To The Douche Who Broke My Model Airplane

Dear Dirtbag,

I know where you live. If I didn’t, would this letter be under your door? No. I know what you look like. You look like a big dumpy butthole that farts a lot. You are losing your hair and that goatee you grew to compensate is pathetic. And oh yeah, nice shoes. For a moron!

More importantly, I know what you did and I’m not gonna forget it. Maybe you remember: last Wednesday, when you were walking along down Franklin Ave, probably not looking where you were going because you were FARTING too much, you stepped on my rare replica WWI Sopwith Camel RC airplane. I was running up the block with my remote control to retrieve it after an emergency landing (some irate pigeons wouldn’t leave it alone) and you were just walking along in your moron shoes eating French fries out of a greasy-ass cone and—CRUNCH—my camel may never fly again.

You might just laugh this off because that’s the kind of drooling douchebag you are but that model airplane was very valuable. I spent countless hours in my mother’s poorly ventilated basement hand-detailing the authentic weathering and mock battle damage. I even customized the cockpit to fit a Snoopy figurine, which is a clever cultural reference that’s probably too sophisticated for your meaty head to even comprehend.

I’m sure your big meathead eyes could barely discern the vast differences between a Boeing 377 Stratocruiser and a 314 Clipper, let alone grasp the subtle detailing on a rare collectible flying vessel shattering beneath your moron Sketchers. Let me tell you, an antique aviation enthusiast is NOT someone you want to mess with. We’re known for being a rowdy bunch.

Now here’s the juicy part. As you’re reading this, you might also be wondering where all your furniture is. Well I took the liberty of having it crushed by a machine that’s a thousand times stronger than the smashing power of you and your dickwad friends combined. Your tables, chairs, cabinets, and shelves are all packed into a nice little 3’x3’ cube down at the airport junkyard. Your claim number is 13605. You may have noticed your scumbag car missing from the driveway too. Well, it suffered the same fate as JFK Jr.’s Piper Saratoga II HP. And if you know anything about air accidents (which you don’t), you’ll realize that your car is at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean right now. You might also be wondering where your cute little airhead girlfriend is. Well right now, she’s being shipped airmail to Bogota. And Lagos. And Munich. And Flagstaff. All in separate boxes, if you understand my meaning. Too bad, she was a cute girl.

I know you’re a dense motherfucker, but did you notice the running theme in your little set of misfortunes today? They’re all aviation related. So I hope you like irony. Oh, and if I don’t receive a check for the FULL REPLACEMENT VALUE OF $112 for my airplane you so callously broke, you’ll suffer a crueler fate than your little girlfriend. I’m thinking a jet engine turbine would make quick work of your worthless asshole life.

Maybe this will get you to pay a little attention to the most fascinating industry in the country, and also to WATCH WHERE THE FUCK YOU’RE WALKING NEXT TIME!