Good Advice Jars The Ear
by Nick Holle

 

Dear Mr. Abrahamson,

First off, I would like to apologize for the scene in Mr. Woo's the other night. As you know, life has treated me with a series of obstacles as of late, and the pressure and stress that has come from these obstacles seemed to have come to a head at dinner. I can only offer you, at the very least, a demonstration of the regret I now feel for bashing in the face of that motherfucking busboy.

His name was Charles Suzuki, and I have contacted him as well, apologizing forthright and with the utmost sincerity. In talking with him, I learned that he is in his second year as a law student at Giermuth College downtown. He is working at Mr. Woo's to support himself while taking classes and serving out an unpaid internship at McGinson & Hollensby. I informed him that, based on my experiences and stories you have told me, McGinson is one of the all-time biggest douche bags ever to walk the face of the earth and that if he wanted to work with a real lawyer, he should contact you, Mr. Abrahamson. I presented him your card. Please expect a call from him soon.

I also told Charles that he could contact you about a potential lawsuit against me, for medical and punitive damages that he may have incurred as a result from me rearranging his goddamned face. In exchange for my recommendation, he has agreed to drop his pursuit for criminal charges against me.

The second reason I am writing you, Mr. Abrahamson, is to express my continued to distaste for my life. Nothing seems to be going my way, and I am beginning to wonder if it is worth living at all. Even when I am able to connect with others, such as Charles, I cannot help but wonder what things would be like if the Danforth merger had gone through and if I had gotten that blowjob from Carol in Closings. I am lonely and confused.

I believe tonight I have hit rock bottom. I was going to begin this letter with a silly line that I was certain you would have enjoyed, Mr. Abrahamson, but by the time I finished my meal, it did not feel the least bit appropriate. (I have included the silly line as a postscript so as not to pique your curiosity only to disappoint you in the end.)

My difficulties, of course all well documented to you, have only been confounded by the fact that I have received this evening, as dessert to my meal, a fortune cookie. As you are aware, my adoration for and proclivity for taking stock in fortune cookies dates back to that fateful summer's eve in 1994, when news of a timely miscarriage saved me from marrying that heartless, acne-scarred slit, Ms. Bonnie Feral, as well as having her child.

But the fortune I received tonight, Mr. Abrahamson--at a time when I most needed a fortune--was as lackadaisical as an attempt at fortune writing that I have ever seen: "Good advice jars the ear."

Can you believe these cocksuckers, Mr Abrahamson? Who do they think they are putting fortunes like this into the tasty treats that have guided my life thus far? "Good advice jars the ear" is not a fortune. It is not even advice. It actually requires its own advice. It is only telling me that if I did indeed have some sort of advice already it might jar my ear. And that is only if it is good advice at that.

I am at a loss. What was once a dessert that I trusted, has now joined a world of utter meaninglessness, rivaling tarot cards and horoscopes. If you can't trust fortune cookies, Mr. Abrahamson, then who can you trust?

I know this lost hope over a fortune cookie may sound trivial to some, including you sir, but it is you ignorant pricks that fail to see salvation in the world's metaphorical wonderments. And you can hardly blame a humbled soul for wanting guidance when he cracks open the delicious wafer at the conclusion of his Eastern dining. I yearn for a fortune even as sophomoric as "Matters of the heart are best treated with a thunderous fart." Even you, Mr. Abrahamson, can appreciate the art in a fart.

I cannot help but feel, that under the aforementioned circumstances, these letters to you, Mr. Abrahamson, are numbered. I need to a find a reason to keep going, and every day that I do not find one makes it a little harder. Please do not feel responsible for trying to revive my zest for life. You have already done so much. (This does not include banging my wife and daughter, you son-of-a-bitch.) I do, however, look forward to your reply, and do give my best to Wonder Boy.

Yours Sincerely,

Bernold J. Trattington

P.S.   Here is the original opening line of this letter: "I ate Chinese food tonight, which is a lot better than eating the actual Chinese. Generally."

 

 
   
© 2005 Nick Holle, All Rights Reserved
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