Hey you with the black, thick-rimmed glasses. Yeah you, wearing the skully on stage in the middle of August. Stop polluting the clubs; I've had enough of your kind. Your days of performing in abstract coffee houses for dozens of "too cool for the room" hipsters are numbered.

May your taste buds be burned sipping on a soy latte while you observe what is wrong with today's society. Your boring political views can lull a hyper active downie to sleep. Yes, we all know Bush is evil, and him being in office is the first sign of The Apocalypse. The fact that you wait for applause breaks after making such a bold statement fills me with the kind of hatred a molestation victim has towards his uncle.

I don't care how off-the-wall your delivery may be. Feel free to whisper, mumble, ramble on like a heroin addict - it doesn't make a difference how you sell your awful material. Who needs an off-stage personality when you're so brilliant on stage? How dare we want to learn more about you, but can't because you're covered in an enigmatic veil of brilliance.

Your references to obscure 1980's pop culture makes me feel as if I've swallowed a mouthful of curdled milk. Your obsessive fascination with plot holes in old episodes of "Saved By The Bell" needs to stop immediately. May you spill a scalding hot cup of wheat tea all over your Arnold from Happy Days ringer shirt, causing you much grief, and an emergency wardrobe change moments before stage time. Perhaps your 40gb iPod will malfunction, resulting in the loss of countless hours of Morrissey, PJ Harvey, and Liz Phair (before she sold out, maaaan) mp3's.

Also, just because you took band class in elementary school doesn't mean you can bring instruments with you up on stage. Your purposely subpar guitar playing skills won't overshadow your terribly unfunny song about how the nipples are the clits of your tits.

I pray that your Powerbook is stolen by a street thug and sold on the black market for a kilo of yayo. All of your dynamite material will be quickly deleted by some mid-level businessman, working for a corporation you detest. You also won't be able to update your hideous blogs full of silly pictures with others of your kind. Hey look! You painted a handlebar mustache on your top lip with an eyeliner pencil! Isn't that funny? No, it isn't.

You know what? We should round you all up, shove you into a Volvo hatchback, and drop you off back in 1992 Seattle. There you can find your roots, accept your depression, and enjoy some Starbucks before it became such an evil, worldwide corporation.

But have faith, ye who collects old R.E.M. vinyl LP's. Your career with be full of wonderfulness.

You'll enjoy your cozy, weekly spot on VH1's Best Week Ever. You can dissect all the current events a person can handle, in your trademark smarmy, & passive-aggressive style. Imagine if VH1 was to do an "I Love The 80's: Part 3" series? Good lord, you can openly express your love for Lite Brite and go on & on about how awesome Skeletor was.

Imagine all of the indie magazines you'll be writing for! That 5 page article you quickly jotted down about how the lead singer of The Mars Volta sends you telepathic voice mail messages, contaning nothing but audio of a ferret being sodomized by a burrito, WILL FINALLY SEE DAYLIGHT!

Clear off some space on your Ikea bookshelves, you'll be receiving plenty Emerging Comics of NY Awards...especially once you enter the realm of sketch comedy. I think we all nearly miscarried from laughter when you portrayed a piece of asparagus that felt guilty for making human urine smell so "icky." Those nights spent at the Luna Lounge are finally paying off, kiddo. I hope after your next set, we are treated to some indie rock group, whose lead singer uses a blaring megaphone to sing about lizards.

Perhaps I just don't get it. Maybe I'm getting too old, I'm not cultured enough, or I haven't consumed enough pot in my lifetime. If I grew up a lonely, anti-social child, would I be part of this "in" crowd? Am I not cool for enjoying comedians that talk about themselves in a demeaning way? What about for admiring performers who hurl insults towards each other in order to show affection? Should I feel guilty for wanting to learn about the performer instead of straining my brain, thinking about some obscure pop culture references presented to me by you? Is true standup comedy dying?

Oh wait, I'm just not a retard.

-Patrick Milligan

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