An Open Letter to Jeff, of New York City

Dear Jeff,

Mike and I observed you purchasing burgers for your office Thursday at The Burger Joint, home of New York City’s best burgers (according to some polls, and also according to us). Jeff, had you been to The Burger Joint before? Because one or two things you said made it sound like you had, but you seemed to be very confused about the protocol. I don’t know how to say this nicely, Jeff, but you were pissing off everyone who worked there. Did you really think it was necessary to ask for a receipt seven times? I am a little bit concerned for you, Jeff. Have you ever watched the show The Office? Because I am going to be honest with you, Jeff, you were acting more than a little bit like Ryan Howard. And by that I mean: jacked up on drugs. Jeff, sweetie, no matter how many times you say “To Go,” you are going to have to bag your own food. Mike and I were able to figure that out. Surely you can, too.

After observing you for a few minutes, Mike and I had conflicting ideas about you. He couldn’t believe the office would send someone as incompetent/drug addled as you to order food. I, however, felt as if they probably couldn’t stand to be around you one minute more, and that it was probably worth having their food order messed up just to be able to get away from you.

Mike conceded the point.

Jeff, Mike and I wish you the best and thank you for giving us something to discuss as we hiked through Central Park on such a hot day. But, Jeff, I say this with great concern and compassion: You need to get some help, man.

At one point Mike thought I was going to punch you in the face,

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    An Open Letter to Jeff, of New York City

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