For The Stupid Asshole Who Is Visiting The People Downstairs:

I don't even know how it is possible that you are jarring everything in the Penthouse from DOWNSTAIRS, but if anything happens to my mirror, there will be hell to pay.
I don’t even know how it is possible that you are jarring everything in the tower from below, but if anything happens to my mirror, there will be hell to pay.

Dear Stupid Drunk Asshole Who Is Visiting The People Downstairs:

There is a reason I live at the top of the tower.  Not just so I might gaze benevolently downward from the balcony of my lair upon the comings and goings of the populace under my protection whilst enjoying a magical beverage and pondering the mysteries of the universe, but also so I will not be disturbed.  And I was not.  That is, until you and some of your buddies came to visit, and I awakened to your fucking terrible karaoke rendition of “Kryptonite” at eight-goddamned-thirty this morning.  Why are you even here?  I thought those classy gals downstairs were lesbians!  If they weren’t, they for damn sure will be by the time you leave.  As I sit here, listening to you repeatedly yell the word “CHUG” interspersed with “WOOOOs!” (and that following your querulous musings on “fat chicks” and your need to “hit the gym” after the holidays) I, too, am considering the lesbian path.  That is how stupid you are, and how much you discredit your entire gender.

I had occasion to note and marvel that your outside voice doesn’t at all match your inside voice when you interrupted my evening reverie to have a heart to heart convo with your buddy on the balcony.  Inside, where the “chicks” are, you turn the bass waaaay up.  Outside with your buddy, you’re all treble, and everything you say ends with a question mark.  Interesting.  Remember this little tête-à-tête?  I do.

You:  Man, what’s the deal with all those chicks getting fatter?  It’s like all the time, every time you see some.  It’s like…what?  I don’t know?

Buddy:  Shhh, man, stop!  Haha!  Seriously, look at me, man — haha, look at you!

You:  I can’t stand fat chicks, man?  It’s like, what are you supposed to do?

Buddy:  Yeah, what can you do, man?  I know I need to hit the gym…

You:  I don’t know?  It’s like, different in the summer?  You know, when I wear like shirts and polos and stuff?  Not like a hoodie or sweater?  You know how it is around the holiday?  Moms all like preparing the feast?  I need to hit that gym up?  It’s like I shed my winter coat?

Your heart to heart convo was interrupted at that point — not only by my brain throwing up, but by some other asshole opening the door and screaming “Beer PONNNNGG!” to which you both responded in (bass) unison with “OHHHHH!” which, of course, was echoed by the army of fat(ter?) chicks, and possibly some lesbians (who were certainly not fat the last time I saw them, though I suppose that is subjective — especially if you are a stupid asshole) and certainly some more assholes inside.

I don’t need to tell you how many things were wrong with that conversation, beginning with every single thing you said and the tone you said it in, and ending with all those fucking question marks, but I CAN solve the mystery of what you are supposed to do and/or what you can do with all of those fat (possibly partially lesbian) chicks, and that is pray.  Pray to the gods that one or many of them become drunk enough to forsake the lesbian path, or the path of…having any sort of standards whatsoever, and shut you the fuck up for a minute or two by giving you something to do with your stupid mouth besides question-talk, or yell, or chug — or even worse, sing.  Christ.  None of y’all can sing worth a shit.

Yes, pray. For that is all that is left to you now.

Pray that one or more of those chicks become blind drunk enough to overlook the “winter coat” you’ve yet to shed in anticipation of the coming days of “shirts and polos?” (stupid) and/or your too-close-together eyes (Yes, I saw you.  That was me you almost knocked backwards down the stairs to the parking lot earlier with your case of Natty Light, asshole) and teaches you what you’re “supposed to do” — what you should PRAY TO THE GODS for a chance to someday do for ANY WOMAN who has the grace and wherewithal to tolerate your company for five goddamned minutes, much less going on 14 hours.  This is how you grow.  And become useful.  If the gods and/or womankind be merciful.

Prepare for battle.

Alas, I am not so merciful.  And I say to you now that an ocean of Natty Light is not sufficient to douse the flames of my fury if y’all keep fucking around down there in your mosh pit and knock my  irreplaceable mosaic mirror off the wall.  My Wondertwin bought me that, and there will be hell to pay if any harm befalls it OR the classy gals who used to inhabit the apartment downstairs.  I will kick your door in and I will fight you.  And then I will staple this letter to your shirt so your “Moms” will know what a stupid, drunk asshole you have been when you get home.  Settle down.




4 thoughts on “For The Stupid Asshole Who Is Visiting The People Downstairs:

    1. I do not know what became of the classy gals who lived downstairs. Some speculate, on spooky-looking evenings such as this one, that they transformed into stupid assholes by the light of whatever the hell kind of moon that was; others attribute the metamorphosis to an allergic reaction to Natty Light. Still others wonder if they ever existed at all.

      Sometimes we see what we want to see. And I don’t know about you, but I, for one, will go out of my way to avoid seeing stupid assholes if ever I am able.


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