Dear People Asking “It’s 2010, where are our flying cars?”

I don't want to hear this anymore. The reason why there are no flying cars isn’t because the technology doesn’t exist. I guarantee that the U.S. military already has them. No, the answer is far simpler.

I want you to conduct a simple experiment. Tomorrow, take note of every individual you come into contact with. Make yourself completely aware of the legions of slack-jawed man-children who populate this once-pristine landscape. Now imagine all of these people operating a small aircraft.

We, as a species, have an astounding amount of trouble driving on only two dimensions. The addition of a third dimension would result in rampant chaos. Within two months, all teenagers, senior citizens, and New Yorkers would be dead.

I'm sorry the truth hurts,
Nicko

Dear Fans of Nirvana

Clearly, I'm missing something here, because I cannot fathom why you people make such a big deal about this band. I have failed to find a single redeeming quality in their work. It's dissonant, droning, whiny, and utterly devoid of any lyrical meaning. Nirvana is one of the worst things to ever happen to popular music; the grunge movement that they inspired was a musical dark age, and, frankly, I'm glad that Kurt Cobain blew his worthless brains out when he did, before he could do any more damage. Cobain was bad at his job. He was an atrocious lyricist, an unimpressive guitarist, and sang like a deranged homeless man. He was a talentless sad sack of shit who only became successful because he got lucky and happened to appeal to a disgruntled generation of stupid kids looking for a new genre of music that would piss off their parents, whom he eventually came to loathe.

In fact, I am of the opinion that Kurt Cobain killed himself because he couldn't do anything right. And I respect that. It's taking natural selection into your hands, deliberately strengthening the gene pool.

If you consider yourself musically inspired by Kurt Cobain, may I kindly ask that you go all the way and swallow a shotgun yourself.

This is not open for discussion,
Nicko

Dear Guys in my Dorm Who I Don't Know and Who Keep Saying "Hey" or "Sup" to Me When We Pass in the Hallway

Friggin' stop that! It freaks me the hell out. You don't know me, I don't know you, I don't want to know you, don't talk to me for no good reason. It may just be because of my impersonal northerner sensibilities, but I find this whole "spontaneous politeness" thing really off-putting. I don't need your empty, insincere, autonomic inquiry into my well-being, and you clearly don't actually care how I'm doing. Do us all a favor and don't waste the oxygen necessary to speak; we're running out of that stuff in here. Since you brain surgeons started filling the hallway trash cans with rotten eggs to mask the marijuana smell, I can barely breathy in this place.

I'm not your bro,
Nicko

Dear People on Facebook Petitioning for a "Dislike Button"

I want you to be aware that what you're asking for is a “passive aggressive button.” I understand that the feature is supposed to be used for posts such as “I’m sick,” “My cat died,” “I’m failing out of school,” “I just woke up with a stranger’s blood on my hands,” or any other whiny post that ends in “FML.” That’s not how I’m going to use it though. I’m going to use it to semi-unintentionally destroy friendships.

Here is a list of the sort of posts that I will be disliking: Posts that make mention of bands I don’t like; Posts that contain Bible quotes; Insipid quiz results; Posts that use unnecessary ellipses in place of commas; posts in which the writer holds down the last key for random words, presumably for emphasis; Vague posts which express excitement or despair but don't give any information, through which boring people try to initiate conversation; Posts from people with whom I want to start shit; And any other posts from people who I secretly hate but was too polite to deny their friend request.

You have been warned,
Nicko

Dear Women

Are you actually attracted to guys with scars? I’ve heard that a lot, but only from other guys. I would like some confirmation in this regard before I try this out for myself, since there’s a lot at risk. I would need to pull my pants up to my knee and expose my hairy chicken legs so I could show a girl the scar I got from a pool chair.

If so, I suppose I could show you,
Nicko

Dear Pop Secret

You guys seriously need to calm down and get over yourselves. Your product is not as much of a safety hazard as you’re making it out to be. Each bag of popcorn is infested with warnings about scalding oil and horribly scarring burns. I know we live in an age of ubiquitous frivolous lawsuits, but show some restraint and dignity. The words “Handle carefully: very hot oil and bag!” are printed on the bag six times. Once would have been plenty. Once would have told me all I need to know: that I might burn myself a bit if I shove my entire forearm into the bag immediately after taking it out of the microwave. Six times makes it sound like I’m handling volatile radioactive materials (which I guess is okay, since it makes me feel important and dangerous).

I find some of the other warnings printed on your bags to be offensively paranoid. “Carefully remove bag from microwave, keeping children away.” What is this mess? I say, if some impatient punk-ass kid is retarded enough to burn himself with a bag of popcorn, screw him. He deserved it. Let him burn. “Open away from face”? Or what, it will melt off? It’s not the freaking Ark of the Covenant, it’s a bag of popcorn!

Instead, I suggest you print on your bags some actually pertinent warnings, such as “We recommend chewing more than you feel is necessary to avoid lodging jagged shards of corn shrapnel in you esophagus” or “This product is actually not very good, and may become even less desirable upon continued consumption.” That would have saved me a lot of trouble.

Impotently enraged,
Nicko

Dear Girls who Claim that You’ve Dyed Your Hair so Many Times that You Cannot Remember Your Natural Hair Color

You are liars. You’re lying to me, and you’re lying to yourselves. How can you possibly not remember? It was growing out of your head in that color for at least ten years. You would have seen it the mirror every day for over a decade. You’re trying to tell me that you have absolutely no recollection of that? Don’t you have any pictures from your childhood? Couldn’t you just ask your mom? Couldn’t you look at the color of your eyebrows? Couldn’t you—and just try to hear me out on this—try going six weeks without dying your hair for once and inspect the color of your roots instead of choosing to bask in your ignorance? Answer me, you liars.

I know why you do this. You want attention. You’re looking for a quirk, a way to distinguish yourself. What you don’t realize is that no one gives half a dead dog’s asshole how many times you’ve dyed your hair, and it’s painfully obvious that you’re trying too hard to be interesting. But, unfortunately for you, not knowing your natural hair color isn’t interesting. It’s idiotic and deplorable. Imagine that a guy told you that he had slept with so many women that he couldn't remember the name or face of his first. What you are saying is just as terrible.

Just stick with red,
Nicko