Belinda, wait. I can’t let you get on that plane.

Look, I know I’m not the perfect guy. I don’t have the fancy job with a big salary and a corner office. I don’t look like Brad Pitt or Idris Elba. I know my family can be pretty hard to deal with. I can’t cook, don’t understand how to clean, and refuse to take out the trash for religious reasons. And yeah, I know I’ve neglected my personal hygiene to point that I’ve been legally reclassified as a “dangerous gas. ”I also know that even my closest friends don’t like me and call me stupid nicknames like “Pyromaniac” and “Convicted Arsonist.”

This is what I know: I don’t donate to good causes like finding a cure for cancer and I know that I volunteer for bad causes like finding a way to keep cancer going. Depression runs in my family and would surely be passed to any children we’d have, which we can’t, because I cut off my penis in protest after McDonald's ran out of Rick and Morty’s Szechuan Sauce. I know my body is so oddly shaped that I look like two trenchcoats pretending to be a man, which multiple investigations have proven to be inconclusive.

Yes, I’ve been an unpaid moderator of the Kevin Smith subreddit for 16 years. No, I will not eat anything other than French onion soup in a bread bowl, hold the French onion soup. I have 9 fingers, 11 toes, and no spleen. I’ve been going through something called “fifth puberty” for nearly a decade. I tricked middle school students in the Philippines into doing unpaid internships for the Damn Daniel kids. Hell, I’ve killed before and I will kill again.

But I came to the airport for a reason—to get a copy of the American Airlines inflight magazine with Dennis Quaid on the cover. But then I saw you, and, after attempting to buy a pretzel at Auntie Anne’s before being kicked out for being a “dangerous gas,” I started telling you what I know.

Here’s what else I know: if you get on that plane today, you’d be making an extremely wise emotional and financial decision that you would never regret once for the rest of your life. I know we just met each other when I started talking, but I think I have the potential to severely ruin the rest of your life. So what do you say: How about I rip up your first-class, non-refundable ticket to Maui and you come back with me to the hut I made out of trash in Griffith Park?

No? But I… I love you, Belinda.

Your name’s not Belinda? You’re a flight attendant named Frank Taylor Barone who's happily married with a wife and two kids in Branson, Missouri?


You think you could spot me 50 bucks for an Uber back to Griffith Park?