Letter to an iPod Thief.
Maciej Kasperowicz

Dear Person who stole my iPod,

If I find out who you are, I will proceed to make your life worse than that of a quadruple amputee with a chronic case of chicken pox. Oh, I could cut off all of your limbs, but I’d like to think I wield a more subtle form of vengeance.

For example, when I find out who you are, oh iPod thief, I plan to steal every pair of pants that you own and fill the pockets with peanut butter so that every time you reach for a wallet, phone, or iPod (my iPod, that is), your hands, however delicious, will be temporarily sticky. To make matters worse, your pockets will be filled with the obviously inferior creamy peanut butter. You can clean them all you want, but I have connections in the peanut butter industry, so you best believe I can refill. If you think the loss of the storage capabilities of your pants is bad, that’s barely the start.

Next, I will take a picture of you, post it on hotornot.com, and vote repeatedly so as to make it seem that the people of the internet believe you to be absolutely ugly. Moving on, one day when you’re sleeping, because even dirty iPod thieves have to sleep, I will bring in a plastic surgeon to suck the fat out of one of your ass cheeks and inject it into the other so that your ass will be awkward and asymmetrical. Not only will this not be aesthetically pleasing, but your jeans (still filled with peanut butter, mind you) will be horribly ill-fitting and, at least for a fairly long period of adjustment, sitting down on flat surfaces will be terribly uncomfortable.

Next, I will raid your fridge, steal all of your Coca Cola Classic, drain the delicious beverage, and refill the bottles with a generic cola drink. At first, you won’t notice the difference, you heathen, and you’ll think you’re drinking an authentic Coca Cola product. I, on the other hand, will know that you are indeed drinking an inferior product, and I will sit in the shade, drinking Coke and laughing. Eventually, you might notice that your pop isn’t as good, and you’ll foolishly blame it on the decrease in quality of the Coca Cola product, while everyone laughs at you.

I hope you fly somewhere for Spring Break. If you do, I’ll take the cute little green teddy bear, which, in my estimation, is exactly the type of thing that a thief like you would have in your carry on baggage, and I’ll stuff it with two daggers, and not just regular daggers, but confusing, nonsensical daggers, in the shape of Corey Feldman or former Washington Bullets forward Bernard King perhaps, so that airport security will find them and be angered and confused at the strange nature of your attempted terrorism. “Why not Corey Haim or Dominique Wilkins?” they’ll ask, and why do these daggers have to be 80s celebrity themed anyways? Why couldn’t you just hijack a plane with normal knives? You’ll be sitting there, on the verge of a cavity search I’m sure, and you’ll be ever so confused by the goings on. And then, when you think things can’t get any weirder or more confusing, the airport PA system will start playing “Fuck the Pain Away” by Peaches, you know, the one that goes “Suckin on my titties like you wantin’ me, callin’ me” and I will dance and sing along, while your situation gets more uncomfortable.

When you get home, your room will smell like pickles. I could go for a more offensive smell sure, but that would be entirely too easy. I want the kind of smell where if you walk into the room, it won’t make you want to leave right away, but eventually it will eat away at you, to the point where you won’t be able to really enjoy pickles, and you’ll have to try to open the window (which I will have chained shut) every few minutes. If I can locate a hippopotamus, I would very much like to stealthily leave one of those in your room as well. Hippos are fun animals, you see, but they take up a lot of space, they don’t smell particularly well, and are used to being in water a lot. So you’ll probably have to fill your room with water, if you don’t want your conscience and PETA bothering you. Oh, and I’ll train this hippopotamus to eat nothing but pickles, to compound your problems in that area. If you ever manage to get rid of Billy the hippo, I’ll have a new pet lined up right away.

I have managed, through some tricky legal maneuvering, to acquire legal custody of former Home Improvement star Tim Allen. I’ll unassumingly ask you to take care of him for the weekend, and you, not wanting to seem like a suspicious iPod thief, will oblige. Then, I’ll disappear for three weeks or so, forcing you to take care of the aging, boring, barely working “comedian”. You’ll have to provide him with courtesy laughs and alcohol, and not be offended when he drunkenly calls you “Al, Heidi, or Jill”. God forbid there are reruns of Home Improvement or The Santa Clause on, and I can only imagine what horrible physical puns he makes on the term “Tool Time” when he’s wasted. I’ll come back at the end of three weeks, and I’ll be very apologetic, but I’ll have ready a story about my plane crashing in the Alps and having to eat my best friend’s elbow that’ll make you feel to sorry for me to complain. Then I’ll graciously take back Tim Allen and put him in an orphanage. Maybe that is sufficient psychological damage, but I think your thievery should be punished just a bit more.

After I get done spreading those flyers I made with a Photoshopped pornographic image of your mom that I made on my three week sabbatical, I will rig those peanut butter filled, ill fitting pants of yours with a device that sets them on fire every time you even slightly bend the truth. Like for example, if someone asks you, “Are you a generic cola drinking, obscure 80s reference dagger having, pickle smelling, iPod thief?” Of course, there is a simple solution to all of this. You could just give me my motherfucking iPod back. I won’t even be mad that you erased all of my Pixies bootlegs. I just want to be able to listen to ABBA or Jay-z on the walk to class. I’m sure you understand, or else, why would you have stolen the damn thing. Anyways, the choice is yours, a quick return or a life of misery.


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