Matt Preskenis is Sorry... Again

Greetings and Salutations, Everyone Who Has A Web Connection...

I had high hopes - dreams, even - to call this post my Open Letter to Everyone (Especially You)...

And I had all kinds of edgy, comic ideas about content, visuals and unorthodox font-i-fication...



"Andale Mono" - yeah, you bet...

But then I got sidetracked by a particularly loathsome episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, two NFL playoff games that meant nothing to me, not to mention an afternoon happy hour special that ran well into the early evening...


(I, by the way, sometimes think that the sole point of my existence is to disprove that crappy series' name, because I, with every last ounce of my being, detest Raymond and everything he stands for...)

But I digress.

I was having a perfect day.


I mean, I was wicked psyched to add my Masshole ramblings to drinkatwork.com, and I had all kinds of awesome commentary on such cutting-edge topics as...

• That War That We're All Supposed to Support, But Not Talk About If It Goes Badly
  
• The War on Freedom
• Chocolate Rations Being Up...

But midway through a tasty Brooklyn Lager, I remembered that we weren't always at war with Eurasia...


Then I realized I was being watched.

Or at least, I should be...

At that point, I figured I'd drag my sorry ass into my Fortress of Solitude and write a less charged, albeit, yes, more generic posting...

Don't get me wrong.

There's still 100% pure adrenaline in this post - it's a promise I make with all my posts - but there's also two dashes of frustration, a couple of quick squirts of regret, and two hundred and fifty six ounces of fine North American lager in here...

In short, good times.

This is my first time writing for the good people of Drink at Work, and I'm glad they'll have me.

I mean, I'm impressed anyone will even look me in the eye after those "what do you really think about Jesus?" conversations with my family over Christmas, that disastrous time at my Canadian friend's wedding, and that unfortunate incident on that boat in Amsterdam...

If I had an intern, that pothead, UVM-dropout flunkie would be an expert at sending out thank-you notes...


[Oh, yeah. Chuckle all you want. Where are you getting your interns, Ms. Smarty Pants?]

Again, I digress.

This is already a far longer post than I intended, so let me simply leave you with some handy tips for dealing with me in the future.

They're simple, like me...

• First and Foremost: I hate mayonnaise.
  
  That DOES NOT mean that I kinda don't like it.
  
  I hate it.
  
  Hate it.
  
  I hate it the way someone who, um, hates something... um... really dislikes that thing...
  
  I HATE MAYONNAISE.
  
  It made me sick at a Lithuanian Picnic at Stonehill College in Easton, MA back in 1978, and though I tried to hold that rancid, mayonnaise-y tuna salad down, I threw up on my Uncle Mike and Aunt Jean right in the middle of the Tug-O-War...
  
  They were mortified.
  
  After that, they found Jesus and lost all of us...
  
  In the short term, as a result, we Preskenises lost to our cousins, the Gedraitises, in that fateful tug-o-war, and we've had to hang our heads in Lithuanian shame for decades.
  
  All because of mayonnaise.
  
  So keep it the fuck off of my sandwiches.
  
  If I only throw up, I'll count myself as blessed...
  
  Thank you.
  
  
• Numer Two: I don't care how well you're doing, particularly if you're doing well.
  
  If you're doing well, and things are coming up roses, that's great, but can I say...
  
  I really have no interest in talking to you...
  
  Seriously. I don't.
  
  I can already imagine your relatively mundane stories of success, happiness and optimism...
  
  If, however, you have an alcoholic cousin who stabbed a guy once and is now living on the streets, crapping in the pants he wears everyday, and supporting himself by playing competitive mumbley-peg...
  
  THAT's the guy I want to talk to.
  
  And I will.
  
  Just get us two bottles of Colt 45 (don't let the smooth taste fool you...), and your cousin and I will be good for hours at a time...
  
  
  I mean, check back in 90 minutes or so, we may need you to make another Colt 45 run...
  
  
• Numero Three-o: If you're going to beg me for money, that's fine.
  
  Hell, you could be my uncle - yeah, that uncle no one in my family talks about until he magically appears every seven years at Christmas...
  
  But even if you're not my uncle, you can ask me for all the money you want.
  
  I may give you some...
  
  I may not...
  
  I have only one comment:
  
  The moment I tell you, "I don't have any money," and you say, "hey, motherfucker, don't make me pull out my gun!", you are no longer begging me for money...
  
  You're robbing me.
  
  This has happened a couple of times.
  
  I know, the world is funny. Call me crazy, but as far as I'm concerned, every time you threaten to shoot me... you're robbing me.
  
  What's funny, is so many times, you don't really have a gun...
  
  And that's just sad.
  
  Now...
  
  I've been robbed.
  
  My friend Alex and I once had a guy stuff a Glock 9mm in my face while we were in search of some late night entertainment in DC, I've had a Polish cop stick an AK-47 in my face until I gave him the equivalent of $27, and I once had a disheveled guy in Houston threaten to pistol-whip me with a Colt 1901 and/or a Heineken bottle and/or some French handcuffs unless I gave him a quarter...
  
  In all of those cases, I coughed up my dough...
  
  But if my bullshit sensors go off, and you say you have a gun, but I KNOW you don't have a gun...
  
  I'll call you out on it.
  
  And you won't know WHAT to say.
  
  Because if you haven't shot me in the thigh by the time I'm laughing at you, you probably won't be shooting me until some time late tomorrow afternoon...
  
  And that's fine with me.
  
  Hell, I'm not fast, but if you give me a good eighteen hours or so? That's plenty of time.
  
  You think I'm kidding, but the last time some random homeless guy threatened me with a non-existent gun (last weekend on Bleecker Street, for anyone keeping track), I got a free chicken kebab out of the whole exchange, after the shop owner realized that I'd solved an entire night's worth of gun-related problems with one quip....
  
  Not a bad deal.
  
  Sad thing was, I was going to give him my change from the kebab.
  
  Rock salaam aleikum.