To the person implementing the speakerphone function on their iPhone,

 

Look at you, taking full advantage of all the state-of-the-art features your mobile operating system can offer! How swell it must be to carry on your indubitably imperative—and extremely public—tête-à-têtes without the incredible nuisance of putting your phone to your ear!

Yes, you may be the only one on the receiving end of that conversation, but everyone else can hear your end loud and clear as you mosey down the street, barking out everything from your shopping list to your sexual exploits to whatever poor soul happens to have the misfortune of being within earshot of your your mindless gab.

Unless you’re the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, what business do you have employing any sort ofhands-free cell phone device anyway? Not that some corporate bigwig looks any less idiotic than you seemingly jabbering away to him or herself, but at least they’re probably discussing something a little more critical than how many shots of tequila they guzzled last night.

 

You’re not as important as you think,

Maddened By Technology

Dear liquor store that was busted for selling to clearly underage kids,

 

There’s a very simple solution to your predicament,

and it isn’t installing some kind of dystopian, microchip-in-your-palm/number-of-the-beast-on-your-forehead surveillance system.

Nor is it parking a guy out front like you’re about to enter some kind of internment nightclub. Heck, you don’t even have to bother investing in some Gitmo-grade scanner. All it takes?

“Can I see your ID?” If the answer is no, or if the ID in question was obviously designed with Kid Pix 2 and printed on a stained Chinese food menu,

then no Tuesday afternoon Carlo Rossi for Johnny Noproof.

 

Signed,
Proud new patron of some other liquor store

Dear Boston undergrads yelling YOLO at one another,

 

I get that you’re new to the college scene and probably are living away from mom and dad for the first time. You feel liberated, free, and you want to fuck shit up in a haze of Irish car bombs and crushed Adderall.

We’ve all been in a time of our lives where we want to cut loose and raise a little hell, to scream to the heavens and proclaim ourselves untouchable. The catch is, you’re not.

You can scream YOLO as you shotgun your High Life or take a squat in the far end of the B train all you want, but some day you’re still going to die.

And at the rate you’re going it will probably be sooner than later.

This mantra of ‘You Only Live Once’ will not protect you from puking your guts out from a rickety Allston balcony, keep those compromising pictures from Thirsty Thursday off of Facebook, or validate fucking your TA. Please learn to handle your shit.

 

Signed,

Annoyed individual drinking an actual decent beer

 

P.S.—I’m going to pretend you’re shouting ‘You Only Lick Otters’ from now on.

Dear Fellow Traveler at Logan Airport,

 

Let me compliment you on your boarding prowess!

When I arrived at our terminal 15 minutes early, you were already standing 10 feet from the gate. You pitied the fools who were still sitting: They would probably have to check their bags like idiots. If this was The Hunger Games, they’d lose five minutes in.

You perked up at the click of a United intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to begin boarding our Elite customers and families with young children.” You double-checked your boarding pass: You were still, cruelly, neither of those things. You briefly considered having children.

You edged closer to the gate and planted your bags beside you. Let those elite babies squeeze their way past.

Your attitude was infectious. An old man edged his way toward you, a young couple followed. Eventually almost everyone in the waiting area had joined the throng, casting suspicious glances at each other’s boarding passes.

Thank you, fellow boarder, for this glorious innovation of modern air travel: the line-to-get-in-line!

 

I hope you caught a cold during your two extra minutes of re-circulated air,

Someone who prefers trains

Dear BU Skater Dude,

 

As a Gen-X’er pushing 40, it breaks my heart seeing kids WALKING everywhere with skateboards.

Granted, I have a fantasy about being 50 and starting a Big Black cover band with my bald real estate agent friends called “Walking With Skateboards” but, still, dude …

You’re supposed to be RIDING those boards. Hell, you even have nice smooth bike lanes so you won’t get a booboo. AND you have those huge expensive monster truck wheels so a pothole will be completely unnoticeable. AND you’re wearing fucking PAJAMA PANTS.

I want to punch you in the back of the head so bad. For the love of all that is holy, try actually riding your deck next time you’re waiting for your mom to pick you up.

Maybe you’ll impress a girl so much you can make out to Crystal Castles on shitty E together.

 

Love,

Bitter old skater with a plate and pins in his hip

 

To my current roommate and so-called “best guy friend,”

 

Seriously? You spend four days ignoring the dishes piling up in our sink in lieu of more important things (read: Assassin’s Creed III), only to rush them “clean” before your girlfriend comes over?

Like she’s really going to care when you two are just going to mess it up again anyway.

And speaking of your girlfriend, you need to take into consideration that your room is not soundproof. I can hear everything from anywhere in the apartment, so please, stop waking me up. Get rid of your bed frame, shove a pillow in her face, I don’t care.

Lastly, if you touch my food one more time, I will murder you.

You didn’t buy it, so don’t eat it. I swear, if you go through another half-gallon of milk like it’s the only thing keeping you alive, I will make you do the gallon challenge.

No, I’m not bluffing.

 

Sincerely,

The Only Girl Who Lives in The Apartment (until December)

Dear Yelper,

 

Your boyfriend called my restaurant late-morning to make a reservation. I told him we don’t reserve tables, but since it was your birthday, I made a practically unprecedented exception. When you showed up at nine o’clock, I seated you immediately. We sent you an appetizer on us, I made sure that all of the waiters said “Happy Birthday,” and at the end of your dinner, you told the waiter everything was “great.”

The next day, you posted a two-star review of our restaurant on Yelp. In what was your very first review, you trashed the food and the service, called the place a “disappointment” and described in fairly graphic terms the offensive nature of each dish you were sent. At least you left out what we sent you as a gift.

I’ve lost a little bit of faith in humanity thanks to you, Yelper.

In the future, please try to remember that there are methods of conveying your displeasure with an experience that are far more appropriate than posting a poorly-written rant on the Internet, particularly when it’s directed at people who made an honest attempt to please you.

Have some class. Or just don’t come back.

Oh, and happy birthday.

 

Sincerely,

Freshly Jaded

Dear Gross Little Fat Man:

 

You hang outside at North Station smoking your cheap, repulsive cigars while leaning against a concrete barrier leering at your fellow commuter rail passengers. Your bulging slits for eyes match the grotesque sneer on your fur-covered upper lip. Top it off with a crooked golf cap that wouldn’t look good on anyone,

covering what’s left of your thinning hair.

You ride the same Fitchburg train, in the same car as I do, the stench of your cigars managing to find me wherever I am. Seeing you prepare to sit down reminds me of how it must have been for the first astronauts to squeeze into those Mercury space capsules. It’s bad enough that you need to raise your arms above the seat backs in order to make it down the aisle, but you often take up both seats when you prop your giant backpack next to you.

The grand finale comes halfway through the ride, when, for some unknown reason, you stand up, turn around, and stare at the people behind you. WTF?

It’s like you’re doing everything in your power to disgust everyone around you.

 

Signed,

What The Whole Train is Thinking

Dear Landmark Center Parking Garage,

 

You are the worst parking garage. Ever. You are too goddamned expensive, I can’t park in half of your spaces because of those giant goddamned pillars between every othergoddamned space, and, by midnight all your Brookline Ave. doors are locked, forcing me to walk up the same ramp that some drunk getting out of a club is driving down.

You’ve risked my life, drained my wallet, and dented my car.

Well, you think you’ve got me pretty well screwed, eh? Not so much.

Here’s a little tip for you Dig readers, one I’m sure some of you have discovered already: During the baseball season, when you have tickets for an early game, show up late-ish, park in the Landmark garage, and, while wearing a Red Sox hat, tell them you are NOT going to the game. Then, go into the theater, get your parking validated, and buy a matinee ticket to whatever. Anything—The Twilight Pirates of the Hangover 2—who the fuck cares.

You’ll have to be out of there in three hours, but you’ll save—or, more importantly, screw the Landmark parking asshats out of—about $20.

Enjoy!

 

Sincerely,

Paved Over Paradise

Dear Bitter Art Student,

 

Let me begin by sympathizing with your obviously difficult life.

Staying up late doodling and swearing out loud so we can all know of your pain, toiling away at something that will ultimately mean nothing to you or anyone else. I am so sorry that “you” had to spend so much money on your art supplies, tuition, and the staggering amount of drugs you take for inspiration.

Man, how hard it must be to try to one-up Alfons Mucha.

Please don’t try too hard.

Gee, I never would have thought that the best way to improve your own work is to belittle somebody else’s! How much I have to learn. And you’re so right, typography is a pointless profession. God forbid anyone able to read this very rant. Or anything, for that matter.

Well, times are tough, but take heart—just think how equipped you’ll be to handle those pesky “real-life problems” when you finally graduate.

 

Love,

A Designer, Not a High Schooler