Dear XXXX XXXXXXX on Facebook, I want to publicly apologize to you. I don’t even know you, but yesterday I saw that one of my facebook friends commented on your status update that said:
“BMW 750Li or Mercedes S55, which would you go with?”
From the comments (yours and others) that followed, I decided this wasn’t a fun hypothetical question, but that you were truly asking which you should buy.
I’m not proud of this, but when I realized that, something came over me. Something ugly and mean. Something unbecoming of a Utah County resident, shark advocate, and father of two. Before I knew what was happening to me I had commented on your thread:
“It’s my wife’s birthday and I’m trying to decide if I should buy her an aircraft carrier or Disney World (leaning toward the carrier, because I could take the 4,500 orphans I’ve adopted on cruises). Please advise. Also, I’m a Ralph Lauren model, so keep that in mind. And I was voted coolest person on Earth (see PimpDaddy Magazine, July, 2007). Anyway, just sincerely looking for some advice. Thanks.”
I felt justified. After all, you asked for it, I told myself. Begged for it. Practically held a gun to my head for it. You deserved to be banished to a lifetime of strong, toothless women and strong, cold winds in Evanston, Wyoming for your shameless, shameful bragging. At least that’s how I felt for the 30-second period after reading your update; adrenaline—the mean kind of adrenaline—coursing through my veins.
But then I examined my motives. Was I jealous because I couldn’t afford a BMW 750Li or Mercedes S55? Probably. But even if I did have that kind of green I would have the sense not to spend it on a fancy car. I would get a jaguar. The jungle predator, not the car. Do you know how many leopards or lemurs you can buy for eighty thousand dollars on Miami’s black market? About 3 of the former, or 482 of the latter. What’s that? You say you’re into speed? Ever heard of something called a cheetah? Cheetahs do 76 mph. How about your S55? That’s what I thought.
But I realized my core motive was that you wrote something that annoyed me and I wanted to make you feel badly about it. But after the mean adrenaline pooled back into my feet (which is where, according to the latest scientific journals, the human body’s mean adrenaline is stored). I started feeling bad. “You’re crazy. You don’t even know this guy. You’ve never left a mean comment on any of the other crazy Facebook updates you’ve seen. You’re not a mean person. You don’t do stuff like this. How awful that you want to embarrass this person in front of his friends and family and make him feel sad.”
Then I felt sad. And I deleted my comment. At least no one saw it, probably. Then 10 minutes later I got an automatic email delivering a comment that someone left on a different thread that I had commented on earlier. It occurred to me that this might be an automatic feature, and that all 26 people who commented on your update before me got an email with my comment sent to them. Then I felt very bad. Hopefully they simply think what I think whenever I see a mean comment on the Internet: “This person is obviously nutty, insecure, and has nothing better to do with their time. Give them a one-way ticket on the next ferry to Perv Island.”
So please accept my apology. Sincerely. That was weird and crazy of me. I’ll be on the midnight ferry.
This guy in the happy Easter Bunny costume will be on the ferry too.