The University of North Carolina

Nature of the Offense

So I'm having lunch, minding my own business the other day, when I get the following email from the University of North Carolina, which I haven't attended in 3 years:

"Hello Scott and Paul,

Since you are new Evacuation Monitors for Wilson library, please sign up for one of the training sessions listed below.

Thanks,

Eileen"

Um, what? First off, what is an "Evacuation Monitor?" It sounds like I have to watch people go to the bathroom. Second, how did I get this job? Rather than ask either of these questions, I decided to blindly accept the job and decide for myself what it consists of. The following letter is my response to this email.

The (first) Letter

Hi Eileen,

I am honored to be chosen as the new Evacuation Monitor for Wilson library. Thank you for sending me the information on the training sessions. I have booked a flight from Austin (where I am currently living) to attend. Below is my itinerary, feel free to just send me an account number for the airfare, as American has assured me they can transfer the charges for me--one of the perks of being a first-class customer, I suppose.





While I am delighted to have an excuse to travel back to Chapel Hill for a few days, I'm sure you realize that such travel is highly impractical for my day-to-day duties as Evacuation Monitor. I'm thinking that the most effective solution, as you have probably already realized, is to outfit both my office in Austin and the librarian's office in Wilson with some new telecon equipment. In the event of an emergency, I would need essentially "red-phone" access to the librarian on videoconference, so that we could quickly coordinate the evacuation. I spoke briefly with my IT guy, and he thinks the whole setup could be completed for less than ten thousand dollars (plus monthly service charges, of course). Do you have a fax number where I could send some spec sheets?



"That oughta do it."


Finally, I think that it would be most prudent for me to be provided with a firearm. I know that in the event of an evacuation situation I am most likely to be out of the state, but if a sophisticated terrorist cell were to acquire that information--and I don't see any reason why they couldn't--they could carry out a coordinated attack in which I were simultaneously compromised in order to hinder the evacuation process. In such a situation, I would need to quickly eliminate any hostile parties on my end so as to expedite the extraction of students at Wilson. Now, I already have the requisite training, but my lawyer informs the that if the school provides the actual firearm I am significantly less liable should any civilians be injured or killed in a firefight.

Again, I am very much looking forward to working with you! I'll send a fax along shortly.

Best,
Paul

The Response

"Paul,

Apparently you are the wrong Paul *********. Please disregard my email.



Eileen *****

Business Services Coordinator

UNC Chapel Hill - Wilson Library"

I love people telling me I'm the "wrong" me. I couldn't stop with this...

The (second) Letter

Eileen,

If I just disregard every email asking me to help defend America and its precious institutions of higher learning from violent terrorists, then what kind of patriot am I?

Look, maybe I was the wrong Paul ********* for your address book, but I am the right Paul ********* for the job. After being on UNC's campus during the "Pit Driver" attack, and on the University of Texas's campus for both last month's library shooting and Barack Obama's recent appearance, I have experienced, by my count, three separate attacks of domestic terrorism first-hand. Being a good Texan, I have undergone training for all munitions up to and including rocket-propelled grenades, and am more than willing to put my own safety on the line to protect UNC, its students and staff.



Legal in Texas, but there's an additional charge on your vehicle registration.


I have copied the "other" Paul ********* on this message. I am sure he will agree with me that I should take over this job. That said, Paul, I see you are a Digitization Support Technician. Would you be able to help set up some of the telecon equipment described below? I've heard bad things about Geek Squad.

Sincerely,
Paul

The Response

Eileen must be a terrorist sympathizer, because I haven't heard back from her again. Bad news for me...I booked a non-refundable flight!

New Belgium Brewery

Nature of the Offense

So I'm walking to a party with some friends, carrying lots of beers because, well, it was that kind of night. We're at a busy intersection about halfway there when...





As you can see, we didn't tear or otherwise mistreat the packaging of this batch of beer, it was the glue that quit on us. I need to be able to trust my six-packs, so I sent the following letter to New Belgium Brewery.

The Letter

Dear New Belgium,

Let me begin by saying that I enjoy your beers. It is obvious that you put real effort into your product, and you want the customer to be satisfied. However, there appears to be one weak link in the chain connecting your beer from the brewing vats and your customers' livers, and that is the packaging. Some friends and I were recently carrying a six-pack of New Belgium beers to a party when the pack suddenly expelled its contents onto the sidewalk below, sending all the beer inside into a nearby storm drain and peppering us with glass shrapnel. Since I know you are probably too smart to open attachments, I have placed photos of the resulting carnage at the following links:







Upon further inspection, we noticed that the cardboard itself was not damaged, but it was the glue that had simply given out. I should mention that other six-packs of inferior beer such as Dos Equis and Lone Star that we had brought along survived the trip just fine--evidently, you have elected to package your beer with kindergarten-grade glue, and the end result isn't pretty.

The worst part of the whole experience was that as we tried to hold a moment of silence for the recently departed beer, we were verbally assaulted by an angry enviro-nazi riding by on her bike and complaining about the wreckage. I mean, really, imagine yourself in my position: you're standing in the middle of a busy intersection ankle-deep in spilled beer, your legs bleeding from the flying glass, watching your ice-cold brews run down the drain, and here's some hairy Weezer fan chewing your ear off like you just asked her to put on some deodorant. Normally you'd just lob a spare Lone Star at her, but again, you've just lost all your good beer, and your blood isn't going to just magically increase its own alcohol content. So there she is, holding up the shortest green light in town, and now all the cars are honking at you too because you can't get this tree-humper to get out of the way, and her BO is starting to mix with the smell of beer-soaked dirt and the combination makes your eyes water. The end result is you're standing in the street while a line of honking cars watches you cry because you're getting chewed out by some philosophy major who wears boxer shorts and gets stoned to Michael Moore movies. Is there any more impotent feeling in the world?

Again, beers that cost half as much as yours didn't cause this predicament. Yours did. I hope you will take action to rectify this situation and prevent it from occurring in the future.

The Response

Apparently, part of being a small craft brewery is you don't have a form letter prepared to shoot off to irate emailers. Screw 'em. Their beer is mediocre at best, with their tastiest option (Ranger IPA) being thoroughly owned by alternatives such as Long Hammer and Hop Czar.




Matching baller mustaches. Coincidence? What do you think?

Pluckers Chicken

Nature of the Offense

If you've ever been to a college town, you're familiar with these cookie-cutter wing joints that almost universally suck, so there's nothing really new about Pluckers. However, the other day a friend emails me saying "hey, you know Pluckers has weekly Beer Pong tournaments? Wanna play?"

Now, I'm actually a big fan of beer pong, and considered giving it a shot. That is, until I went to their website and saw this:







As any self-respecting Beer Pong player already knows, playing without beer is beyond unacceptable. I had to let Pluckers know this in no uncertain terms.

The Letter

Dear Pluckers,

I am writing in response to your idiotic decision to advertise weekly "Beer Pong" tournaments, which you play with cups of water. This false advertising is a grievous offense to beer, beer pong, and chicken joints in general. Have any of you ever actually played beer pong, or is it just one of those things you heard those wacky college kids do?

In the words of the late, great Colonel Sanders, "I'm too drunk to taste this chicken." Granted, The Colonel had more knowledge of beer and chicken in his right nut than you guys do, and he left that one on some battlefield in Germany, but whatever.



If Ronald McDonald could drink like The Colonel, maybe we wouldn't have had so much trouble with McDonald's.


My point is that beer pong is meant to be played drunk, and that anyone who doesn't agree might as well be playing Candyland. Don't believe me? Ask Ron Hamilton of Smashing Time, winners of the ABPAA World Series of Beer Pong. Upon winning the tournament, Hamilton claimed that "The key today was me getting really drunk." He chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels before the final. Think that guy would be caught dead in your Water Pong tournament?

The short answer is no. The long answer is FUCK no. Why? Because he knows that, like most beer pong purists, he'd probably get knocked out in the second round by a couple of Young Lifers who would then use their gift certificate prize to feed some of your chicken to homeless people or something. I can't stand homeless people; they smell bad and leave beer cans all over my neighborhood.

I see right through this whole charade. It's just one more of your tiresome stunts to get stupid college students into your awful restaurant, just like cramming your flyers into my fence and car windshield. You know how many KFC flyers I've found in my windshield? Exactly eleven fewer than the number of secret herbs and spices in Original Recipe. Maybe if you spent less time printing flyers and more time making your chicken suck less, I would visit your restaurant. Until then, try Coors Light. Even the Young Lifers won't be able to distinguish it from water, and you won't be completely lying to us.

The Response

Nothing yet. Maybe I shouldn't expect much from a company whose slogan is "If you don't like our wings, we'll give you the bird."

The Local Crackheads

Nature Of The Offense

I don't know why, maybe it's the bad shape of the economy, maybe it's residual depression that the last season of Lost was so stupid Sarah Palin was willing to call it retarded, or maybe it's just bad luck, but a flood of crackheads and other delinquents have taken up "residence" in my neighborhood over the last two or three months. It sucks, because I'm constantly being harassed for money, there's graffiti everywhere, and some wacko slashed two of my tires.



Purple tags. Baller status, son.


Once again using Craigslist to vent my frustration to the general populace, I titled this letter "3 Tips For Becoming A Better Crackhead."

The Letter

Dear crackheads, drunks, bums, and other assorted assholes,

For reasons which are unclear to me, many of you have recently set up shop in my neighborhood. As much as your presence inconveniences me, it also confuses me, as I am amazed at how bad you are at what you do. I have had a few weeks to observe you all now, and I have a few ideas which might prove to be useful to you.

1. Whistling at my wife will not encourage me to give you drug money.

2. Graffiti better. Start with nicknames. If all the sidewalks and fences in the neighborhood were tagged with "D-Train" or "Madd Stylez," I might be able to take you seriously as a criminal. On the other hand, if you just use your real name, and your real name is Chase, I'm just going to assume you are the biggest douchebag within a hundred miles of me. Also, lavender is a lovely color, it really is. It just doesn't exactly scream "hardcore" when you use it to write your name on a stop sign.



Gold spray paint, on the other hand, apparently does.


I mean, have you thought this through? How are things going to go for you on your first day in juvie?

"Yo man, what's your name? What you in for?"

"I'm Chase. I got sent up for graffiti."

"Oh yeah, Chase! I saw your purple shit all over the place when I was running from the cops after my double homicide. This is great, I was just wondering who my new bitch was gonna be! Nice to meet you Chase, see you at shower time."

3. Steal something. Don't get me wrong, your slashing my tires has cost me plenty of money, and your conversion of the bus stop down the street into your own personal toilet/shoot-up spot has no doubt done wonders for the real estate values around here, but I don't see how either of those things has helped your own economic situation. Why not rob someone? There are pawn shops right across the train tracks, and you could totally buy some crack if you sell your loot. Plus, if you break into my house to steal stuff, I can shoot you, which would be awesome.

Hopefully, some of these tips will prove to be useful for you. If not...well, you never were very good at taking advice, were you? You know, with the whole "becoming a crackhead against better advice" thing.

Sincerely,
Your New Neighbor

The Response

The following response is equal parts sympathetic, thoughtful advice and unapologetic racism. I'll warn you that the language may be a little saltier than is typical of this website.

"Wow, that really sucks. We used to have a similar problem but when the Katrinites arrived it exploded into a full-on turf war. Our local Walmart and H.E.B. suffered record losses to shoplifting. Then we were noticing used needles and condoms all over the place. Then followed the graffiti. The place turned into a cesspool. I walk my neighborhood frequently and found myself calling the police on a daily basis.



"Well, now I see where the needles are coming from. Now if I could just figure out the condoms..."


It got to the point where I was on a first name basis with my local police. They worked tirelessly to clean our neighborhood up. Then I called channel 12 who came out and did a story on the subject. Well, now most of those skanks are gone from the area and with the help of the police we no longer see the nasty, dirty hookers, their filthy pimps, no more needles or condoms on the streets. Also, the graffiti is all but eradicated at this point.I recommend that you call the cops each and every time you see something going on. If you can do so without endangering yourself, take pix and video of these crack-heads in the act. It'll help to convict. There was one nigger who got caught tagging a building near here and because he was a minor his parents were on the hook for the $6,000.00 it cost to repaint. The father beat the kid half to death because the building owner sought and gained a lien against their house until the bill is paid off. I wish you luck, sir."

It's kind of funny to me because I'd say at least 90 percent of the people I was sounding off about are white men. I guess it just goes to show that when you assume you make an ass of you and two generations of civil rights activism.

Ronzoni Pasta

Nature of the Offense

So I'm about to chow down on some "Healthy Harvest" pasta from Ronzoni, which carries the following diet-friendly nutrition facts:





Notice the serving size there. Now, here are the cooking instructions:





Aaand the net weight of the box:





If you do the math, you'll notice that the calorie counters are getting screwed if they cook the recommended 1/4 of a box, which is a much bigger portion than the numbers on the nutrition facts account for. Gotta love corporate dishonesty! I had some fun with this one.

The Letter

Dear Ronzoni,

If you believe Sarah Palin--and I absolutely do--you know that soon, in accordance with the Obama health care plan, every overweight American will be rounded up and put down like a stray pit bull with mailman on his breath. It is for this reason that I try to watch my weight, splurging only when there are 25 cent wings at bingo night. Your pasta seemed like just the thing to help me trim the waistline, with its "Healthy Harvest" logo splashed across the box bigger than a billboard over a Vegas strip club. Taking you at your word, I grabbed a box and thought no more of it.

As it turns out, I'd have been just as well off taking one of those Vegas strippers at her word when she told me it was my baby she was carrying. My wife, whose eyes allow her to read font sizes smaller than 54, checked out your nutritional facts. 180 calories in a 2-ounce serving...ok, not bad. However, your cooking instructions suggest that for a single serving, I should cook a quarter of the box.

A quarter of a box is approximately 3.3 ounces, over 50 percent more than the portion listed on the nutrition section. Now I'm no math whiz, but 50 percent is slightly more than the percentage of coin flips I expect to win, and that's certainly not trivial. Think about it: what if I got 50 percent more than I bargained for with everything I ate or drank? I would spend all day shaking uncontrollably from the extra caffeine in my coffee, bound to the toilet shitting myself from the extra laxative in Activia yogurt, and I'd most certainly die of alcohol poisoning from my MGD 64.



Activia + MGD 64 = Bad Night


On top of that, no offense, but if I'm going to be eating 90 extra calories anyway, I wouldn't waste it on your pasta. For 90 calories, I could top my pasta with a strip of bacon. I could drink another 1.5 MGD 64s. Hell, I could even have a fourth Twinkie with dessert.



"Sorry, I can't finish these. I ate Ronzoni for dinner."


In short, Ronzoni, I'm trying to be careful with my weight. I wish you would be equally careful with your box.

The Response

I'm not sure what it is, but it seems like I can't even get an automated form letter from these people anymore. I can only hope that means a real human is at least reading enough of these letters to get pissed off...

Sirius Radio

Nature of the Offense

I am a fairly frequent user of Avis rental cars. More often than not, my rental car is equipped with Sirius radio, which makes long trips through such exotic locales as Ozona, Texas infinitely more bearable. Unfortunately, as of this posting, Sirius is bickering with Avis over how much of a kickback they should get for their service, and as a way of "sticking it to the man" has disabled the satellite radio on all Avis' cars. You can't even pay extra to get it. You may have figured out by now how much I enjoy taking a corporate shafting on behalf of another giant company, so I really lit into Sirius. The following letter is not so much strictly factual as much as it is a metaphor for how royally pissed I was.

The Letter

Dear Sirius,

Do you know what the current weather conditions in St. Louis are right now? How about Albuquerque? Do you know how traffic is outside of Atlanta? Or could you tell me what time Rosie O'Donnell's radio show comes on?

In case you don't know any of these things, just ask me, because I know. In fact, I might never be able to purge these little pieces of information from my brain. Why, you ask? To adequately answer that question, I need to explain a little bit about my job. My work requires me to make frequent car trips across Texas, trips which often take 8 hours or more. My employers recommend I rent a car for these drives, so I use the Avis across the street from my house. Avis has your radio service equipped on many of its vehicles, but they often charge an upgrade fee for those cars. Imagine my delight, then, when on my last trip I pressed the satellite radio button on the console of my bargain bin car and saw Sirius activate! "No need to drive home and grab the CDs," I said mirthfully as I turned onto the highway and sped off into the distance.

I was just out of turn-around range when I realized how wrong I was.

I started absent-mindedly clicking the seek button on the radio, thinking to myself "man, Sirius has a lot of preview and weather stations these days." Then I started clicking the Category button. Then I started turning the selector knob.

And then I realized.

I was only getting three channels: previews, weather...and a blank station.

You had shut me out. For all 16 hours of my round-trip drive. With no CDs.

You ever listen to FM radio in western Texas? You haven't, because it doesn't exist. I never thought I would miss Lady Gaga and Lil' Wayne, except maybe in a "hey, you know it sorta did feel nice to have that warm ear blood running down my neck" kind of way. But the silence is deafening. It forces me to confront the voices on the inside. The ones that keep asking "why can't you make your mother love you?" and "remember when you were a kid, and everyone always called you piss-mouth because of that time Timmy Deerborne peed in your lemon Kool-Aid and you didn't know until it was too late?"



You don't even want to know what they did to my "Slimer" Hi-C.


So I left you on. Let you barrage me with your robotic voice reminding me not to miss Glenn Beck today, because he was going to tell us why we need to be afraid of liberals for a completely new reason! Except I couldn't tune in. For all I knew, the liberals could have stormed the Gulf of Mexico and taken Texas, and I was driving right into their Concentration Camp for People Who Love Guns and Freedom, and Glenn was the only one who could warn me. And I would have died from government spending and gay marriage.



"Over there, a Christian! Get him!"


It was like A Clockwork Orange, without all the sex and cool clothes. When I got home, I spent 14 hours sitting in the floor of my shower, shivering while the cold water pelted my face. I tried everything; booze, pills, chewing gum. Nothing could erase the monotonous drone from my mind.

I hear it at night when I close my eyes.

When I returned my car to Avis, I learned that the cause of my suffering was a dick-measuring contest you've started with Avis over how much they should charge for your services. And until someone can find a ruler with nanometers marked on it, you've taken your ball and gone home. Is this really how the revolution starts? With you locking out thousands of potential customers in an attempt to match the success of the TV writers' strike? Hell, I might as well see if I can find an LP player that plugs into a cigarette lighter for my next trip.



No, a prism still won't help you see it.


The Response

Despite a promise to respond within 24 hours, I've got nothing. They're probably refusing to communicate through anything but a telegraph as a form of protest against Avis.

Hot Tamales

Nature of the Offense

I am a candy addict. However, unlike most addicts, I won't tolerate any old hash of cleaning products you push on me because you think I'm a junkie and won't know any better. Imagine my horror, then, when I cracked open a bag of my beloved Hot Tamales to find that they were not, in fact, hot. I could have been eating a bag of red Mike & Ikes for all I knew. I had to let their parent company, Just Born, know about it. Unfortunately, their contact page is limited to 1000 characters, so I couldn't let them have it like I really wanted to. This letter should get the point across, though.



1000 characters? Really?


The Letter

Just Born,

I am writing with disappointment to inform you that I have just bought a bag of Cold Tamales. With this kind of quality control you are staring down a slippery slope, and I hope I can talk you down from the ledge.

I wouldn't bother writing you, except that I know you can do better. Ever since they quit putting a gram of blow in every can of Coke, Hot Tamales has been one of America's most consistently hardcore deliveries of a sugar rush, with competitors dropping off like flies. Hell, Warheads now comes in gummy form.

Why does this matter? Because as a nation, we have lost our machismo, our ability to do things that aren't painfully easy. Baseball players take steroids, NASCAR has Toyotas running in it, Budweiser comes with lime in it, and men need prescription drugs to maintain an erection. If I can't shove a handful of Hot Tamales in my mouth and feel like my uvula might start bleeding, I might as well pack it up and move to Canada.



This guy thinks Hot Tamales are too hot.


George Washington would expect more.

The Response

"We appreciate that you took the time to contact us recently regarding our HOT TAMALES® Brand Candies. We are committed to providing our valued consumers with the highest quality confections, and it concerns us to know that we have failed to meet your expectations.

In order to best address your concerns, we would like to follow up with you via the mail through the address you provided in your message. You can look forward to receiving something from us within the next 2-3 weeks. Should you need to speak with us in the meantime, please don't hesitate to call us toll free at 1-888-645-3453.

Regards,

Shirley A. Lang
Consumer Relations Team"

I really feel like I dropped the ball here, because as usual I gave them a bogus address. Maybe whoever lives at 4444 Time Cube Lane will get a free box of Hot Tamales.