An Intervention Letter Written by Someone With Very Little Grasp of the Concept

Dear Becky,

Have you seen my keys? I cannot find them anywhere. I checked by the coffee maker, the washing machine—everywhere. I’m not sure why I’m having such a difficult time locating them, but it may be an indirect result of your substance abuse problem.

I’m planning a trip to Seattle next month, and I was wondering if you might have any recommendations with regard to good places to stay? I don’t want to get caught staying in another Best Western with moldy carpets and a Spanish concierge again.

Although given your present penchant for week-long meth benders, I’d say that you have more pressing concerns. Passing-out in drainage ditches alongside I-80 or deep inside of another Buffalo Wild Wings dumpster, to say nothing of the hepatitis B and C you contracted back in your needle-sharing heroin days, is probably more top of your mind.

And can I say that I find this particular diagnosis more than a little ironic, given that you were never able to earn either a single B or C in high school? Of course, you were always pretty wasted in those days, too. Rest assured that if they handed out grades for being able to hold your liquor while completing Driver’s Ed, you’d have finally earned an A for sure!

That reminds me: I was also wondering if you might have that copy of The Da Vinci Code I lent you a few years back? I really don’t think it should take you this long to finish reading it—it’s practically a young-adult text, and I wanted to read it again to look for any connection to my 7th grade gym teacher, who I’m convinced is part of an Illuminati conspiracy. Even if he’s not, he was at least way too interested in my bathing habits back in school, and he was always keen to point out whenever I missed a spot while showering after one of our bi-weekly tickle fights in his office.

Additionally, you still owe me 20 bucks from that time I helped you buy those songs on the jukebox at The Thirsty Bear. This was a year-and-a-half ago, and the only music you played with the money I gave you was Bare Naked Ladies and Spice Girls. Apparently you wanted to hear “Spice Up Your Life” seven times in a row that day, and it really annoyed the other patrons who were an unrecognizable shade of brown.

Lastly, Becky, I don’t know if you heard that Jenny is going to cook a turducken for our Memorial Day picnic this year, but it’s sort of something I’ve been meaning to bring up with you because I feel that we’re both on the same page with regard to this: Jenny is a conceited bitch and no one wants a goddamn turducken at a Memorial Day picnic.

Last year I saw her spread ketchup on her turkey sandwich—ketchup, Becky.

On a turkey sandwich.

How the hell can you even pretend to be friends with someone like that? It’s unconscionable.

Anyway, if you see my keys, please return them.



Plane is Going Down

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