Dear Professor,
I was in my minivan on I-84 the other day, on my way to a
heterosexual wedding, when I felt the sudden urge to take a leak. I got off the
nearest exit and found a small Starbucks close to the ramp. I parked my van amid
a sea of Razor scooters and DeLoreans and hurried into the café.
Inside, I waited in line for fifteen minutes until I was finally
able to ask the barista where the bathrooms were. He was a typical barista –
handlebar mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, gnarly lobotomy scar. The guy told me
I had to buy something first.
“Fine.”
I said, “Give me a cherry Slurpee.”
“Errr
we don’t sell Slurpees,” the little shit retorted. “You want a coffee?”
“Sure,”
I said.
“What
size?” he asked.
“Medium,”
I said.
“Errr
we don’t have conventional sizes;” he said,
“Short, tall, grande, or venti?”
Overwhelmed
and bewildered, I snapped. I said, “Have you ever held the still-beating heart
of an Al-Qaeda-trained guard caracal and watched it die quietly outside the
walls of Hussein’s fortress? Didn’t think so. Tall coffee. Black. I’ll be in
the bathroom.”
Well,
I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a black coffee waiting for me when I finished pissing.
I grabbed my drink and found a beanbag chair by the window. From my seat, I
observed the other patrons with disgust. At every table sat a bloody hipster.
Right
now you’re probably asking: What in the hell is a hipster? You may not know it,
but you’ve certainly seen them. They have names like Teri or something. They stuff
their unkempt hair in quirky straw fedoras. They take their long boards to
their community college psychology classes. You know, the type you follow home from
class in your minivan and shine a laser pointer in their bedroom window while
they sleep to evoke the dangerous, ambiguously sexual memories of your Navy
Seal days.
Well,
this place was rotten with them. I was noticing this when I suddenly felt a
hand on my shoulder. Instinctively, I assumed a wide-based sparring stance. However,
as I turned to square off with my attacker, I noticed the man was no hipster,
but a trooper. He told me I was under arrest for the harassment of Teri Q.
Publick, and that I have the right to remain silent, and yadda, yadda, yadda.
If I had a nickel …
So,
I began to ask the trooper, “Have you ever held the still-beating heart of an
Al-Qaeda-trained guard caracal and watched it – ” when it all went black.
I
woke up, I’m told, a few hours later. My forehead was throbbing and I could see
it was colorfully swollen in the large mirror-wall on the other side of the sterile
room.
I
was cuffed to a table across from an empty chair. There was a really bright LED
lamp coming down from the ceiling. A man in cop regalia came into the room. I
couldn’t see his face at first, as I had just stared directly into the lamp.
After a minute, I recognized him as the cop from Starbucks.
He
asked the standard questions: “Where were you on the night of July 16th?”
“What is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Publick?” “How many times are
you gonna keep doing this?” “Are you wearing makeup?” Et cetera.
I
knew not to answer until my lawyer was present, so I plead the fifth. Well, it
turns out my go-to guy, Danny ”Bag of Doughnuts” Feldstein, Esq., skipped town
in the face of an embezzlement indictment.
So,
I called my cousin, Vinny, who agreed to represent me when the case goes to
trial next month. I know what you’re thinking: That’s just like that movie, A Few Good Men.
As
I write this, I’m sitting in my holding cell with a man by the name of La
Licuadora. He told me he’s a Latin King. I said, “That’s funny, ‘cause I’m a
Latifah Queen.” Admittedly, not my A-material, but there was no need for him to
fly off the handle like that.
The
guards sent him to solitary for a day. I’ve felt like I’ve been walking on eggshells
ever since he got back. He just sits in the corner, chewing on a bar of soap,
muttering, “Matar a blanquito.” I wish I knew French.
Long
story short, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to psych class tomorrow
night.
Best,
Inmate 32146 “Bag of Doughnuts”
59870
PS: If you see Teri in
class, tell her I said, “Sleep tight.” She’ll know what that means.
PPS: Is there any chance
you could wire me some money for bail and a motel? Feldstein really did a
number on my assets.
