Dear BMW drivers,

I drive a BMW, too. Stop acting like entitled asshats. Have you heard a rapper rapping about a BMW lately? No, because BMWs are no longer luxury cars. They’re just cars. Driving a BMW doesn’t entitle you to anything. Your asshattish BMW driving makes me seem like an asshat, too. I’m not an asshat. I just own a BMW. If you want to be entitled, go buy a 1963 Ferrari 250 GTO for $52M and then we’ll talk.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear Prius drivers,

Stop driving like you literally have your thumbs up your asses. Eventually, I’m going to ram one of you if you don’t start paying attention to your surroundings. And you will deserve it. I really don’t want my insurance to go up because you can’t figure out your turn signal or gas pedal.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear dog owners,

Pick up your dog’s crap. I know, nobody wants to pick up poop. Poop isn’t a pleasant thing to have in your hand, even with the thin layer of biodegradable plastic shielding your skin from poop contact. I know this because I pick up poop multiple times a day. Sometimes, my dog even poops three times. That’s three times a day that I have poop in my hands. Not pleasant, but I do it because I irrationally decided to get a dog, therefore her poop is my responsibility. It’s part of the deal.

I’m sick of walking my dog and seeing your poop. You and your non-poop-picking-up-ness reflects badly on me as a dog owner. Clean that shit up or don’t own a dog.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear Martin Scorsese,

Stop using Leonardo DiCaprio in every goddamn movie. I have a deep loathing for that man. I want to punch his face. We live in the same city, so this could be a problem. Fortunately, I’ve never run into him in person, so my restraint has never been tested, but really, I would love to punch his face. Your use of him in every damn movie you make means I haven’t seen one of your films in forever. I like some of your movies, so that’s a shame. I’m pretty sure that Bringing Out The Dead was the last of your films that I saw and I liked that movie. Down with the DiCraprio.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear people who insist on saying visual gags aloud,

LOL means laugh out loud. It came about as a text way of saying something was funny when the person who wrote the text couldn’t hear you laughing, because it was text. When you are in front of someone, there’s no need to ever say “LOL.” You know what you can do instead of saying “LOL”? You can laugh out loud. Laugh or die. Your choice. Because if I ever hear you utter the letters “LOL” in person, I will bitchslap you. And you will deserve it.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear targeted online advertisers,

I block you. I would rather have to click on a YouTube video I want to watch than see your stupid ads everywhere. Unfortunately, you’re goddamn sneaky and sometimes, you make it through my blockiness. I had to order some personal business cards for my boss’ girlfriend from Vistaprint. For the next few weeks, at every site I went to, there was an ad for Vistaprint. Just so you know, that doesn’t make me want to order from Vistaprint. It does the opposite.

It’s like walking down the street past one of those sign spinner guys and having him follow you around everywhere for a few weeks. It’s creepy and actually makes me NOT want to buy anything from you ever.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear mega-conglomerate chain stores who keep losing personal information,

Target, Neiman Marcus, Michaels, et al, you suck at your job. My job is to buy stuff from you. Your job is to give me the stuff I bought and not hand my personal information to a bunch of identity thieves. And, if that does happen, your job is to make sure that I’m covered.

I stupidly shopped at Target during the period where personal information was stolen and I stupidly used my debit card. I have received absolutely no notice that my information may have been stolen at all. If I was one of those people who didn’t pay attention to the news, I wouldn’t even know about it. Make this right. Hire some real security experts, shitheads.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear mega-conglomerate chain stores who refuse to give us shopping bags,

My sister loves Target. It’s her preferred store. She went there one day and they asked her if she wanted a bag. Duh, of course, I want a bag. Why are you even asking? Well, it turns out that Target decided not to give out plastic bags anymore. That’s fine. I don’t have an issue with that.

The issue lies in the following: a) you did not warn customers of the policy change. My sister has reusable bags in the trunk of her car that she could have used, but because you didn’t even put a sign at the front of the store, she didn’t grab them. b) you asked her if she wanted a bag, but neglected to tell her that you would charge her 10 cents for said bag.

I remember the old brown paper bags at the grocery store without handles when I was a kid. And then plastic bags came along and wiped them out for a while. For the sake of the environment, we’re moving back to paper, but now, instead of giving us shopping bags, you want to charge us 10 cents a piece. The paper bags have your stupid corporate logo on them, so we’re forced to pay you to advertise your tightwad store. Shopping bags have always been and always should be free. Fuck you for passing that cost onto us, you cheap assholes.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear people who say “that begs the question,”

What you mean to say is “that raises the question.” Begging the question is a logical fallacy. I’ve written about this one before, yet you still do it. You never listen. Here’s a comic to explain it.

That is begging the question. Whenever I hear someone use it correctly, I do a little celebration dance. Whenever I hear someone say “begs” when they really mean “raises,” my heart dies a little. Please, stop doing this before my heart dies entirely.

Love,
Goldfish

Dear new coworker whose name I’ve forgotten who wears backless sundresses to work,

This is Bruce Willis and Demi Moore’s kid wearing an approximation of what you wear to work:

You probably see me in my muddy Converse and my great big fat subordinate who wears sweat pants to work every day (eww) and think to yourself, “Cool, I can wear whatever I want to work!” And that’s true. Nobody is going to tell you to stop wearing dresses where the entire backside from neck to butt is strangely absent, except me. That’s not pretty, and worse, it is not even remotely business appropriate, no matter where you work, unless you work at a strip club and we don’t work at a strip club. Where do you even find that many dresses with missing backs anyway? Please, wear a sweater or something. No one at work ever needs to see your bra.

Love,
Goldfish