Dear NFL Players

Please stop celebrating every fucking thing you do on the field as if it’s some sort of massive achievement.

You ran for two yards and picked up the first down.  BFD.  You don’t need to strike a pose.

You sacked the quarterback.  You don’t need to stand over him.  All you did was your fucking job.  Get up and go back to your side.

You break six tackles en route to a 74-yard touchdown run?  Sure, spike the ball, do a touchdown dance.  Your sack was on fourth down and effectively ends the game?  I suppose you can celebrate.

This isn’t Madden.  Nobody thinks you da bomb because you caught a pass.  Act like you’ve been there before.

Dear “JB”

On “The NFL Today”, James Brown just previewed a game between two longtime rivals, then tossed to Dan Fouts at the game with the question “Are you expecting another chapter in this battle to be written today?”.

Of course he is.  In that book metaphor, each game is a chapter.  Essentially, your question was “Dan, do you expect these two teams to play today?”

You should try to not say stupid things.

Dear Guy Who Called the Pizza Place

When I was there picking up my dinner, you called and placed an order just as I was walking in.  It took a couple of minutes for you to go through the process of placing your order, and when you finished, the clerk put you on hold to get your total.  I overheard her tell you it was $45 and change and it would be ready in 45 minutes to an hour.

And as the clerk was entering your information into the credit card machine, she stopped for a moment, then said to you “Yep, about 45 minutes to an hour.”  And a moment later, she said “Okay”, hung up the phone and crossed out everything she’d just written.

Here’s the thing: if you call a pizza place on a Saturday night and order $45 worth of food (which I’m guessing was in the neighborhood of three or four pizzas plus breadsticks and all that extra crap), you can’t reasonably expect them to get your order ready in ten minutes.  Quite frankly, 45 minutes seems pretty damned fast for that much food.

Dear Spammers

Do you really think that posting dozens of comments to my little dog and pony show here will actually get you something?

You suck.  That’s why I had to turn off comments.

Dear Guy Sitting Outside My Window In His Car


I was just sitting here thinking to myself “Gee, I really wish there was someone outside in their car playing their really, really shitty music really loudly so I could have to listen to it against my will.”

And then you pulled up.

You’re the best.  Your music, not so much.

Dear Woman at the Laundromat

It’s perfectly reasonable for you to put your clothes in a dryer, and it’s perfectly reasonable for you to put four quarters into the dryer, and it’s perfectly reasonable to ask the attendant how long the dryer will run on four quarters, and it’s perfectly reasonable for you to leave for a while when she tells you “about twenty minutes”.

But you really don’t need to tell the attendant “I’ll be back” when you leave.

No one ever thought that you might be a clothes-abandoner, here to drop all of your clothing in a dryer, drop a buck into the slot, then leave, never to be seen again.

Dear NFL

You’re making a big deal this weekend (week 6 of the 2015 season) everywhere you can that next week’s game in London will be streaming live on the Internet for the first time ever.

Wikipedia says the first ever live stream was 22 years ago.  There are literally thousands of live streams from various sources on the Internet.  This isn’t a big deal.  It’s you finally pulling your heads out of your asses and figuring out that this Internets thing might stick around for a while.