Tuesday, December 18, 2007

A Letter to Bookstore Patrons Concerning Courtesy

Originally written on Dec. 18, 2007 on Gamerswithjobs.com, http://www.gamerswithjobs.com/node/36472. That post included pictures that have been removed from this version to keep in style with a strictly text format.

Dear Stupid, Cheap, Small-Handed, Chimp-Faced, Simpletons,

I write you today to discuss one of the last few places that I actually enjoy shopping, the bookstore. Any multimillion dollar, built-in-a-day, same-across-America bookstore, where everything is brown, piano music is playing, and coffee shop is included.

Picture yours now for me. Is your local text peddler dancing vividly in your mind?

Good. Let's take a little mental tour, now, to a special little spot in the store. Through the front door, past the podiums of latest editions and tired old rehashes, beyond the middle of the store info-desk, nestled sweetly between the teen dramas and the Sci-fi section.

The graphic novel stand. So glorious. So beautiful.

But, wait. Oh no, something is amiss. Now that my tears of joy have run from my eyes I can see a little more clearly. It's, oh it's not perfect at all.

Covers are creased. Nay, torn! The alphabetical order is that of a madman. DC and Marvel are mixed! Why on Earth is thy symmetry so disheveled? Who would do such a thing as to disturb our sacred tomes?

Oh, that's right! It's YOU, you @#$% half-wit, sticky fingered, excuse for an adult!

Don't act so surprised &%#face!

I was on to you as soon as you walked in the store. A slouched, wheezing carapace, with a barely noticeable 6 weeks beard growth sporadically battling the macaroni and cheese on your face from lunch. Your globe-like form adorned with a cracked brown leather jacket, vaguely reminiscent of Dr. Jones and some sort of adult 4X OshKosh B'Gosh number that you've decided to leave unbuttoned so that we may gaze upon your supple, hairy teats.

You go right for them, snatching them up with all the class of a registered sex offender. Drooling cinnamon frappuccino from your gaping maw as you mouth-breathe huskily over a two page spread of Black Canary. Fumbling at the edges of the paper like you once fumbled over your sister's bra strap. Gripping the spine in your sweaty palms as you concentrate hard on not making a premature before you get to the public restroom.

Put it the %@$# down! Just put it down Stay Puft! This is a rack where people pick things up, to buy them. They haven't been put here so it's convenient for you to lock yourself in a stall with that dog-eared volume of Birds of Prey, dragging your completely bare testicles ever, ever, ever so slowly down the glossy print of each and every page.

It's supposed to work like this: I go to my local comic shop and look through his stuff. Then, if he doesn't have what I want, I whore myself down to the box store and look through their larger collection. But, the bookstore doesn't have a bigger collection, because after you've come in and smeared your bodily fluids and beverage of choice among every issue displayed, I would never decide to add these to my collection at home. Mostly because when I do eventually decide to kill you, your DNA would be all over my house.

Now, I'm not telling you to stop doing what you're doing. To put a cork in that bottle would only result in a rash of dead prostitutes. No, I'm saying that if you want to continue fornicating with the collected volumes in the comic section, then buy them first.

Or after. I really don't care. I just don't want them to be there after you leave.

I don't want to have to wonder if the white flakes on the edges of The Dark Knight Returns are more than just the remnants of your doughy breakfast.

I just want to know that if I walk up to the rack and see a graphic novel that I'd like to have, I can buy it without having to worry about the pages being creased. Or covered in powdered sugar. Or that they will give me chlamydia. Or, I mean, God knows what I could catch that I haven't even thought of, because with you, any atrocity is possible.

You see, you're disgusting. You're the big, fat, smelly stereotype that fuels a Simpsons character and, frankly, I hate you. You're not reading these to live a fantasy of a more dangerous, exciting life because you have responsibilities or bills or a wife. You're living these fantasies because you've decided to be a load that has absolutely no regard for even his fellow comic enthusiasts. You're the worst kind of fan. You're a cancer from the inside. A festering clot that disrupts the flow of the system. You see, and you want, and you take. Sitting there in dire need of a hair cut with phlegm running down your chin and gummy bears stuck all over your chubby digits.

God I hate you so much. I don't know what I would do to you if I had the power.

Chiggie Von Richthofen
Able to go wee in the potty

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

A Letter to an Apparel Distributor Concerning Durability

Dear Old Navy,

Er, you dumb, fat, chimp-like, uh. I don't know. Crack-head, idiot.


I recently bought two pairs of pants from one of your local stores here in town. I chose brown and browner trousers to replace my cargo pants that got a good healthy dose of rust from the last load in our aging washing machine. The pants purchase was a two fold act of acquiring attire that wasn't stained and trying once again to buy clothes that actually fit me. I tend to buy clothes under the pretense that I am super-gigantic and end up with legs that appear to just stop at the ground with no discernable taper or knee, like my freakishly long thighs are waiting for my real legs to attach to form some sort of Voltron robot/pro basketball player.

All was well as far as selecting and sampling your apparel in the store, so a purchase was made along with some shirts to commemorate the first time I had gone out exclusively to buy clothes for myself in about two years. Up until about 3 days ago I was pretty satisfied with my decision. Then I had a malfunction.

I say malfunction, but it was really the inevitable thread failure due to poor seam design by some overly ambitious clothing engineer. You see, these pants have a couple of superfluous pockets, as is the signature affliction of all Old Navy brand clothing, and usually I welcome the new and interesting operation of finding just what will and wont fit in my new cloth receptacles. But, my fun was cut short when your three-times-too-long change pocket, which is located inside my front right pocket, had a low level fashion hull breach and left half of said pouch free to flap around inside my pocket.

Oh dear, this won't do.

Let me give you a little background about me and clothing. Actually, cloth in general. You see, cloth has to lay flat against things. It can be curved and turned and folded as long as it isn't wrinkled against the surface it inhabits, wrinkled meaning that the fabric has unintentionally folded over on top of my skin.

Wrinkling or unintentional seaming is not to be taken lightly. Joe Haldeman even made wrinkles a cause of death in his book [b]The Forever War[/b]. So, to avoid being crushed by inertial pressure in my sleep, my towels are hung flat or laid on counter tops, bedding is properly laid out and stacked on the bed before I lay down to sleep, and pants pockets are stretched out to fall exactly as intended.

When your foolishly arrogant change pocket unraveled when I tried taking money out of it, imagine the same kind of reaction that Winnie the Pooh had when he tore the seam in his butt. Except, in place of the gentle, "Oh bother," out of a cute little bear, imagine a more appropriate, "Mother Fucker!" bursting out of a sleep deprived troll in the middle of Data Processing.

It would be an understatement to say that this ruined my day. These are damaged pants. I think the only thing that would take my mind off of them is if the damage had come from a bullet flying into my hip. Even then I wouldn't be surprised if I would be peeling the oxygen mask off of my face as I was lifted into the ambulance pleading, "no, no save them. New pants."

And do you know why I can't stand having slightly damaged clothing? It's because it means that I have to try and fix them.

Growing up with a father that could be gone for 6 months at a time means I know how to sew. With no one around to question my burgeoning manhood I didn't think twice about spending my young evenings cross-stitching with my mom while we watched Murphy Brown. I once even made a passable batman with no template to follow, but, as I got older I realized that I couldn't work cross-stitching into being "cool" along with all my smoking and listening to the Doors.

So, the dilemma arises that I know enough about sewing to repair my clothing, but am so out of practice that everything I mend is like some sort of fabricated Rorschach test. It's like a witch cursed Woody Allen to become a spider by night and half-ass together all of my trousers and polo shirts. To look at my handy work you would ask me if one of the elf cobblers was fired and had to get work in jeans and khakis to feed his family in today's inflating fantasy elf market.

Well, it was either that or the cookie tree but they're always striking over health insurance. Magical elf fathers need more stability than that.

I know that it is only a matter of days, perhaps hours, before I sit at my kitchen table with a tiny clear box of needles and thread and start the confusing task of repairing a pocket located inside of another pocket. I will have big plans for exactly how to make my stitches small and professional; confident it will look like it was sewn that way on purpose.

But, undoubtedly, I will end up making a couple of big, different colored "X's" which will effectively seal the breach, but, ascetically, make my right hip look cartoonishly deceased. That's if I'm lucky. In all honesty I'll probably spend most of the night delicately re-opening the pocket I've just sewn completely shut.

All of this adds up to make me thoroughly disgusted with the "sewmanship" work on my pants. My wife tells me that these things happen. I wear pants everyday and am rough on my clothes so I should expect rips and tears and unravelings. That's fair enough, but after only two or three weeks? Come on, I work tech support, I'm not [i]that[/i] hard on my clothes on a day to day basis. If I'm doing home repairs or yard work I wear jeans, and [i]they[/i] don't rip. Why can't your pants hold up to office work? What demographic were you going for when you stress tested these garments? Paraplegic? Coma patient? Burial clothes?

I'm not asking that they withstand an explosion but they should be able to withstand a dollar seventy-five in change. Most of that was quarters. You have to understand that some of your customers are going to be paranoid and neurotic; that a small failure in one quadrant of my attire means to me that another is not far behind. So, I'm not only worried about the pockets, but now I'm questioning every seamed surface there is.

How long before I bend too hard to sit at a restaurant and tear the inseam right up the middle? My exposed scrotum hitting the cold pleather of the booth seat at the Macaroni Grill sending me reflexively jumping into our table. The impact would send our pitcher of iced tea hurtling towards my wife who would instinctively duck, letting the heavy glass container strike the back of the head of the man in the booth next to us. The impact would send his head down toward his plate with enough velocity to completely impale the tines of his fork deep into his face, pinning the crab stuffed mushroom he was trying to enjoy between the table and his fucking forehead.

Is that what you want? You want that man's blood on your hands? I didn't think so!

So let's make a deal Old Navy. You want me to get my Fash' On? Why don't you get your Quality Merchandise On first, you fucking dingleberries.


Chiggie Von Richthofen

Dreading the day he kills someone with his bare testicles

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

A Letter to Fast Food Window Attendants Concerning Service

Dear vacuum filled, customer ignoring, vocational rejects,


I'm fine, thank you.

No, I don't want a chicken poppler, thanks. I would like a chicken Caesar salad with a …


With a coke.

No, a coke! A coca-cola, you – yes!

What? What do you mean what kind of drink would I like? A coke you goddamned idiot!

Ok, you know what? No more stupid questions from you. My turn to talk.

You know what pisses me off? You make me jump through all these hoops when we both know that after I'm done trying to speak English to you, you're just going to give me whatever the hell you happen to find laying around anyway.

I mean seriously. It's like you all aren't even humans. You're some race of sub-sapien troglodytes that have been trained to parrot human speech phonetically to fool me into thinking that you have heard and understood my food order.

Like some sort of "invasion of the body snatchers" scene you've descended onto our blue planet completely undetected, but, instead of world domination, you've been sent here to give me curly fries. Curly fries; every damn time, in every damn Arby's, in every damn parish and county from here to Memphis.

I don't want curly fries, you fucking imposters, because curly fries are just regular French fries that were supposed to be delicious and satisfying but somewhere along the way from their harvest to this window they got fucked up so bad that their very existence is a blatant insult to my face.

Think of them as a dramatic, potato, reenactment of your own life.

You know, actually, I want to think you are a failed alien invasion because I don't want to admit to myself that humanity is capable of the lows exhibited in select drive thru windows everyday across America. That idea chills my blood, so, I sit in my care and I think of all the things you might be other than a complete waste of air and water.

Maybe you're some sort of government program to discourage our country from consuming so much fast food. Or, maybe you're some sort of malfunctioning holographic A.I. Maybe you're a spy who has just murdered the real window person and has to wing it on what little English the KGB taught you to keep from blowing your cover.



"Sooooo, you got my food?"

"Hallo. Walcome to Amareecan place of foods."

"Hey, they must be training you guys. You're much better than last week."

"Da. Are you likingk, sauces?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not?"

You get the idea, and really, I don't care what the reason is. I just want there to be some reason other than someone being that bad at their job.

I mean, I go up to the window and it's the same damn routine every time.

What is this, a duffle bag? Why is this bag big enough for me to use as a fucking Barney Rubble costume? I'm just getting one hamburger. Is this where all the big bags have gone when I actually do get a lot of food? Because it seems like when I actually get enough food for two people you just duct tape a plastic bag around the pile and dump the whole package in my lap like a kilo of blow.

And, why is there more coke on the outside of my drinks than in them? Are you stupid or are you trying to send me a message? Look, if you don't like my face, just go in the back and piss in my drink like a normal person. Don't hand me this Dr. Pepper bukkake nightmare with a big smile on your face sputtering, "here's your ant bait sir, please pull forward and we'll bring your food out to you."

No! I will not pull forward! Why don't you pull forward, so you can go fuck yourself!

Other drive-thru services have figured this out. It's only the fast food that is lagging behind. The rest have got it under control. They never give me someone else's booze at the liquor store drive-thru. I don't ever get half a shirt from the dry cleaners. And, it's not like I drive away from the pharmacy and ever find a handful of loose vicodin at the bottom of the bag.

Believe me, I check, every time.

And, I know that you all are paid less than the money it takes for a bus ticket home but there comes a point where the abuse and neglect just pushes me right into "I don't give half a rat shit" territory. It gets to the point where I'm sure that even with your paltry wages it would be more cost effective for the store to just install a machine at the window that, when detecting a customer has pulled up, just sprays mace right in their damn eyes and then plays a recording of laughter. At least then I'd know what kind of shit I was about to get myself into every time I had the munchies for some nuggets.

At the end of the day all I can do is thank God that you people haven't wandered into any other aspect of the food industry.

I swear if one of you ever found work at a local Pizza Hut, you'd spend all of your time delivering a turd in a shoe box to the wrong house a week late.

At least then I'd start getting my cold turds for free.

Chiggie Von Richthofen
I -aid c—ke –ou f—k—ng id—t!

Thursday, July 26, 2007

A Letter to Commercial Drivers Concerning the Road

Dear stupid and/or psychotic CDL carrying chimpanzee CRACK HEADS,

Where are you going?

WHERE are you going?


I shout only because I want my question to be heard over the roar of blood in your ears as you suddenly wake up in the cab of your 18 wheeler only to find yourself actually mother fucking driving said vehicle down I-30 at three in the afternoon when you were sure that you were still at the Petro station snoring on top of an open Easy Rider with half a bottle of Jack next to your smoke stained face!

10 minutes ago I was looking at the back of a USA Truck trailer and now I could swear that I was watching some drunken circus bear on a unicycle attempt to balance a ten foot high stack of pancakes on top of his head.

Seriously. What is so urgent inside that tiny cockpit that you think it appropriate to sashay 20 tons of steel across the world's largest catwalk, a.k.a., my goddamned lane? Did some wires in the engine get crossed causing the inside of the cab to become immediately electrified? Or perhaps, maybe, that colony of lice that has been living, nay, thriving on your furry ass has decided to stage a coup against the fleas on your back and a violent skirmish has ensued? Maybe you just got the funk and all you want to do is shake what the good lord gave you.

Regardless of the reason you have got to make a decision. Pull the hell off the road, or learn how to control your disco fever ass because there are people around you trying not to get crushed like a coke can by a truck full of official Bratz merchandise bound for the nearest Super Target, and you've got to cut that swerving shit out! You look like the pirate ship ride at Six Flags. I don't know whether I'm supposed to pass you or just wait in line until it's my turn to ride.

I mean, you have got to feel that right? That double load of wood that is swaying back and forth so hard the sawdust is spraying across my windshield? You know what a windshield is right? That is the object that normal, mortal, people use to protect their face and bodies from wind and whatever else might try to enter through the front of their vehicle. But, when I get into the territory of hoping the windshield will stop things from your truck bed, well, it would be like me hoping a condom would stop a bullet.

You make me wish I had two different horns. One that makes a normal honk noise and one that makes a noise like a crowd of women screaming. The kind of hysterical group scream that would occur if someone was shot outside of a deli in some late 50s gangster flick. That way you could get the full emotional effect of my warning. Honk would mean that you need to go at a green light. Screaming women would mean that you are about to roundhouse kick my van with an oversized pallet of steel girders.

Would that work? Would screaming women be enough? Do I need to get more basic than that to get your attention? Maybe I could get a horn that sounds like a large explosion, or maybe a dinosaur. Perhaps an air raid horn complete with dive bomber and anti-aircraft fire sound effects might make a bigger impression.

Maybe I should just build I giant plywood costume around my work van so that I look like a bigger vehicle. Use some animal kingdom psychology on the road and just fool the trucks into thinking that I am one of you.

Then again this might just be taken as a sign of aggression and dominance and the next thing I know I'd be rammed off the road by some jealous psychopathic Optimus Prime in his attempt to keep me from fucking his hot truck wife.

Really, my only recourse is to avoid you Mad Max motherfuckers at all costs. I have to keep my driving loose and adaptive so that I can take evasive maneuvers against you giant deranged land asteroids at a moment's notice, all the time John Williams urging me to get closer to one of the big ones.

All I'm asking is that you guys try to be a little more aware of the world outside of your cab interior. Try to realize that when you are bending over to reach that SlimJim under your break pedal that the swerving that ensues is a little disturbing to some of the other drivers. Some of the other drivers meaning all of the other drivers, and swerving meaning destructive homicidal rampage.

If you're tired, pull over.

If you're drunk, pull over.

If you are swerving violently to knock off the gremlin tearing out pieces of your engine in the middle of a thunderstorm, for fuck's sake, pull over! He's small, you could probably take him in a fist fight.

Thanks and Sincerely,
Chiggie Von Richthofen
The man you just ran into a XXX Super Store billboard

Monday, June 4, 2007

A Letter to Shoppers Concerning Personal Boundaries

Dear Stupid shaved orangutans trained to buy things,

Get the hell back from me in line before I pick up my entire buggy and start clubbing you with it until it shatters into pieces and I use the pieces to kill you!

What is your problem with the line at the supermarket? Why do you think it's necessary that I feel your meaty, ho-ho breath on the back of my neck? Can you not see that we are, in fact, lined up in front of the cash register? We are adults, we should all understand that everyone will be served in the order that we individually concluded the "gathering" phase of our trip and lined up for the "paying" phase. Believe me, if I could cut in line I would. I don't, so that means that it's not allowed, hence taboo, hence back the fuck off. Your Cheetos aren't going to spoil during your wait.

I have a very simple philosophy when it comes to personal space: If you are close enough behind me for me to elbow you in the throat, then you are too close. I am always flabbergasted when people don't show the same natural aversion to being that close to someone. I don't want to be elbowed in the throat, so, I practice the preventative measure of placing myself out of elbow range. The same goes for children but it's not my throat I want to protect. For them it's preventing the "Shaolin Palm Strike" to my man tackle. Either way I figure 3 or 4 feet will place me out of their "no-fly" zone and keep me from having to clutch my windpipe or bend over to gather my nuts and berries after they've kicked over my basket.

Apparently I'm in the minority since I went to the supermarket twice this last weekend and once I felt a wet cough on the back of my neck and the other time, well, I'm pretty sure some old guy touched my ass. Hey, Walmart! Want people to like shopping at your store? Don't move the shoes closer to the sporting goods, I don't mind walking, just try to keep the molestation to a minimum if you can, thanks. That shower rape vibe is probably hurting sales a little bit.

Another thing that churns my butter (wait, is that an angry euphemism or a sexy one?).

Fine, another thing that really pisses me off is the fucking kids all over the place. When did the grocery store become a goddamned ball pit? Why do I have to swerve and dodge to avoid these random "Superstore Orphans" all the time? If you want to take your kid to the store, fine, whatever, but don't take them there just to dump them off. A chain store is not a nanny. I know that you got pregnant young and that you wanted to be a make-up girl at Dillard's and now instead you actually have to work to feed your kid, but guess what? It didn't work out the way you had planned it in your 90210 Trapper Keeper! If you want to be a negligent parent do it away from me. Just leave your kid in the bathtub at home with the door locked or something. Don't bring him here and tell him to go "look around."

Now, I'm not talking about a good parent whose kid got away from them. I was a kid, I understand that they are faster than adults, and sneaky, and mean. I don't even care if the kid goes apeshit and runs into me, just as long as I know you are going to beat him within an inch of his life once you catch him. Hell, that's entertaining.

No, I'm talking about those parents that let their kids wander around until they are dry humping my leg and all I here is, "Jimmy. Jimmy, no honey. No, Jimmy. No. No, we don't do that. We don't do that to people. Jimmy, no. Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy." Jimmy is about to get his little ass shoved into this prefabricated armoire display! Get. Your. Fucking. Kid.

On second thought, I probably wouldn't hurt that kid, it's not his fault that he thinks his middle name is "Don't Touch." I think I'd rather hurl his androgynous, 90 lb. father into the Budweiser display that looks like a football goal. Or maybe throw him up that hanging inflatable Shrek's ass.

It's people like that, the people that think the market is an extension of their house, that make it hard to acquire the most basic needs. Things like milk and bread and popcorn and beef jerky. They just make me crazy! I want to run up to the two ladies fighting over the last box of cake mix and kick in between their heads, knocking them both out, like Neo on the rooftop fighting the SWAT guys.

It's getting ridiculous and I just don't understand. All you have to do is back off. Give me and everyone else room to move and room to breath. Just because we are in a corporate machine doesn't mean we have to meander around like sheep. You're a human being, or a reasonable attempt at one, and you should respect yourself and others enough to know when you've crossed the line, literally.

And get your damn hand off of my ass!

Oh, no that's ok, I understand. I looked like your grandson from the back. That's ok people make mis…Wait! WHAT?

God I hate this place!

Chiggie Von Richthofen
The Man Rocking Back and Forth in Line Mumbling Something About This Being a Bad Dream

Monday, April 9, 2007

A Letter to the Office Concerning Beverages

Dear Stupid Co-Workers,

What in the figgety fuck is your problem with the coffee pot lately? Why have I gotten to the point of making two to three pots of coffee a day when I'm still only drinking two to three cups of coffee a day? You obviously have no problem in drinking all of that dark liquid, but when it comes time to anty up and make some more OH NO! Not your job is it buddy boy? No, that's for someone else to do; someone, you know, less important that hasn't proven themselves a necessary addition to our team here.

I guess that's what you're thinking, I don't know. I don't know why you won't take 30 seconds out of your day to put a fresh packet of Community into a filter and push a button. It's hooked up to the hot water in the building; it takes more steps for me to make toast than it takes to use our coffee machines.

That's right, machines. Plural. I have to do this in different rooms on a daily basis, all the time feeling your beady scavenger eyes on my back. The shadows play across the battleship grey carpet as you circle over head so you can swoop down and take advantage of a larger animal's initiative.

I might have just kept going like this, disgruntled but silent, if I hadn't been following a fellow employee into the break room today and seen this "Joe Killer" attitude live in front of my face. We both walk in, both see the empty coffee pot, and he turns to me and shrugs, "well, I guess it's all gone," and walks off. What? Gone? It's not gone, you idiot, it's empty. This isn't a magical fucking spring! The break room isn't some enchanted glade in a forgotten wood! Coffee is the product of a deliberate action performed by a human being.

Obviously, you have some problems with the idea of where things come from, so, let me break down how some things are made in nature so you can see our place in the cosmic balance. Tiny elves in trees make cookies, old cartoon women make paper towels, grown men that dress up like the Sun make Jimmy Dean Sausage, and people that work in an office are supposed to make motherfucking coffee.

So, here's the skinny on the procedure. If you see that there isn't any more coffee, especially if you are the reason for that, make some more. Shhh! Don't talk, you'll ruin the moment. Just turn your happy ass back around, walk over to the big bad coffee pot, and perform the monkeys-can-do-it-better-than-you task of refilling the pot for the other people in the office.


No, it's not because you want to show everybody you're such a nice guy. That would only happen if you came early in the morning and made it first, like I do. No, this is because you owe it to the people that made it before you. It's because you need to get this "pay it forward" bullshit mentality out of your head when you are doing something that you are expected to do. You aren't going out of your way when you make more Joe, you're paying back the person that made it first. You're giving back to the work community, pitching in, pulling your weight. There should be a clamorous riot to get to the pot to be the next person that refills it.

That's the biggest reason Coffee Killers make me so mad. You have absolutely no drive to help out the group. You pride yourself on being part of a business team but you can't even get the little stuff right. I'm not known for my immaculate work ethic, but that doesn't mean I can't spot a bunch of Joe stealing sonsab*tches when I see them, and you bunch need to get your act together.

You all are the reason that the world hates America. I mean that.

Chiggie Von Richthofen
Not a despicable, Coffee-Killing, pencil-neck, bastard