From the moment I was manufactured, I prayed for the sweet release of death.
My ugly mug was stitched together in a small Russian village by a group of designers who never stepped foot on Hawaiian soil. Describing the appearance of my slapdash design is never an easy task, but I’ll give it my best shot. Imagine if a parrot drank a piña colada, threw up on a blank canvas, and then collapsed dead onto said canvas. Sprinkle in some generic graphics of palm trees and hula dancers, and you’ve essentially captured my essence.
When my creators uploaded images of my detestable tropical patterns to their Amazon shop page, I assumed no one would be stupid enough to order me. Perhaps I should’ve known that somewhere in America, a clueless dudebro (that’s you) was on the hunt for a Hawaiian shirt.
An upcoming office luau at your workplace prompted you to purchase me on Amazon. Normally you would balk at such an occasion, but because an attractive coworker was organizing the party with evident passion, you saw this as an opportunity to make an impression. Unfortunately, you didn’t seem to notice that my shipping process would take eight to ten weeks. As a result, I arrived well past the office luau, thus derailing your plan to schmooze the attractive coworker. Frustrated, you wore me once for a throwaway Instagram post, which only accumulated seven likes and zero comments.
In the following days, you would banish me to the back corner of your closet, also known as the resting place for deplorable garments. Hanging in between a “No Fat Chicks” t-shirt and a Chief Wahoo Cleveland Indians jersey, I contemplate my mortality. How much longer must I be subjected to this cruel existence? Is life truly worth living when shrouded in perpetual darkness? I know the extent of my self-worth. No right-minded person wants to wear an ugly Hawaiian shirt, not even ironically. As for the people who do purchase them, they don’t know a goddamn thing about style. Nonetheless, it’s only a matter of time until they realize the mistake they’ve made. From there, it’s the back corner of a drafty wardrobe for sure.
Dudebro, I’m begging you to release me from your closet of shame and put me out of my misery. Don’t bother donating me to Salvation Army; I do not wish to live a life where I only bring people disappointment. Instead, do what you must to properly destroy me. Shred me to pieces, burn me in fire, throw me to the wolves – I don’t care! Please find it in your heart to free me from this shameful existence.
At the very least, leave an angry review on the Amazon shop page belonging to my creators. Perhaps some negative press will prevent those bastards from bringing more of my kind to life, thus ending our cycle of pain and misfortune.
Torrey Kurtzner is an out-of-work writer and master of self-deprecation. His work has appeared in Little Old Lady Comedy, Wry Times, and The Haven. Follow him on Twitter @YabbaDabbZoinks.
Categories: Open Letters