Dear drunken goons who flock to Old Town on the weekends,
I understand that many of you have crippling doubts about your worthiness and masculinity. The world can be a tough place and many of you lack a job, a girlfriend or a meaningful life.
That being said: Stop fucking attacking the trees on my street! Every year the city plants new trees on my street and every year you pathetic clowns rip them limb from limb on your stumble to the car at 2am while you mindlessly whoop at the moon and vomit on yourselves.
Next time you wish to prove your manhood and/or flail in impotent rage, have the balls to take it out on someone who would happily fight back: the bouncer who threw you out of the club, the scary-looking guy who works out too much at the bar, one of our neighborhood’s many crack dealers or a cop.
Here’s hoping the next tree you damage is the one that kills you when you wrap your car around it on your weekly drunken drive home.—Anonymous