This goes to you, the skinny, white trash guy with a haircut like the Hanson brothers, who dined and ditched at my restaurant yet forgot to take his wallet off the table. If you are the type of dumbass who dines and ditches yet leaves your wallet on the table, I might as well take a look at all the love letters stuffed inside it. Then I might as well post parts of that goofy love letters in the OC Weekly's Hey, You! for all to see. It goes from lame: “I want our babies to grow up in a red brick house and white picket fence that you built yourself, I want our babies to listen to music you write (METALLLLLICA!).” To cheesy: “I wish I could just be with you all the time. You make me feel so . . . I was going to say something but words cannot desribe how you make me feel! Yeah! It's that good!” To 1970s-vintage John Holmes porno: “I love your personality, your body, your dick, well, your sexiness!” Also, when you return to get your wallet, please don't try to convince the manager that the service was so bad you had to walk out. It will only result in you getting verbally humiliated, although not quite as much as by reading this, I suppose.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at le*****@oc******.com.
