An Open Letter to the Main Library Facilities Management

Hey guys,

Let me start out by saying that I know y’all have a tough job. I get it, homies. Main Library is a large, confusing building and also one of the ugliest things ever conceived by the human mind. And, as far as I can tell, the facilities management staff has zero employees. So I understand that you have kind of a tall mountain to climb in your quest to, you know, do your job.

But Jesus CHRIST guys. I don’t know that I’ve been witness to so much rampant incompetence and obvious lack of hustle since I saw JerShon Cobb wearing a “Lazy but Talented” shirt in Plex dining hall[1]. And I think maybe we need to talk about it.

An Open Letter to That Girl in the Next Stall Clearly Trying to Poop

Dear Anonymous Female Bathroom Stall Neighbor,

Please, drop the act. I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re here.

You’re not researching the sturdiness of public toilets. You’re not admiring the stall graffiti and wondering why someone thought to bring a pen in there with them. This is a bathroom, and you are here because you need to take a dump.

An Open Letter to Evanston from the Weather

To the Dear, Sweet Residents of the Chicagoland Area:

Remember just a few days ago, when you went home for Mother’s Day? You brought back all your favorite winter pajamas, and your dad’s hand-me-down college sweatshirt, and the thick comfy leggings you wear as long johns under jeans when it’s colder than balls and don’t give a fuck.

LOL. FOOLISH HUMANS.

Don’t worry. You’ve heard the saying, “If you don’t like the weather in Chicago, wait half an hour”? THAT’S CAUSE IT’S ABOUT TO GET EVEN WORSE. Just when you thought it was safe to crack open a beer on your porch and groove to Katy Perry classics again, you’re hot then you’re cold, you’re yes then you’re no, you’re indoors then you’re outdoors, you’re slacklining on the lakefill and DID YOU KNOW THAT SPRINGTIME IN CHICAGO IS MOTHER NATURE PMS-ING?

An Open Letter to the Student Body from Blackboard

Esteemed Student Body,

HAHAHAHAHA FUCK YOU GUYS

YOU LITERALLY JUST GOT BACK TO SCHOOL AND YOU CAN’T EVEN DO THE HOMEWORK YOU DON’T WANT TO DO

SUCK MY DICK

SUCK IT SO MANY TIMES

SUCK IT UNTIL YOUR MOUTH HURTS

Cordially,

Blackboard

An Open Letter to the Northwestern Class of 2017

Dear Northwestern University Class of 2017,

I know you’ve probably read the latest email from the Northwestern administration, saying you’re the smartest, most diverse, most sexually capable class of students to ever be admitted to Northwestern University. I know you’re probably feeling pretty good about yourselves, and you feel special in the eyes of Northwestern. But let me tell you something: don’t believe them.  They’ll only hurt you.

I remember when I got my first email from Northwestern. They told me I was “quick-witted, sharp, creative.” They told me I was beautiful. They told me I was the only student they’d ever make love to. And then a new class came along, and all of a sudden I wasn’t so smart, I wasn’t so special, and I wasn’t so pretty. I was nothing to them – just another mark on their admissions list.

An Open Letter to an Assistant Coach at a D-1 School

Dear Assistant Coach at a high-profile Division I university,

I’m writing to invite you to interview for the Northwestern basketball coaching vacancy. Now, before you ask, NU is not in the Northwest quadrant of the country, nor is it that school in Boston. And yes, we do have a basketball team.

Your familiarity with the Wildcats’ program may stem entirely from picking us to lose early in your office NIT pool the last couple of years, but we have a lot more to offer than a potential trip to Madison Square Garden every once in a while.

We are, after all, Chicago’s Big Ten Team, which proves a huge advantage in recruiting the city’s top prospects. Check out our roster. We nabbed an occasionally useful back-up center from Chi-City and have totally cornered the Naperville market.

You’ll recruit out-of-state by pitching NU as the best academic school in the Big Ten.

An Open Letter to Final Papers

Can’t tell if she is stressed about finals or just got fingered by Wolverine.

Okay, this has gone far enough.

You can ask anyone I know, I am a man of my word. When I lose a bet to my friends, I pay up. When I promise my older step-brother that I’ll do his chores if he would please just finally tell me what a dingleberry is, I do his chores. And I recognize that you and I made a pact a few months ago. I told you that I would write you, and Mephistopheles was there, and then we went on this crazy flying journey; it was eerily like the story of Faust.

Being that I am a man of my word, I will do as I have promised. I will go to the University Library, check out a bunch of giant books with frayed covers, and leaf through them to find keywords and phrases that will assist me in writing you in the most bullshit-heavy manner possible. But not before I give you a piece of mind. So here goes.

An Open Letter to Autocorrect

Hey babysitter, listen.  We need too talk.

The last few months have beer a whirlwind.  It seriously astounds me too think that back in July, I didn’t even knew you.  The night we net each other, I could never have envisioned that our relationship would development so quickly and so organically.  You found me when I was in a dark places, and your kindness and grave brought me out of it.  For that, I can never thanks you enough.

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

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.”

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

p.s. Is Pizza Planet still open?