An Open Letter to the Bartender Who Called Me Col. Sanders


Hey, man. How’s it going? First off, nice bar! I didn’t think there were bars like this in the area. Great use of lighting. A lot of places get that all wrong, and you’d think that would be the first thing to do, am I right? Second, nice Manhattan. You make a mean cocktail, fearsome perhaps, and I don’t want to take that away from you. That being said, I have one small piece of criticism to make towards you. Colonel Sanders? Really? Colonel fucking sanders?

Okay, just going to calm down a bit. I’m sure that you were not trying to be offensive towards me, and I respect your self worth. Still, the subject remains that you have made an unfair comparison. I assume you based said comparison on the fact that I am wearing a ribbon bow tie. Now, perhaps you do not know that the usage of the ribbon bow tie is not only far more widely used than in the South, but it has never fully left fashion. And, speaking of fashion, I appreciate having my clothes critiqued by a guy in a short sleeve button up from quicksilver. It is truly refreshing to see your genre of style outside of a middle school social, you fucking rapist.

Alright, I think I got a bit carried away there, and for that I am sorry. My therapist keeps saying that I have anger issues. I hate him so much, but, you know, first world problems. Anywho, I am willing to admit that maybe my sense of humor is not what is used to be. With the way the world is shaping out these days, there tends to be a looming body of negativity. I am sure that my increasingly sporadic mental state doesn't help either, right? Anyway, I’m going to kill you.


Caleb Finch

Caleb Finch

Caleb Nathan Friedrich was born in a small coal mining town in northern Pennsylvania to his biological parents Gretchen and Ivan Friedrich. Being the Friedrich’s eleventh child, and seeing the steady decline of Ivan’s health, Caleb was dropped into the, then tumultuous, foster care system. When he turned sixteen he gathered what few items he had and set out to make his mark on the world. Forging false identification and assuming the surname Finch, he was able to talk his way into position for the world renowned San Francisco Inquisitor. He went on to become the newspaper’s longest running editor and chief, and has had many printed collections, including The Time I Spent and The View From the Engine Room. In 1943, Caleb passed away by succoming to his long and painful fight against Butt Aids. It is belived by some that his ghost still haunts different locations in San Francisco, and that it's sort of a dick.