Dear Woman Who Needed Two Spots For Her Dodge Caliber Hatchback At The Skyline Chili In Oakley,

We’ll admit at first we thought you were simply incompetent at parking. Wow! we thought. Maybe she’s just blind!

But of course we were wrong. What we failed to understand — what sunk in as we sat in our booth by the window at Skyline marveling at your vehicle’s masterful command of two spots in an otherwise filled-to-capacity lot — is that you deserve two spots. Silly us! Here we thought the basic rules of parking decorum applied to you. But why would they? Because, after all, you drive a Dodge Caliber Hatchback!

I mean, just behold this miracle of vehicular ingenuity!

Now that’s a car! You’d better put that puppy in two spots so everyone can get a good look all right! 

Tell us what it’s like being too important for just one, measly parking spot? We’ll be straight with you: we have no idea. We’ve never pulled into a parking lot and thought to ourselves, Dadgummit, another lot without a suitably enormous spot for me to occupy! Looks like I’ll have to take two again. Sigh.

Hey, here comes another car looking for a spot. Ha! It’s a riot watching car after car think it can pull in on either side of you. Dolts!

Look, this guy is pulling into that open handicap spot. And he sure doesn’t appear to be handicapped! But hey, so what if some real handicapped folks pull in and can’t use that spot? I mean, they always get preferential treatment, right?

Not to beat a dead horse here, but it’s worth saying one more time: You drive a Dodge Caliber. What’s the horsepower on that baby? I bet we’re talking 0-60 in, what, eight seconds? And let’s not get started on the torque!

It sure would be interesting to see what you actually look like. I mean, we’ve scouted out the joint while we’ve been eating our black bean burritos, but nobody in here looks like they belong to the topmost echelon of the automotive caste system that Dodge Caliber owners occupy. Of course, if you were here, we would not be worthy even to gaze upon thy holy countenance. You would reside in that spot reserved for the Holiest of Holies, while we could only present our meager offering at the altar of the Outer Court, interceding through another so as to not be overcome — nay, obliterated — by your numinous, radiant splendor. 

Consider this floor plan of the holy tabernacle.

You — and the other deific Dodge Caliber owners, of course — would reside in the small chamber at the top of the diagram where the Ark of the Covenant resides. We, the plebeian peasantry, who would arrive at the temple in our used 2002 Suzuki Aerio and 1995 Grand Jeep Cherokee with 187,000 miles on it, or even — how pedestrian! — on foot, our weathered feet thick and leathery with calluses and blisters from the long walk over desert terrain in our shoddy, dilapidated sandals, would present our two mites before kneeling down in humble submission, foreheads pressed against the hard, stone temple floor so that we could lick it with our tongues should it be thy holy bidding, regretting every little bit of air we must consume for ourselves when it could be better used to thy service, bringing eternal glory to thy exulted self, thy who looks upon divinity face-to-face, thy who should rightfully trample us underfoot like mere ants, oh how we despise our fallen nature, we ungrateful, slovenly, provincial, vulgar Philistines, we who should be content to fill out stomachs with the pods that pigs eat and not this delicious black bean Skyline burrito. Woe! Woe! Woe is us!

Wait, is that you? You appear to be walking toward the Dodge Caliber. Yes, it’s you! Where did you come from? We didn’t see you leave Skyline. You must have been across the street! In other words, not Skyline! Which is curious, because this parking lot is specifically reserved for Skyline customers. 

But listen to us! Such outlandish presumption! What blasphemy has spilt from our lips? WE HAVE GAZED UPON THAT WHICH WE WERE NOT WORTHY TO BEHOLD. You asked, “Who is this that obscures my counsel without knowledge?” Our ears had heard of you but now our eyes have seen you. Therefore we despise ourselves and repent in dust and ashes.

Godspeed to you and your fiery, winged chariot, the Dodge Caliber Hatchback!

We Are Not That Couple!

We’ve been critical of Paste magazine in the past, but we were rather amused by this back-page offering from the March/April issue entitled “An Open Letter To The Couple Making Out at the Wilco Concert” by Matt Price. Hey, it wasn’t us! Honestly! 

(h/t Ryan Bird)

Dear Pittsburgh Steelers Fans,

First of all, congratulations are in order. You backed what was clearly the best team in the NFL this year. Last night’s dramatic, come-from-behind victory will go down as a Super Bowl classic. Santonio Holmes has become the new Dwight Clark. James Harrison rumblin’, bumblin’ and stumblin’ 100 yards for a touchdown just before the half resulted in him, and us, needing oxygen to recover. Former University of Pittsburgh star Larry Fitzgerald had a phenomenal game but was polite enough not to steal the show. Your coach Mike Tomlin, the youngest coach to ever win a Super Bowl, sure seems like a classy guy. And of course your franchise now has more Super Bowl rings than any other NFL team. So, again, congrats.

This doesn’t change the fact you are the most obnoxious people on the face of the earth. It pains me to say this because many of you are in fact close friends of mine. I have lived among you. I have listened to the bleating of Myron Cope on many a Steelers broadcast. You are, individually speaking, extraordinary people of good humor and sound judgment.

When you get together and start waving your terrible towels though, I cannot express just how much I hate you. You mirror the cocky, unsportsmanlike behavior of your team. Your local media champions are smug (Ron Cook), loony (Gene Collier), or reprehensible (Mark Madden, thankfully now fired). Even in the Bubby Brister years, you could not stop talking about the 70s and the Steel Curtain. And they’re called the Bengals, not the Bungles. At least have the decency to call an inferior opponent by its name.

You have every right to gloat. What other team has accomplished what you have? And you are still near and dear to my heart, Pittsburgh. You are a good city. So I implore you to claim the spoils of victory in a spirit of humility and gratitude. Yinz have offered Western culture such valuable things as steel, pierogies and Pittsburghese. When the year 2029 rolls around and the second coming of Neil O’Donnell has led your team to a 3-13 season and you’re banking all your hopes on Kordell Stewart’s third cousin resuscitating your lagging franchise, you don’t have to blather on about Ben Roethlisberger taking such vaunted NFC opponents as Arizona and Seattle behind the Super Bowl woodshed. Please, put down those towels and your Iron City and demonstrate the class which all western Pennsylvanians are capable of n’at. 

I know you won’t. But I had to ask.

sincerely,

Ben Vore

Dear Man Who Let His Great Dane Poop In Our Yard,

No, no, no, don’t feel obligated to clean that up! We know you’re a busy man with things to do, places to go, widows to swindle and upstanding citizens to hoodwink. You’re obviously far too important a person to be troubled with cleaning up Marmaduke’s herculean crap. (And what a clean-up job it will be! Lord have mercy!) I mean, really, who are we to put our yard in your dog’s way? Let us do the dirty work. Yes, that’s us watching you in the window. We’re waving but don’t feel obligated to wave back or anything. It’s our way of saying, “Thanks for being a good neighbor! You’re helping us get a head start on fertilizing our lawn for next summer, and we appreciate it.” Maybe you and ol’ Duke could stop back this weekend and fertilize the rest of it for us. What’s that? You think you’re free? Great! We’ll look forward to it! After we buy ourselves a shotgun! Bye neighbor!

sincerely,

The Vores

Dear Man Who Was Air-Drumming To Over The Rhine Last Night At The Taft Theater,

We couldn’t help but notice you standing by the stage during the last song before the first encore. We couldn’t help but notice because, although we were all the way up in the balcony, it was still the balcony in the Taft Theater, where everyone has seats to sit in, generally because the entertainment at the Taft is of the sit-down variety. You, however, made the bold choice of getting out of your seat and walking to the very front, stage left. We do not know what compelled you to draw attention to yourself in this way. We’re just saying this is how we noticed you.

At this point we also noticed that you were really into air-drumming. You also dabbled in a bit of air guitar here and there, but air-drumming seemed to be your forte. We enjoy the occasional foray into air-drumming (and air-guitaring) ourselves, although when we partake it is generally in the privacy of our own home. Also, when we do it, it is usually to music that’s, you know, kind of rockin’. And while we like Over The Rhine, we do not feel their strengths are suited to ferocious drumming or guitar shredding. (This is just us.)

One other thing: When you began convulsing and bending and jerking and fist-pumping, it was obvious that the music was taking you someplace, someplace we have never been. Far be it from us to judge, but whatever it is you were feeling in that moment, that feeling was wrong. We’re sorry to be the ones to break this to you. But you can’t say we didn’t try and speak the truth in love.

sincerely,

The Vores