Dear Marc Powell,
It was probably less than a year ago when I realized that I hate you with every fiber in my body. Mostly it's because of your ratty hair with split ends, but also it has a lot to do with the fact that you are not a cool guy.
Now that you are about to become a daddy, like me, I can only hope that your child throws up on you more than my child did, or that your wife will nag you more than my wife about spending too much time at work.
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways:
1. Your name. Mark should be spelled with a "k". Your name isn't. Gay.
2. Your truck. Everyone knows Ford is better than Chevy. Except you.
3. Your face. Why did they have to make all those GIECO commercials about your people?
4. The voicemail on your phone. Also gay.
5. The way you text message all the time. Way too long, and you don't use enough abbreviations. Tending towards gay.
6. Your pathetic allegiance to Major League Baseball. Go take a Geritol, old man Powell.
7. Your aversion to lists of any kind. This one is turning out to be epic.
8. The fact that you have only sent me one premium climbing saddle as a token of your affection is a source of unending stress for me. Generally, my suitors send me monthly gifts to try to win me over. You failed due to lack of effort.
9. I hate that I am making a list of the reasons why I hate you so much.
So that's it in a nutshell. I hope you have a great birthday, and you drink 2 shots and get sick and pass out in your loser truck. I just hope your "friends" don't draw a penis on your forehead tonight.
Love, your pal forever,
SZ