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We’ve all been there a million times. You’re sitting in your living room in the dark. You’ve got your popcorn in your left hand, and your penis in your right. You are masturbating furiously to Edward Norton’s performance in 1998’s “American History X”. You’re so into it, you forget to check the front door cameras for a full 15 seconds.

You had it all timed perfectly so that you could climax while Ed curb-stomped that one dude. It was going to be so perfect. Instead, a metal battering ram blasted through all six deadbolts, splinters went everywhere, and the door flew off the frame. That dirtbag Biden’s federal agents are on top of you before you can put down your literal manhood and grab the Glock version of your manhood. This would have never happened if you’d rented the movie from Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut.

Sure, you have three firewalls and a double VPN protecting your network. To the average dude, it looked like you were streaming your favorite movie from Laos. Sadly, the liberals have more than just the average dude on their payroll. Some commie from the liberal college system clearly hacked into your system and saw everything you were up to. Hell, they probably knew the perfect moment to bash in the door. Next time, keep those liberal bastards out by using Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut.

At Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut, we rent untraceable old-school DVDs and VHS cassettes to folks for all sorts of reasons that we don’t care to know. We also rent DVD players and VCRs for the patriot that was dragged against his will into the year 2008. We only keep records of who has rented what for as long as the movie is out, then the records are shredded like an illegal immigrant’s fake work documents right before we send them back over the wall to Mexico!

Miss the days when you celebrated finishing a great movie by listening to the high-speed rewind function of the VCR? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has you covered. Sometimes we’ll rent you a movie that hasn’t been rewound just so that you can rewind it twice for nostalgia’s sake!

Do you miss opening the DVD player, gingerly taking the DVD out with the sides of your fingers, blowing on the disc, and then closing it back into the machine again, praying that the machine can read it this time? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has an in-store display where you can do this just for fun! Come on in and show your commie grandkids how it was done back in your day! Rest assured, when you’re blowing on a disc, there will be no masks allowed, because we here at Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut know that if God had intended for you to wear a mask while you blow on late 20^th-century technology in a public place, you would have been born with one on!

Tired of liberal Hollywood shoving their homosexual propaganda down your throat? Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut has 114 copies of John Wayne drunkenly beating the shit out of a little person for 90 minutes…for no apparent reason! We have endless copies of some film where Ronald Reagan has to get rough with a female underling…take that commies! In fact, if you find yourself under federal arrest as a result of something you rented at Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut, your next rental is on us! That’s the Mockable’s new 21-Century, Brick-and-Mortar Movie Rental Hut guarantee!

Generally speaking, my first effort to solve any and all of my problems is to whine about it on Facebook. As such, I was recently whining on Facebook about how the phrase “tomato ketchup” is redundant. If I am at the store, and I see a bottle of ketchup, and I am in the United States of America, I am going to assume that it is tomato ketchup. There is no need for clarification. Save your ink; it isn’t necessary.

Instead of agreeing with me and perhaps chuckling softly to themselves at my weak attempt at observational humor, the pedantic fuckers that are my Facebook friends jumped on this like a hobo on a sammich:

“Nu-uh!! I’ve seen all sorts of ketchup! Here’s a link to a company that sells banana ketchup! I’ve also seen mango ketchup! Not all ketchup is tomato ketchup, you ignoramus! Besides, who are you to point out redundancy? Your name on Facebook is metten metten. Your name is redundant, you hypocrite!”

First of all, I love my Facebook friends. Their tendency towards pedantry is part of why they are my friends. I very much appreciate the attention paid to fine details. I don’t like being wrong, but I am used to it. I would always rather be called out as incorrect than to live my life dispensing false information. So thank you.

Second, go fuck yourselves. There may be other types of ketchup on the planet, but tomato ketchup is so prevalent in contemporary American society that I would be willing to wager all the money in my wallet (currently $2) that if one went to 1000 random grocery stores in the United States and blindly grabbed a bottle of ketchup from each store, at least 999 of the randomly-selected bottles of ketchup would be tomato ketchup. Even if I am correct, my Facebook friends are smart people…and they need the world to know that they are smart people. They need to right the wrongs. They need to make the correct argument. Just one single, “Oh yes…I guess you’re correct.” Will sustain my Facebook friends for a week. So yes, my asshole Facebook friends, I concede that there are many different kinds of ketchup in the world. I continue to maintain that writing, “tomato ketchup” pn the label is redundant.

Third, on the subjects of redundancy: there is nothing redundant about using the same sequence of letters for one’s first and last name. In linguistics, redundancy refers to information that is expressed more than once(https://g.co/kgs/3MjFbc). I will grant you repetitive. I will even give you unoriginal. I will not admit to redundancy in this instance. While they are the same spelling and pronunciation, the first series of letters is my first name. The second, entirely different piece of information is my last name. None of this begins to meet the definition of redundant.

Fourth, on the subject of hypocrisy: it is not the automatic, argument-winning smoking gun that you believe it is. I do my best to avoid hypocrisy. I do not find joy in being a hypocrite. Yet I can be proven to be a hypocrite at any given time with regard to a myriad of different subjects. Still, my hypocrisy does not make you right by default. I honestly believe that this is part of the problem that the United States is currently facing. For example, consider the current leadership of the entire state of Texas. They believe that government entities mandating the wearing of masks in response to a public health crisis is a violation of civil liberties, and therefore wrong. They simultaneously believe that government entities mandating what a person should do with their personal reproductive systems is a violation of civil liberties, and therefore right. I cannot think of a clearer example of hypocrisy. Many people are calling the state of Texas out at the top of their lungs. Maybe one day screaming, “Hypocrisy!” will be enough to sway voters and elect different leadership. Until that day, the status quo remains status quo and the people pointing out the hypocrisy are out of breath with a face as red as tomato ketchup.

This got me wondering, what specific qualities causes a condiment to meet the definition of “ketchup”? So, I looked it up: Merriam-Webster says, “: a seasoned pureed condiment usually made from tomatoes”. Oxford Languages defines ketchup as, “a smooth sauce made chiefly from tomatoes and vinegar, used as a condiment.” I suppose then, in order for a condiment to qualify as a ketchup, it has to be smooth and sauce-like in consistency rather than chunky, and it has to be used as a compliment to enhance the flavor of a dish rather than becoming the dish itself. Now that we know that, guess what the definition of “relish” is…” a condiment eaten with plain food to add flavor,” and “: something adding a zestful flavor”.

After that ketchup journey, I know three things to be true: 1) I both love and hate my Facebook Friends; 2) learning the English language is ridiculously and unnecessarily difficult because of things like this, and 3) you will likely be forced to read 1000 words about the redundancy of the phrase “pickle relish” in the very near future.

Dear Denisse,

Life inside this diner is difficult enough, Denisse. Most of us get here between 3 and 4 in the morning. The music is on the same candle switch that the lights are on, so the minute we groggily stumble into the place and flip on the lights, Buddy Holly and the goddamned Crickets start in with their schtick. I often wonder on those cold, dark mornings as I prepare to cover myself in flour and grease for yet another day, if one might get booted from heaven for beating the shit out of Buddy Holly. I’ve worked hard my whole life. I have taken care of my family. I have been kind to my fellow man. I deserve admittance into whatever heavenly realm comes next. As far as I know, Buddy Holly was a polite Texas kid who was kind to everyone he met, and better than most at guitar. There’s a chance we might bump into each other in heaven. Still, after 23 years of “Peggy Sue”…if I run into that guy somewhere in the hereafter, I am going to punch him in the throat.

See Denisse, I was once like you, except better. I was young, nubile, and excited for what the world had to offer. Like you, I was an attractive, generally happy person. I wasn’t nearly as fake and annoying about everything, but we’ll get to that in a minute. I cared about the people that came into this diner. I wanted to be the start to their great day. I believed the little things were the most important part of giving someone such a pleasant experience that they couldn’t help but go into the world feeling healthy, happy, cared for, and safe. I listened to their stories. I got to know them. I gave them genuine attention and feedback. I made sure their coffee was topped off. I got their orders right the first time. When I screwed up, I apologized, and I made things right. When they were finished, I meticulously cleaned up after them and reset the whole process for the next person. Sure. I was usually given a small gratuity for my effort, but that wasn’t the point. I did what I did because I was a genuinely nice person, and this was my way of helping my fellow humans.

Over the years, Denisse, my philosophy has changed. You see, working here is no picnic. I will never be able to remove the onion smell from underneath my fingernails. I am, in general, tired, and downright weary from 23 years of the daily process of prepping, cooking, and serving hundreds of greasy breakfasts and lunches for generally unappreciative folk in exchange for $28,000 a year. To put it bluntly, I am entirely worn out. My efforts to be a consistent bright spot in folks’ day did not pan out like I hoped it would, and society just got more divided and angrier with each other. I am exhausted. I am nearing the end. The breaking point is in sight. As the years rolled by, and my remaining time on Earth growths shorter, I’ve begun to care less and less about consequences.

This brings us to you, Denisse, and the reason that I am writing this letter. This job is not important to you. It is a means to some other means, to some other means, which might eventually lead to some unintentional end. I can’t tell what your goals are. I have no idea what you are working toward, or why. You stomp in here ten minutes before the breakfast rush and throw your counterfeit designer bag up on the wall by the time clock. Mark, the owner, never says anything about your tardy, unprepared entrance because you are young and attractive, and you keep the filthy old men coming back.

The “Denisse, the plastic girl” show begins as you strut onto the diner floor and start taking tables. Someone else has chipped the old syrup off the table and wiped it down. Someone else has rolled the setups. I realize you never think about these things, but that someone is always me. You use this sing-song voice that is nowhere near the vicinity of genuine. It reminds me of a series of bird calls.

I think of the Band-tailed Hornero’s alarm call as you greet old men and attempt to lure them into your section, regardless of whose turn it is. The song of the Bare-faced Curassow comes to mind as you ask if “we’re” doing anything special today. Who the hell is “we”? You’re not part of the group. You’re not leaving with them, you disingenuous tart.

I think of the Yellow-crowned Gonolek’s mating song as you hurl terms of endearment at complete strangers. “Honey”, “Baby”, and “Sugar” would not accurately describe any of these people. Yet you use these terms constantly. For all you know, that customer kidnapped a handcart full of nuns and keeps them chained in his basement…and he’s your “baby”?! Fuck you Denisse.

No matter where I go in the tiny diner, I can hear your fake bird calls. I shake my head in disgust as I consider the fact that the birds are trying to attract a mate. Your pathetic calls are designed to attract 25% gratuity from a biscuit and gravy order. Even the little message you write on every ticket makes me want to vomit. “Love, Denisse,” with a little heart dotting the “I”.

In summary, Denisse, I have endured this place too long. I have worked too hard. I have put too much of my heart, soul, and very existence into this diner to have to put up with your act. You are a whore. Instead of sex, your tricks consist of pancakes and birdcalls. I’m not going to take it anymore. I am officially threatening you, Denisse. Consider me the greasy spoon vigilante. Use your normal voice, do some actual work, refer to the customers by their names or prepare to be severely burned. Literally.

Sincerely,

Alice from the diner