An open letter to a guy named Dick

An open letter to a guy named Dick

There is no language filter on this column. Please avert your sensitive eyes.

Dear Dick, (Can I call you Dick? Great.)

I wanted to drop you a line to let you know how much I appreciate your service. See, I recognize now the elements of complacency in myself which led to you smashing my passenger side window and stealing my bag and all the stuff in it. I like to think that I am a reasonably savvy person. I suppose it's my fault for either leaving my bag in my car or not hiding it well enough to be hidden from your probably half-assed scan through the parking lot of Harry's Uptown Bar & Grill and Margarita's Cantina. My bad, some might say; those same people would also say you asked for it if you left the house in a short skirt. Fuck those people.

When I parked in that lot at whatever time I arrived, it was quite full yet I was able to park in the center row in the second closest space to the entrances of both Harry's and Margarita's. By the time I left a couple of hours later (but still not terribly late), the lot had all but cleared and my car was suddenly one of two in the row. I didn't notice until I got in my car that you had shattered my window; it was a few sickened, rage-filled moments later that I realized something like $2,000 of my property was missing.

I was mad at myself for leaving the bag in the car. I was mad at you, because you are a meth-addled waste of humanity whose barrel-scraping joke of an existence must be subsidized by the things other people pay for. I can only hope that the methamphetamines I've enabled you to purchase tonight are in some way polluted and cause you some sort of horrible pain and, perhaps, violent public diarrhea.

I'd like to thank you on behalf of Safelite Autoglass, who are big fans of your work. They'll be visiting me to collect the $100 deductible while you vainly attempt to achieve access to my password-protected laptop. I almost hope you do get access to it, you addle-brained nitwit, because doing so will ping the servers and send alerts to me, the cops, and the A Team to your stupid home, which incidentally I really hope burns down while you're asleep.

I can say that with impunity because I don't imagine you're a family man, Dick. If your home burned down I don't imagine much would be lost. Well, not much of yours, anyway. I'm 50/50 on whether you own a bed frame or just have a mattress on the floor, Dick. Either way, I bet it is disgusting.

I bet my awesome Timbuk2 bag, which I loved, will look great with your giant "MISFITS" patch or whatever the fuck other nonsense you put on it. I hope you'll find use for the other stuff in there, and perhaps you'll contact me about buying an ad with F5 now that you've seen our media kit and know how great our rates are. You used douche.

Maybe you'll do me a favor and go around town putting up those nice, expensive, glossy printed flyers for Dead Martin in places around town where you go to sell your sexual favors for a few dollars at a time. Be sure to take a sharpie and change the time to 11 p.m. on all those, because it's been moved to half an hour later, you corpse's dingleberry.

I might be mistaken. This might be the first time you've committed such a crime, and perhaps you are wracked with guilt over the fact that you may've cost someone a great deal of money, time and energy on the fucking day they were to be a pallbearer at their aunt's funeral. Yup, thanks to you I had to rent a car because driving at highway speeds in 18 degree weather in a car full of broken glass sounded like almost as much fun as calling my bereaved parents and letting them know there was a chance I might have trouble getting to the funeral.

Let me tell you a little story. I was in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 2006. My friend Jamie took me out to a horrible club to drink vodka and smoke cigars. Before long, we were summoned by two very Bratva looking guys to a table in the center of the room where one of the largest men I've ever seen told us we would "sit, drink vodka and speak English with Max."

Max was the one speaking. We kept up with Max, drinking and talking all night. Turns out, Max was the (if I remember correctly) Russian Greco-Roman wrestling champion. This dude was HUGE. Anyway, as the night ended, Jamie and I realized that combined we did not weigh what Max did and we'd been drinking at his pace, so we were basically made of Jell-O by this point. Max was ready to leave, and his two scary thugs stayed behind while Max walked us downstairs and out. We got our coats and belongings, and Max stopped us and said "Anything you two want, you want girls, you want favor, you want… anything, just find me, because we are friends now. You are my friends."

Then he flicked his neck twice with his middle finger, a gesture I'd seen seemingly-connected Russians use before. We then went out the door, Jamie and I first. Some dudes in line recognized Max as soon as he exited and jumped him.

Four, then five, then seven guys were trying to mess with this ridiculous mountain of a dude. They were literally hanging off of his neck and arms. Max won that fight, Dick. Imagine if Andre the Giant was fast as Batman, blind drunk and didn't fight fair. I will never forget that night; it really happened.

You make me want to look Max up. It's always nice to reconnect with old friends. You two should meet, I'm sure you'd get along. Even If I could find him, you're not worth calling in that theoretical favor, but boy does it do my heart good to imagine.

I won't keep you, Dick, I'm sure you're busy what with all of the petty theft and probably low margins selling things you steal from the Harry's parking lot. I just wanted to say that I hope you are abducted by a cartel who sells you to a heroin ring which rents you out as a ladyboy in Bangkok's red light district. Everyone loves to travel. Peace!