It’s come to my attention that I haven’t always been the Internet’s perfect darling boy, and that I may have upset people with my actions prior to becoming the rapscallion we all know and love. I’m not perfect, but if you have reason to believe you have suffered at my hands in the past, please use this form to call me out for my bad behavior. Above all, please remember that I’m trying.
Dear Alex,
I was extremely disappointed in you [last week/last month/last year] when you [paid a delinquent to kick your ass in a Bennigan’s parking lot/allowed my clone son to run rampant on a secluded Aleutian island/summoned the ghost of a Civil War infantryman to haunt me as a prank]. This behavior hurt me because [you couldn’t attend my niece’s bat mitzvah with me/my weekend was completely ruined/going to public events is now impossible]. Specifically, your decision to [get your ass kicked at a Benningan’s/arm my clone son Death Adder with a nuclear bomb/use forbidden Vodou magics to bind my soul to that of good Virginia boy Ambrose F. Weathervane] had repercussions for me personally and professionally, which included but were not limited to [forcing me to field questions about whether or not I was considering getting married, after all, I’m nearly thirty, by my great aunt Bernice/putting a damper on my weekend by forcing me to come out of black ops retirement to put down Death Adder like a rabid dog in the heart of an abandoned industrial complex off the coast of Alaska/ruining my chances of being junior partner at my firm as a result of Ambrose F. Weathervane’s constant moaning about Pickett’s Charge].
Additionally, I did not appreciate your repeated attempts to excuse your behavior, which you explained away by [complaining that they never let you sit in the chair they lift up anyway/saying I’d become extremely boring ever since I stopped running missions for my elite BLOODWOLF unit/assuming I would appreciate a change of pace that being bound to a punished spirit could provide]. What hurts more than anything was to see [how much effort you’d put into finding a larger-than average 12-year old capable of executing a flying elbow/the thoroughness with which you helped Death Adder rig his complex with things I’d find psychologically torturous/that you don’t much seem to care that the Civil War is kind of a touchy subject for our country], and this speaks volumes about your [inability to put others first/vague sociopathy/confused and misguided sense of humor].
I had hoped that if I [waited long enough/dropped enough hints that I took no pleasure in besting my clone son in jeet kune do and watching the betrayal in his eyes as I kicked him into the island’s metal foundry/outright asked you to banish Ambrose F. Weathervane back to whence he came] you would eventually agree that your behavior was hurtful, but you seem to be content just to [deny a child could ever beat you in single combat and throw you in a dumpster/ask me if I’m quite certain that I got all the nukes/act like this whole Ambrose F. Weathervane fiasco was somehow my idea]. I would love to move on from this, but I cannot in good conscience consider you a friend until you have [attended another event where my great aunt Bernice will be around and see that I’ve got myself a man/helped me redact these dossiers so that all mentions of the BLOODWOLF unit and the “malodorous triplets” selective cloning program/done something about Ambrose F. Weathervane, his politics are deeply retrograde].
Expectantly,
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