Dear Chris, Here's The Truth
Advertisement
Dear Chris,
I write to you in letter format as I know this is your preferred style in which to deliver deeply personal recommendations. I never wanted to write this but I fear that you have forced my hand. Today, you wrote yet another blog in your long list of self-blind gripes about being left out of a company function. In it, you wrote that I looked like all the members of the 2006 Duke lacrosse team put together. Well played, friend. I truly hate to do this, but you clearly want to be part of show. Consider the bait taken.
Your constant complaining about being left out has become the mosquito whine that drones somewhere within the gathering dark of a screened-in bedroom. We’ve weighed the options: do we rouse ourselves, turn on the light, roll up an old copy of The New Yorker and DEAL with you? Or do we fall wretchedly asleep, waking to claw at itchy welts that rise angrily on our skin from the late-night nibbles you take when nobody, and I mean NOBODY, is watching your Twitter live streams?
In a sea of delusional fish, you, sir, are the sea beast least capable of self-reckoning. In my life, I’ve met a lot of people who refuse to face their own music. But Chris, your steadfast unwillingness to acknowledge the incredibly obvious consequences of your own behavior tops them all.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MAN?! WHY MUST YOU CONTINUE TO POKE AND PROD THE HOUSE OF CARDS UPON WHICH YOU SIT?
Chris: you are expressly, intentionally withheld from company events. You are not overlooked; you are flagged. You are not forgotten; your name is underlined, highlighted, and annotated with a “DO NOT ALLOW WITHIN 300 YARDS OF THE BUILDING” note carved in red ink so ferociously that it punctures the page.
You wrote:
“The thing about being open about shit is you kind of shed any semblance of shame. This is the ending to "8 Mile." I know what you will say in response before you even say it. Make your rehab jokes as I toss back a Coke Zero and wash down 469 days (nice) without alcohol in my system. Here's the thing: I got better, y'all didn't. You can't ice out a person on fire.”
Dear God, help us. I feel like early Simon Cowell talking to American Idol auditionees whose singing voices send pigeons plummeting en masse to broken death. Nobody is taking shots at the personal struggles you’ve overcome! This isn’t about rehab or Coca Cola products, and you are CERTAINLY not on fire. We take issue with the fact that you are a completely talentless barnacle who makes everyone uncomfortable and has enough skeletons in his closet to satisfy the decorative needs for every Cinco de Mayo party from now until el fin del mundo.
Do you think this is good writing, good humor?
“Look, Bracket Busters is a great event. It gives Jeff D. Lowe another team to root for. Pretty soon, he'll have a favorite team in all 50 states. I wasn't on the stream, though I could hear Feitelberg's fake cigarette laughter wafting through my vents from hundreds of miles away. He tried to announce what he picked, but Kevin talked over it. See, kids, I can play along, too. I'm sure I'll get accused of trying to copy off brand Adam Driver Ohio Tate's lead by making content like this, but I've earned a clap back.”
Heavens, somebody check the pulses of Jeff, Feits, Kevin, and Ohio’s Tate. In one paragraph, this sniper just blew the brains back of four employees by:
- Saying Jeff roots for multiple sports teams
- Feitelberg fake laughs
- Kevin talks over people
- Ohio’s Tate is off-brand Adam Driver
This is playing along, alright. If playing along is letting your youngest cousin join the Thanksgiving family touch football game and run for a score without so much as a cut, hurdle, or headfake. Chris, you have not “earned” anything. The fact that you are still paid to write blogs at all is an act of charity that makes the Barstool Fund look like Idi Amin’s campaign war chest.
You are an OK writer. You are prolific in your blogging, yes. But as the kids say, it’s quite mid. Your writing is dull, self-absorbed drivel that spirals like some dying pheasant that can’t tell the ground from the sky. It's not what you think it is.
We don’t address you because there is an assumption that you stand upon some implied cliff, your tiny toes hanging over the abyss, ready to jump at the slightest mean thing said against you.
Newsflash, Chris: we’re all suicidal here! Kirk takes a month off every single year to have orderlies shackle his wrists to a cot and yet he still finds a way to do his job fearlessly, ferociously, and WITHOUT FEELING BADLY FOR HIMSELF. With a few exceptions, we hate ourselves and medicate with chemical cocktails and unhealthy snacks. Have you seen the goddamn pantry in the New York office? Did you get a glimpse before the restraining order was levied? Boxes upon boxes of crispy cholesterol thins and gummy tummy delights. They shoot this shit down our gullets to numb the pain of Twitter armies that want us gone for good.
In what world would you ever be included in anything… at all? If you mixed a glass of tapwater drawn from a Flint farmhouse with a gallon of Chernobyl cooling fluid, a Geiger Counter would still give you the radioactive edge.
Advertisement
My advice? Stop asking “why not me?” and start saying “thank you” to Dave’s saintly heart for keeping you here. Stop complaining, read more, and work to improve your writing. Then maybe with some fucking humility and awareness, you might find yourself at a sponsored event some day.
Warmly,
Francis