My Evil Twin Would Lie and Steal

To the douche biscuit who stole my Sunday New York Times,

Shame on you. You deprived me of one of my favorite rituals of the week: reading The Sunday Times at Panera. I had already read a good chunk of it online, but that is not the point.

You took something that was not yours, you twaffle. At a newsstand price of $5, the Sunday Times is a bit steep, but now you've transferred that cost onto me. And as an addict, I might have to cross the river to go to my favorite news stand to get it. I hope you're happy, though I think someone so low as to steal another person's NYT is incapable of ever feeling true happiness. Where evil lurks, good cannot thrive.

What's your favorite section, thief? Do you start with the A section? Sunday Styles? Arts & Leisure? Or do you do what I do, and go straight to Week In Review? I don't know what would strike me as more appalling: a stranger defiling the Week In Review section I should be reading, or that stranger passing by that section, unaware of its goodness. Well, either way, fuck nut, you're on my list.

My fervent hope and prayer is that like St. Paul, you will become struck with the regret and horror of your actions, and dedicate yourself to righting the wrongs you've inflicted upon the world. I am probably not your only victim. Newspaper theft is likely but one of many crimes you have committed. I am saddened by your plight, but not so jaded that I feel you cannot reform. If H.I. McDunnough can escape the clutches of recidivism, then maybe you, too, can find the righteous path.

Of course, maybe it was not a douche biscuit who took my beloved paper, but rather an error on the part of my carrier. If that's the case:

To my fellow human to whose life-strength depends on The New York Times,

Good morning. I hope you are having a good morning, despite the fact that you were probably up way too early. You are a brave soul, with more discipline than me. May you find solace in knowing that you are charged with a sacred task: delivering the news to the thirsty masses. You are entrusted with delivering not just any news, but the Cadillac of newspapers, the Hendrix of guitarists, the "Fear of A Black Planet" of rap albums. You, my friend, are entrusted with the holy grail.

Several obstacles must besiege you each week as you embark on your journey to unite hungry reader with the everso satisfying Sunday Times. I'm sure you have several tales of dodging hobos, dogs and watchful rednecks wary of this person delivering light to the ignorant ones content with the shadows.

It is because I am aware of your burdens that I regret to inform you that a horrible blow has been dealt to justice this morning. Cruel fate has it that I was not united with my Times this morning. I know, I, too, was devastated.

It is not my intent to cause you guilt or ignominy. Neigh, my friend, I would like to use this incident of letting you know the joy I derive on the days you complete your task as charged. I time it such that I leave my front door, grab the Times in its blue sheath and make way to the local Panera just before they stop serving breakfast. I order either a spinach, bacon and egg souffle or a breakfast sammie with either bacon or sausage. I have a very methodical and well-rehearsed routine that plays out over the next hour and a half, and it is this routine that is one of the most cherished parts of my week.

Now, I do not cast blame in your direction. Perhaps it was thieves, dogs or sand people who caused me this pain on this otherwise beautiful April morn. Whatever the case may be, I wanted you to know that your life's work is one that is greatly appreciated, and so much joy can be enjoyed -- or lost -- depending on your success. My future children and/or non-existent dog could even bear your name one day.

Unless, of course, your name is Binyamin.

Love,
Me.

Whew. That was therapeutic.

Survey question
Did YOU take my Sunday Times? And if so, how does it make you feel to know you have caused a poor soul such anguish?