FROM: Matt Cohen
TO: The Hamburglar
SUBJECT: Final warning…
Let’s cut the shit, shall we? I know you’re the one stealing my packages. It’s not that hard to figure out, buddy. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, but fuck that; It has happened for the LAST TIME! Please believe I will get the police involved if I even see you near my yard again. What? No idea what I’m talking about? BULLSHIT!
We’ve been living in the same cul de sac for two years now, and I swear I tried to like you man. When everyone else said “Hey, that neighbor guy of yours; the one who wears the prison stripes and giggles all the time. That dude is NOT on the level” I didn’t listen. I said “Hey, maybe the guy’s eccentric- Leave him alone!”. Was I a fucking schmuck. The FIRST time you stole something from me I should have called the cops. “Oh, I’m sorry- I thought this was like a block party type deal. I can put the burger back”. Who has a block party in their gated backyard?!? Whatever, I was too nice to say anything.
And then that time last December when my lawn menorah suddenly went “missing”. And all you had to say for yourself was “Robble Robble” or some shit. I swear I saw my menorah in your the back of your shitty (fuck you) car like two months later, which was being driven by that Purple stoner you hang out with… and still- too nice to open my mouth. Never again. And your weird purple buddy strikes me as an anti-semite, but I aint even going there.
I’ll have you know that package you stole contains an incredibly rare piece of animation memorabilia that is worth more then you make in a year at your job at…. Exactly. The value of the item would make this a felony offense (I checked w/ my lawyer, Mortie CheeseBerger esq.) and you are looking at serious jail time if you don’t return my package within 24 hours of receiving this notice. How am I so sure you stole my package? Well… I tracked it moron. “Sure it was signed for… At 2pm, by a ginger gentlemen in a cartoonishly large hat and bandit mask”. I DON’T OWN A BANDIT MASK ASSHOLE!
You have one day… Give me back what belongs to me. Or else.
-Matt “Mc” Cohen
P.S You do realize my father in-law is on the force right? You went to high-school with my wife Sheryl Mac for christs-sakes!
FROM: Matt Cohen
TO: Dr. Ivo Robotnik
SUBJECT: Re: My recent visit to your offices.
Greetings. Perhaps you remember me? I visited your office on October the 9th, 2010; whilst I was on vacation on the Planet Mobius. If you don’t, please allow me to refresh your memory. I injured my leg when exiting my hotel room shower, and rather then risk a lingering injury I asked the gentlemen (Spiny Echidna?) at the front desk to recommend a good local doctor who may be able to sort out my ailment. I was delighted to hear that not only could he suggest such a doctor, but also that he could arrange immediate transport to, said doctor (who we both know wound up to be you, but that’s skipping ahead). Not a moment after I agreed to this, I was grabbed by two large robotic chickens and whisked to some sort of- and I this is pure conjecture because the whole affair still confuses me; A human sized pinball machine? Not what I was expecting and honestly, not something I would have signed on for.
10 horrific and tumultuous minutes later, and 56 golden rings the wealthier (but two lives the less, thank you.) I arrived at your “medical practice”. Sir, from the first moment I stepped through the doors and was greeted by a Nurse Badnick, who like the chickens orderlies was also robotic, I should have noticed a trend but my head was still dizzy from all the spinning and looping and spike-pits. Skip to 40 minutes later, and I am finally visited by the “Doctor”.
Sir… I have little doubt that you are NOT a licensed physician, but rather some sort of egg-robot maniac who rather then being concerned with my obvious pains, questioned me about my alliance with some sort of running gerbil (who I’m sure is also a robot, noticing the company you keep) and then chased me around the waiting room in an airplane that shot spikes (again, with the spikes- Did NOT sign up for that). Suffice it to say, my leg was not healed that day and rather; I accrued a litany of new injuries up to and not excluding severe tendonitis, let alone mental anguish and loss of Golden Rings.
You have the nerve to bill my insurance company for our visit?!?!? HOW DARE YOU, SIR! I don’t know what medical schools are like on distant marsupial planets, but I know that YOU did not attend one.
Malpractice. Plain and simple. You will be hearing from my lawyer, sir… He is a Crocodile.
ME: Yeah, we’re bald… It’s not that big a deal, lil me. Don’t look at me like that! It’s not my fault! It’s grandpas! And anyway, is that really what you’re focusing on? Matt… Me… I’m surprised. If my future self visited me, I’d find other things to be concerned with then our eventual lack of hair. Plus, look at all that other cool shit I just told you about! Pot… That tv show Millennium… masturbation; there’s a lot to look forward to? What- no, I’m not 40 something, I’m 26… CALM DOWN DUDE! It really isn’t that big of a deal. I swear,- I mean, yeah; it sucks a tiny bit at first but you quickly get over it. What’s that? Ummm.. sure- you’re very popular with the ladies. What? There was no tone! I’m not joking! You’re a catch! What you lack in hair you eventually make up for in charm and obscure geek reference pulling ability. Yes… you become a geek. DUDE, RELAX! It’s not that bad…. fuck. What on Earth did you think would happen to you? An Actor?!?! Oh, Matthew….
Look… Can we get over the bald thing for a minute? Ok then, just lie to me. Matt, I traveled back in time for a reason, (other then being emasculated by my five year old self). There’s some things you should know about. I’m not saying do anything different- just be vigilant.
-All those handjobs you are gonna get between the ages of 13-15. Enjoy that shit. All I’m saying…
- When you are 16 and in Europe- DO NOT DRINK RED WINE at that club, thing. You will wind up getting alcohol poisoning and then sent home to work at a summer camp.
-Pokemon and Dust-off don’t mix (your teeth will thank me later)
-There’s a filmmaker out there named Kevin Smith (well, he will be in a few years). Pay attention. Trust me.
-You get fat for a few years. Deal with it, asshole. Or maybe don’t eat all that fucking pizza? Up to you.
-The first time you hear a “podcast”…. take note. This will come in handy later.
-In March of 2011, you lose a cool hat. Don’t! (and while your’e at it, don’t buy that Adventure Time shirt from Hot Topic- it doesn’t fit, and you are too lazy to return it in time for a refund)
-Lost…. Don’t even bother.
That’s it, man. You basically flunk high school, drop out of college, get into drugs, move to vermont, get fat, move to new york, get skinny, do nothing for a few years, move to los angeles, start a podcast, accept your baldness and get a dog. Also- your dog will be so crazy that he will basically be a furry cock-block with four legs.
Also, get excited. DVR! (ill explain later)
so… future’s bright, eh little me?
MOTHERFUCKER, IT’S JUST HAIR!!! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PUSSY BRUCE WILLIS GETS?!? INFINITE PUSSY!!!
Also… Bruce Willis is a dick.
Eh…. you have so much to learn.
I hope this letter finds you well. How is your mother? Is she recovering from her surgery well? How is Tucson? Also… why are you trying to destroy me?
Firstly, I’d just like to remind you that I was wholly supportive of your last minute trip to Arizona, despite the fact that we had made prior plans to have an “epic sand-art session” this weekend. And while I can appreciate the fact that your mother is in a hospice and doesn’t show much promise, I would also hope that you can appreciate the fact that I love Sand-Art. You knew this about me before we got married.
So, like the loving and generous (sexually) husband I am, I wished you well and sent you off on the Airport Shuttle Van to destinations unknown (kidding; you are going to watch your mother die). I then attempted to salvage what was now a lost weekend, by treating myself to a Toys-R-Us shopping spree. And imagine my surprise when I attempted to purchase my Ben 10 treehouse and Yolanda, whom I am now very close with, informed me that our credit card had reached it’s limit. Do you know embarrased I was? In front of Yolanda of all people!
Sweety? Just because your mother is about to drop, doesn’t mean you can steal all of my money. I worked hard for that money, I think. And yes, I’m sure a majority of it was spent on that 3 month meth binge, and I KNOW, you told me not to do it… but; You’re not my mom. Or your mom. Because you are still alive (too soon?).
So, what basically it all boils down to is this; I think I want a divorce. Can you imagine If I just wasted our savings every time some “loved one” got terminal? I’d never hear the end of it. Also… I had to overdraft our account by a few hundered dollars, for the Ben 10 treehouse (obviously) and to take Yolanda to dinner at Chilis (mental anguish). I also had to cancel your return ticket. So… I’d look into alternate means of transport.
Oh, and best wishes to your mother. And when you ask where the money for the funeral is… just look in our awesome treehouse. (say hi to Yolanda).
ME: Holy shit, it’s not rocket science. It’s a frisbee. You said you could hang! YOU HAVEN’T CAUGHT ONE YET! The fuck? I’m glad you like wasting your time, but I have a Ultimate Frisbee tournament to prepare for and I thought that you could help me get a few tosses in. I thought wrong. Because… you suck.
Yeah, no shit it hurts. You got hit in the middle of the forehead with a Devastator, which I had been practicing for months, so I don’t even feel bad. Opposite. I’m glad it worked. If you weren’t a complete fuck up, you could have caught it too. Not my fault you can’t get your hands on a PERFECTLY tossed B. Have you even played frisbee before? I should have known the second you rolled up in that Nehru jacket, which you wear WAY TOO MUCH, I’ll have you know. Look, you’re a nice guy and everything- but I think was a bad idea. Fuck it… you wanna grab some lunch?
Don’t look at me- You are the one who threw it… Fetch; bitch.