Merry Christmas, fags. Here's your gift. I wrote this Tuesday night for my friends' enjoyment and they liked it so much that I decided I'd take it a step up and post it on the mainstream Intrawebz.
Dear Starbucks Cashier Who Works The Monday Morning Shift,
Gosh, I'm so sorry. Where were my manners? Usually, I come in an order a large house blend or whatever it's called. Then you correct me ("a venti?"), and in seconds you give me my coffee. For all your hard work, I tip you with smile and thank you, and you return the favor. And every time you smile, I just have this feeling, you know? Like you're genuinely smiling back at me; like you're happy to serve me my large-- sorry, venti-- coffee. It's a glorious way to start the week, and I'm sure you feel the same way.
Well, I had a bad weekend, which left me awfully grumpy come Monday. I regret to say that we exchanged nothing but coffee and money that stolid morning. No smiles, no thanks. But perhaps through your compassion and understanding, you will forgive me of this heinous deed.
You see, on Sunday my wife and I got into an argument about something or other. I think this time it was how my boy Johnny doesn't want to play football but I'm "forcing him" to play. Whatever. It's mostly a blur. All I remember is that she deserved it; she always does. But this time she deserved more than just a black eye. I'll save you the gruesome details and skip to the part where I loaded a cadaver up in the back trunk. It was quickly disposed of in the lake about two miles from my house. And while driving home-- just my luck-- I get a blowout. Well, darn. I knew I should have filled the tire up with air; it had been pretty flat for awhile. Luckily I had a spare and a jack, but it still took me a good forty minutes to change the damned thing. I got home, but not in time: I had already missed about half of the week's new episode of "24." So naturally, I was very upset.
I'm a big fan of "24." Personally I can't see how anybody can hate the show. (My wife didn't like the show, but what did she know?) Kiefer Sutherland is a brilliant actor. He's a real man, a man's man. And I think it's neat how they allot every season to be twenty-four episodes, as to comply with the show's title. It's those small details that really give the show its charm.
In the end, though, I concede that there's no good excuse for not thanking you for your hard work, and I'm a terrible person for having not done so. The whole ordeal devastates me as I'm sure it devastates you. I'm not sure if God will forgive me, but I don't care, really; I just ask for your forgiveness. After all, it's not often that I forget my manners. I hope that next week, when I come in and go through our regular routine, you follow suit and do your part to keep the tradition alive. It would really please me.
But if you don't forgive me, I'll understand. Honest.
Besides, there's always more room in the lake.
Sincerely,
Robert Cramer
Dear Starbucks Cashier Who Works The Monday Morning Shift,
Gosh, I'm so sorry. Where were my manners? Usually, I come in an order a large house blend or whatever it's called. Then you correct me ("a venti?"), and in seconds you give me my coffee. For all your hard work, I tip you with smile and thank you, and you return the favor. And every time you smile, I just have this feeling, you know? Like you're genuinely smiling back at me; like you're happy to serve me my large-- sorry, venti-- coffee. It's a glorious way to start the week, and I'm sure you feel the same way.
Well, I had a bad weekend, which left me awfully grumpy come Monday. I regret to say that we exchanged nothing but coffee and money that stolid morning. No smiles, no thanks. But perhaps through your compassion and understanding, you will forgive me of this heinous deed.
You see, on Sunday my wife and I got into an argument about something or other. I think this time it was how my boy Johnny doesn't want to play football but I'm "forcing him" to play. Whatever. It's mostly a blur. All I remember is that she deserved it; she always does. But this time she deserved more than just a black eye. I'll save you the gruesome details and skip to the part where I loaded a cadaver up in the back trunk. It was quickly disposed of in the lake about two miles from my house. And while driving home-- just my luck-- I get a blowout. Well, darn. I knew I should have filled the tire up with air; it had been pretty flat for awhile. Luckily I had a spare and a jack, but it still took me a good forty minutes to change the damned thing. I got home, but not in time: I had already missed about half of the week's new episode of "24." So naturally, I was very upset.
I'm a big fan of "24." Personally I can't see how anybody can hate the show. (My wife didn't like the show, but what did she know?) Kiefer Sutherland is a brilliant actor. He's a real man, a man's man. And I think it's neat how they allot every season to be twenty-four episodes, as to comply with the show's title. It's those small details that really give the show its charm.
In the end, though, I concede that there's no good excuse for not thanking you for your hard work, and I'm a terrible person for having not done so. The whole ordeal devastates me as I'm sure it devastates you. I'm not sure if God will forgive me, but I don't care, really; I just ask for your forgiveness. After all, it's not often that I forget my manners. I hope that next week, when I come in and go through our regular routine, you follow suit and do your part to keep the tradition alive. It would really please me.
But if you don't forgive me, I'll understand. Honest.
Besides, there's always more room in the lake.
Sincerely,
Robert Cramer
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