In an open letter to the middle-aged man sitting at an adjacent table talking to another middleaged man,
“Did you just say ‘sex couches’?”
“Did you just say ‘sex couches’?”
“So, here’s the thing. A human would know that if a certain four letter word has been used, that all of the following gerunds would feature a dropped g.”
“Yes, I meant hotep, not hotel.”
“Sir, my son told me all about that.”
“I bet your pre-baby body was slammin.'”
“Hi! I’m glad that you were able to tell me what the problem is. Thanks for that. I guess that I also appreciate your admiration of my president Pez dispensers. I was less of a fan of the way that you walked around them so that you could fully take them in. I didn’t mind your comments on how cool you thought my son’s Rubik’s cubes are. While I thought it was strange that you pulled a chair from the table and sat down while you gave me the receipt for my downpayment for the upcoming scheduled repair, I didn’t quite mind it. My eyebrow raised a bit when you said that I couldn’t possibly do THAT much baking and cooking as you eyed my cookbooks. It’s when you continued that line of small talk and commented that I don’t weigh 350 pounds, informing me that ‘the best cooks always do’ that I put you firmly in the taking liberties category.”
“I need you more now than I have ever needed you. Can you visit me tonight while I sleep, you know, in my dreams? You can do whatever you want. You can read legislation verbatim. Bring Jill, brush her hair. Anything. You might be the only thing that can stop me from having another dream where I sexually harass the current president-elect and get told off be a lecture hall full of voyeurs. Please help if you can.”
“Bold choices, sir, bold choices. Way to do you, though. Way to do you.”
“Thanks to you, I can remember the open letters that come to me when I am out in the world gawking at innocent people who are out there just trying to live.”