Remain Champagne - TO WHOM IT BETTER CONCERN

Hey, guys. What’s up? I wish I knew to whom to address this, but it could be any one of you. So I gotta do it general-style and not get bogged down in specifics. Forgive my blanket salutations. I guess this letter would be the equivalent of a schoolmaster making a speech during mess hall and going: “All right. Whoever wrote ‘Mrs. Porters Has Large Hindquarters’ on the school flag this morning has a lot of explaining to do.” Because I don’t know whom I’m talking to, but hopefully by the end of it you’ll know who you are.

After getting back from the laundromat, I was putting my clothes away and found some dude’s underwear that was absolutely not mine. I know what I wear. And that shit ain’t what I wear.

How does that happen? I know those aren’t mine. How does some guy who isn’t me get his skivs into my shit like that? But I guess it’s better to discover it at home than at the laundromat, so I’m not pulling this scene in public: “Uh, excuse me, guys! Whose are these?” Who wants to deal with that? And who wants to deal with the guy who owns them and comes up to you and goes: “Uh, yessir! Right here! Thanks!”

I felt weird touching them. I shouldn’t have them. Whoever they belong to better not get killed. Watch. He’ll probably get murdered. Someone’s setting me up. Someone’s pissed at that guy, stole his underwear, killed him, planted his Hanes in my laundry pile and now I’m gonna have to come up with some pretty weird-ass explanation. “How did that dead guy’s underwear get into your laundry pile, Mr. Champagne?” (You know what? After just now typing that last sentence, I realized that if my last name weren’t Champagne and I hadn’t just discovered there was some strange (possibly dead) guy’s drawers in my drawer, I’d think that was a pretty weird damn sentence.)

I remain

Champagne