Tag Archives: apology

An Open Letter Apology To Attendees of Last Night’s Hannah Montana Concert

12 Apr

To everyone who attended last night’s Hannah Montana concert:

After spending some time thinking about my actions last night, I have no doubt in my mind that I owe the most sincere and heartfelt apology to everyone who suffered the grave misfortune of seeing my behavior. Boasting a blood alcohol content presumably over .4, I acted in a manner that was immature, unruly, and worst of all, wholly unfit to be seen by the many children who were there.

It's probably a good thing I was not allowed to constitute a leg of Hannah's heinous throne.

I truly wish I could even give an explanation for my presence at the concert. To be perfectly honest, yesterday was a bit of a whirlwind – I woke up this morning in the arms of a homeless person on Michigan Avenue, and only came to discover the nature of this incident through a series of hardly comprehensible text messages, a police citation I found stuffed in my boxers, and a rather unflattering article on the third page of the Chicago Tribune. Needless to say, I was horrified to learn about the magnitude of my heinousness at last night’s show.

I suppose I must begin this apology by acknowledging the abject inappropriateness of my attire. According to a slew of picture messages sent to a wide variety of ex-girlfriends, I chose to arrive at the concert clad quite scantily. The teal, sequin-covered top was hardly something to which the eyes of young females should be subjected, especially considering the unnecessary reveal of my midriff, and with it, my neon-orange-dyed happy trail. Moreover, I showed an unreasonable lack of foresight in choosing to wear a three-sizes-too-small pair of hot pink running shorts. I’m sure you’ll agree that they didn’t look especially becoming with my knee-high black army boots. I hope that the future mothers of America weren’t terribly haunted and scarred by the image of an out-of-shape twenty-year-old dressed like a whorish cheerleader at a Belly-dancing class in South Jersey.

Regrettably, my ill-advised attire wasn’t the extent of my behavior last night that warrants profuse apology. My general display of social unawareness is made quite obvious in a video uploaded to YouTube shortly after the concert. Apparently, in my altered state of mind, I was under the impression that “Party in the U.S.A.” was a jingoist musical manifesto, and treated it as such. It was completely unpardonable of me to strip off the few pieces of clothing I was wearing and run laps on the stage, waving an American flag and provocatively touching Miley Cyrus every time I passed her. I am genuinely thankful that a few upstanding members of the Chicago Police Department took this as their cue to pin me to the stage and savagely beat me with clubs; I shudder to imagine how I might have acted if I had still been in the audience during “Hey Now.”

The looks she shot me while I screamed at her "TAKE IT OFF DIRTY GIRL" weren't quite this seductive.

However, it does seem that I found my way back into the concert, though I can’t explain how. This is probably the part of the night that calls for the most pronounced apologies. The way I accosted young female tweens was simply unacceptable, and I can make no excuses for myself. To begin with, it is in no way fair to assume that they “would all grow up to be back-stabbing whores who only want to use me to get closer to my older brother Mitch.” Additionally, use of the words “underdeveloped” and “flat-chested” were absolutely unjustified. Most of all, I must apologize from the bottom of my heart for screaming that I wished for them to all die in childbirth.
I assure you all that I am usually an upstanding young gentleman, and that this is an extremely isolated incident. I guarantee that I will never again come to a Hannah Montana concert and drunkenly heckle young girls. Please accept this apology; I can only ask humbly for your forgiveness for the unspeakable atrocities I committed.

Ross Packingham

An Open Letter Apology to the Management of the Skokie, IL Chuck E. Cheese Franchise

9 Apr

Dear Management of the Skokie, IL Chuck E. Cheese Franchise,

Makes sense.

I wish to convey my deepest regrets and apologies for my behavior at your Chuck E. Cheese franchise last Saturday between the hours of 2:30 and 10:56pm. My odious behavior was a monstrous offense to the good name of Northwestern University undergraduates everywhere, and not befitting of my proud standing as a citizen of the United States, Democrat, AP Honor Roll member, Sherman Ave co-editor, Presbyterian, frat star, Chipotle VIP card holder, illegitimate child of Morty Schapiro and Brooklyn Decker, starting Wildcat Wide Receiver, Keg bouncer, Homo sapien, or Chet Haze hype man. Needless to say, I am tremendously sorry, and promise that such heinousness shall never happen again.

I understand that there is no proper way to apologize for the havoc I wreaked. More specifically, there is no proper way to heal the psychic trauma that all those fourth graders suffered as I used my 5,697 tickets as a garrote to assassinate the animatronic Chuck E. Cheese.  Let’s just say that mistakes were made.

The Kool & The Gang covers get them every time.

Overlooking the miserable gaffe your Technical Manager Jerry made by allowing a robot band that didn’t know one single Heart song to take the vaunted Animated Variety Stage, I apologize for my treatment of the band members backing up Chuck “The King of Cool” Cheese. Had I known about Mr. Munch’s decade-long battle with Type 2 Diabetes, I highly doubt I would have told the singer/songwriter/keyboardist/lard-ass that his cleavage looked like Israel Kamakawiwoʻole got a boob job. Nor should I have suggested to lead singer Helen Henny that her professional career as a shallow placeholder for the hopes and dreams of thousands of pre-pubescent girls can hardly be an adequate replacement to fill the void left by the existential fear of loneliness at the age of 37. In retrospect, I would also like to apologize for failing to inform Chuck that even while recovering from lung surgery, the Marlboro Man could probably do a better job than Mr. Cheese’s half-assed effort at “I Kissed a Girl.”

Look, when I heard that Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Time Theaters were safe places “Where a kid can be a kid,” I naturally assumed it meant “where an immature and inebriated 20-something can try to combat the steady rise of responsibility and daunting prospects of the adult world by making a complete ass of himself.” Well, apparently I was wrong.

I'll bet you anything you didn't wake up this morning expecting to read a Slobodan reference.

Luckily, most of the children in the Kiddie Area were too goddamn ignorant to understand what I meant when I informed my waiter that my pepperoni pizza tasted like somebody adorned a pizza crust with tomato sauce, the flesh of Old Yeller, and a finely shredded Slobodan Milošević turd. And for that we can all be grateful. I mean, in all probability those kids just thought “Oh look, that one guy who tried to pour Smirnoff into his Tropicana® Apple Juice while driving in the car simulator is really angry!” But that is neither here nor there.

I owe the management of the Skokie Chuck E. Cheese my sincerest apologies for accusing a Game Room attendant who looked eerily similar to Ben Bernanke of participating in a devious inflation plot designed to raise the token exchange rate to 700 tickets per one crappy Chinese-manufactured yo-yo, all while feeding my raging gambling-addiction with your glaring lights and free-flowing ticket dispensaries. Also, I apologize for failing to heed the numerous written warnings detailing the dangers of playing Chubby Bunny with the balls from the ball pit.


When I walk into a Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Time Theater, I expect entertainment dammit. Not some Kafka-esque pageantry that reminds me of the bastard lovechild of Radioshack and Cirque Du Soleil. That being said, it was probably not the best decision to vent my emotions by lecturing all within earshot on the similarities between skeeball machines and the human bajingo or pretending I’m Dirk Nowitzki as I devastate eight-year-olds trying their luck at your infernal basketball games. I am sorry.

I do not, however, wish to apologize for setting mousetraps in every corner of your Pizza Time Theater to help with your “mouse problem.”

Evander Jones
WCAS ‘14
Runner Up, George Washington Junior High 7th Grade Geography Bee, 2005

p.s. Is Pizza Planet still open?