Dear Pirate’s Booty,
I knew this day was coming. As the boxes up against the wall here at The L offices dwindled I watched mournfully as the last treasure chest filled with individual serving bags of all natural puffed rice and corn flavored with real aged white cheddar cheese was brutally pillaged. And then I came to work yesterday and you were gone. I remember the day you arrived. It was hot, overcast. Sporadic rays of sunlight poked through the clouds like metaphors for hope and change and opportunity. And then there you were. Seven boxes tall. With your arrival nothing seemed to matter any more: the health care debacle, this awful heat wave, the ongoing destruction of the economy. And it was because you were there. You made coming to work just the slightest bit better, you made the F train stops, in the mid-August heat, more bearable. You made lunch the best meal of the day, and mid-morning and afternoon snacks just that much greater.
It’s been a tough two days, Pirate’s Booty. Your absence is hard to ignore. A malaise of sorts—a psychological scurvy—seems to have made its way around the office. Days seem longer, hungrier. Oh God, I just miss you so much.
So if anyone at Robert’s American Gourmet is reading this: Please send more Pirate’s Booty. If you don’t I’m going to have to keep drinking these shitty Guru energy drinks that I don’t think anyone else at The L drinks except me.
Please! I’m really hungry!
Jon and the rest of The L Magazine staff (mainly Jon)