto the campus PD website and found an appeal form, which specifically mentioned that poor excuses would not be tolerated. Excuses such as, “I had no idea I wasn’t supposed to park there,” which after an hour or so of brainstorming was the only thing I could come up with. So, without much hope and feeling a little silly, I wrote the following as my reason for appeal:
My car was in labor, and there was no time. I had to get her to the hospital as fast as possible. I rushed her to the delivery room, and waited all day for the birth of our firstborn child. After hours of anticipation, the moment finally came. I couldn't help myself, and despite the doctor's orders I looked under the hood to see my beautiful baby. It was a Nissan. A Nissan! My car is a Toyota. Outraged by the infidelity of my sugarbaby, I took her immediately from the delivery room, drove back to campus, and parked her illegally in a University Vehicles Only spot, where I left her to think about what she'd done. After 30 minutes I couldn't bear what I'd done any longer, and when I went back to her she had been ticketed. We've had a long talk, and we're still very much in love and have decided to raise the baby together. I need this money. We need this money. Think of the baby. Please. Think of the baby.
A few days later, I got a notification informing me that my fine had been reduced to $25. To me, it was the sweetest victory imaginable—aside from a slightly greater reduction in fine but whatever—and it gave me my first taste of what sweet harvest a little ridiculousness could bring.
I got my second helping a few weeks later. I was taking a Rhetoric class that semester (obligatory shoutout to Dr. Buckley, whose memory still gives me great compunction because one day he offered to buy the whole class pizza and like a selfish douche-nugget I ordered an entire extra-large on his dime and ate the whole thing plus several other students' slices. Foreshadowing: I really like pizza).
As it turns out, that class had a unit on “Idiot Letters.” These were letters composed by one Paul Rosa, written to various institutions from the perspective a complete and total buffoon. He published these letters in a book, and while I haven’t read it I encourage everyone to do so because it is probably infinitely superior to what you’ll see here and what I am ultimately doing is cramping his OG style; let it be known that I have no illusions of originality. Paul Rosa, if you're out there, and you're angry, just know that I think you're very handsome and would like to firmly squeeze your bicep. (It's come to my attention that this has been done by lots of people, Ted L Nancy being another notable example. My offer to fondly squeeze your bicep still stands though, Mr. Rosa.)
Anyway, we read one or two of Rosa's letters in class, then were tasked with crafting a piece of our own. Perhaps my mind was seeded with the parking story from earlier that month, because I opted to write to Toyota. I sent the following letter to their customer service department. It’s not my best work, but much like how Germany openly acknowledges its Nazi past, so too shall I embrace my less-than-perfect beginnings.
A couple of weeks after I sent this, I opened my mail, and lo! There was a package. It was the box of replacement loofahs I requested from my Mom the week before (I am a vigorous body scrubber). But the next day, another package arrived. It was from Toyota! I ripped it open, and inside was an egregiously oversized black and red polo with the Toyota logo smooched above the breast. It was magnificent. It was resplendent. It was totally unwearable. But I was giddy with accomplishment. I can’t remember what grade I got for that assignment, but I think it’s safe to assume that my professor smiled lovingly, tussled my hair, and wrote waxing odes to me in his diary that night.
Unfortunately, all traces of that shirt have long since succumbed to the vacuous chasm of time. Had I known then that this would be an activity I would continue much later in life then I would have saved that glorious piece of apparel. But alas, I was a college student. I was busy drinking my bodyweight in Natty Ice and getting summarily rejected by girls above, within, and well below my league.
It would be almost a decade before I wrote another letter of this sort. But that's a story for another week.