The most common piece of hate mail I get is something to the effect of "you're such a loser."� This coming from people who spend their day crafting letters to someone who doesn't care about what they're saying.

Hate mail doesn't get to me. It did when I first started receiving it. See, I received it, I just didn't get it. I used to want the whole world to like me. But the more people I meet, the more I realize that there are some people who I don't want in my corner.

I will never understand the mindset that makes someone send hate mail. And I don't mean a letter disagreeing with a statement or arguing a point. I encourage that; we were raised as a society to voice our differences, and while some people's differences are based on a culture of ignorance and inbreeding, I still respect our ability to voice them. What I will never understand are those words that come out of stupidity, say nothing valid, and read like they're written by a fourth-grader recently left back for having the reading level of a first-grader. But Ashlee Simpson aside, I also don't understand most hate mail. (Oh, snap!)

I get several letters each week telling me I'm not funny. What a waste of time. Is this really going to accomplish anything?

"Well, my book sales are at an all time high, I'm playing to bigger crowds, and I just won an award as one of the best new comics in the business. But this guy who can't seem to spell "˜Steve' doesn't think I'm funny. I guess I should retire. And change my name to Stve."�

Not everyone is going to find me funny, I accept that. The vast majority of the world doesn't think I'm funny. In fairness, that could be due to many people not knowing how to speak English. Still, I'm not funny to everyone. But if we all wrote letters to everyone we didn't find funny, we'd have no time to do anything else. Though if we did and if there was justice in the world, Larry The Cable Guy's mailbox would look like that kid's locker in the pop tarts commercial.

A phrase I read sometimes is "don't quit your day job."� This is even more pointless, since I don't have a day job. And the people who write this most commonly have a day job that includes playing Splinter Cell in their mother's basement.

I get called a sellout sometimes, which is curious since it's been years since I took money for something I didn't believe in. And that was a summer job. Taking money for something you're passionate about doesn't mean you're a sellout - it means you've sold up. In the meantime, the people calling me a sellout are pushing Moons Over My Hammy at Denny's for $5.50 an hour.

There are many reasons hate mail doesn't bother me. The first one is that anger shows I'm making a difference in the world. Which is ironically the opposite of what these vitriolic letters are intended for, since they are actually validating my writing. And something important for me to remember is that these people's hatred has nothing to do with me. When someone writes me hate mail of the "you suck"� nature, it's because they're currently failing at something, or their mother didn't hug them enough, or their uncle hugged them too much. So to those who write me such letters (assuming you have the mental wherewithal to have read this far), please recognize that your problem is not with me. Your problem is with you.

But most importantly, my hate mail makes me laugh. I laugh at the spelling, the liberal use of expletive, and the idea that this person has actually made it this far in life without getting beaten to death. If you're curious, I posted an archive of some of my favorite hate mail on SteveHofstetter.com - I'd print it here, but this column runs in family newspapers.

I will, however, share my all-time favorite hate mail with you. When Atlanta Braves pitcher John Rocker was quoted saying some racist things in Sports Illustrated, my brother and I wrote some columns blasting him. One reader wrote:

THE REASON YOU WRITE ABOUT OTHER PEOPLES LIVES IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE NONE OF YOUR OWN. LOSERS!

YOU PEOPLE EAT MY (edited for family newspapers) JOHN ROCKER RULES YOU ARE JUST JELOUSE OF HIM BECAUSE HE IS GOOD LOOKING AND HAS A GTREAT SENSE OF HUMOOR YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM. HE JUST TELLS THE TRUTH AND I SEE THAT THIS SITE IS MADE BY YOU SMELLY NEW YORK PEOPLE YOU ARE PROVING JOHN ROCKER RIGHT. ROCKER FOR PRESIDENT BETTER YET KING!

What choice did we have but to respond?

"Your caps lock key seems to be on,"� we wrote. "Your ignorant racist moron key is also stuck."�

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I put off this column because I knew I could. Because I knew if I got it done by Monday afternoon, it would still be alright (even though I'm supposed to have it finished by Sunday night). But I knew I could, so I did.

That's the creed of a procrastinator. As long as getting away with it is still possible, we'll do it. Rather we will not do it. Because a true procrastinator only does it when they have to do it, and we're very good at delaying the act of doing.

There's an old joke about procrastinators working hard to avoid working, and that happens constantly. But in my case, I simply sat there and didn't start writing this column until I knew I had to because, well, I knew I didn't have to.

On Saturday I was sick - still sneezing from the cold I picked up the previous week, probably aided by my putting off going to sleep. Sunday I was too tired, certainly aided by my putting off going to sleep. I did, however, have time to watch The Matrix: Revolutions, which is silly since I haven't seen The Matrix: Reloaded. I want to, but I keep putting it off.

I finally sat down to write this in the lobby of Jiffy Lube, where I'm getting my oil changed after first seeing the oil light pop up on my car two months ago. The oil light went on and off a number of times, so I figured I was okay until the light stayed on. And I haven't driven this car in the last two months, so there was no harm done. The light started going on permanently two days ago, so I finally decided to change my oil today, mainly because I happen to drive by a Jiffy Lube on my way back from the bank.

I went to the bank for two reasons: One, to deposit the check I've wanted to deposit for the past four days. I had to do that today because the last check I waited to deposit still hasn't cleared, probably because someone at the bank waited to deposit it until the last possible minute. So I figured I ought to deposit a few more bucks so that the new amount will clear just in time for me to need it. The second reason was to buy a money order. A month ago my friend, while driving my car, got a traffic ticket that is due in two days, so when I send the money order overnight tomorrow morning, they'll get it just in time. Last possible minute - that's the credo.

Now that I think about it, my friend was speeding because we were running late for a show, stuck in traffic that afternoon after checking out of the hotel at the last possible minute. Actually, it was an hour after the last possible minute, because we asked for a late check out. We knew ahead of time that we'd be behind time. The hotel was able to grant us the late checkout because housekeeping never starts making the beds on time anyway.

The ticket came at the end of the month, along with many other tickets for many other drivers. The police probably had a lot of tickets to give out, since they'd been putting them off the whole month. I guess procrastination makes the world go round - just a few minutes later than it would have otherwise.

So now I'm forced to write a column in the lobby of a Jiffy Lube, which is good because I didn't have anything else to do. Though I just spent the last five minutes watching the Cosby Show on the lobby monitor instead of writing this column. I'd seen that episode already but it was still something to do that wasn't the work I was supposed to do. Now that there's an episode of The Parkers on, I'm writing again.

I was originally thinking of writing a column on how Michael Jackson was late to his trial but I decided not to because that column would take some researching online. And I don't have a web connection here, so I'd have to put off finishing the column until later and I'm just not the kind of person who would do that. Because when I get home, I want to watch SportsCenter instead.

A brief tangent: I found Michael Jackson's lateness to be almost as ridiculous as his, well, everything he's ever done. No matter how much I procrastinate, I still arrive in time. I'm obsessive about that, mainly in response to my upbringing. I'll put it this way - I was born three minutes before my due date, which was the last time my parents were early for anything.

But I digress. I really should start writing my column.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I sat in my mother's car, staring out the window at all the headstones. I thought of what mine would say in that little line too short to truly encapsulate a human.

"I hope mine says, 'he made people laugh,'" I suggested.

"What about, 'thank god that's over'?" my sister countered.

***

Friday night, I flew to New Jersey for a college convention, and while waiting for my bags, I plugged my phone in to recharge it. Nothing.

I didn't freak out right away. I tried removing and replacing the battery. I tried restarting it. I tried removing and replacing the battery while restarting it. Nothing. Then, I freaked out.

I am attached to my cell phone. I never shut it off except when I'm on stage or asleep. I rue the times I am out of service. So much that I use the word "rue." Occasionally I'm in a situation where I can't answer it. But I am still comforted knowing someone is calling.

I have not reset my phone book in the five and a half years I have had a cell phone. I have also not backed up my phone book, which is probably a ridiculously stupid idea on my part. But so was flying Southwest Airlines, and that didn't stop me. (I rue them, too).

I was trying to figure out what was wrong with my phone. The light on my charger was on, so it was probably the battery or (gasp!) the phone itself. With 8 more months on my contract, I knew I wasn't getting a new phone anytime soon. This one needed to be fixed.

I took the battery out again and looked at it, as if I'd be able to identify the problem.

"Oh, there it is! There's a tiny man dancing on one of the connecter pins! Now that I've shooed him away, it's time to get this baby charged!"

I tried everything. I restarted it again, in case it didn't know it was being restarted the first few times. I even blew on it, Nintendo-style. If it worked for Contra, it'd work for Sprint. No luck. I was phoneless.

I made whatever calls I needed to, which were all punctuated by my cries of "I gotta go , my phone is dying!" Then I shut it off to preserve the final 10 minutes of talk time. I had a busy weekend and I knew it'd be days before I could hit a Sprint store. There were definitely people I called earlier in the day that wouldn't have heard from me if I knew how little battery I had left. (Now I rue them, too.)

I had a good convention otherwise, but spent most of it stressed about my phone. What if an agent was calling? What if a hot girl was calling? What if a hot girl agent was calling? Oh, the sheer possibilities of what I was missing drove me crazy. Even though I actually missed nothing.

Sunday morning, I boarded a train to New York. I was going home, albeit for a few hours. My grandmother passed away over the summer, and Jewish tradition dictates a gathering at the graveside to unveil the headstone and say a few last words. I was glad I could be there, but stressed I couldn't make any calls. Between the train station and my mother's apartment, I borrowed the cab driver's phone to call my mother and tell her I was going to be able to make it after all. And I checked my messages just in case I missed any agents or hot girls.

I arrived five minutes early, and stopped at Radio Shack to see if I could miraculously revive my phone. My now discontinued phone they weren't selling. As I began stressing more at this new piece of knowledge, the clerk offered to at least plug it in to see if it was the charger.

"It's not the charger," I said, before she showed me it was indeed the charger. I bought a new one and left for the apartment, much less stressed knowing that soon, I'd have phone service again.

With my phone charging, I sat in my mother's car, staring out the window at all the headstones. I thought of what mine would say in that little line too short to truly encapsulate a human.

After a brief exchange with my sister, my phone rang. Excited for who it could be, I picked up and got a telemarketer. Hanging up and looking back across the cemetery, I realized my headstone should say, "he missed the point." How ironic that I kept telling everyone that my phone was dying just before visiting the grave of my grandparents. I spent the weekend stressed about my messages when my mother did fine thinking about arrangements for her mother's headstone. I laughed aloud. Partly as a defense mechanism, and partly because I spend so much time writing about other people's stupidity, I often forget my own.

Perhaps "he made people laugh," would be appropriate for my headstone. As long as it was followed by "especially himself."

I unplugged my phone.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

How come the majority of people at the International House of Pancakes look like they're from West Virginia?

When I walk into IHOP, I don't see a table full of Japanese people or an Italian family waiting to be seated. I see a heavy-set white guy wearing a red-checkered flannel over a "God Bless America" t-shirt with an American flag bandana around his upper arm and a mesh hat that says "Git 'R Done."

Incidentally, "Git R Done" is the most annoying phrase a comedian could hear. For those of you with taste, you might not know that's comedian Larry the Cable Guy's catch phrase. Translated to English, it means "get her done," and people have adopted this phrase to replace any semblance of original thought. If you use this phrase, you might as well be saying, "I tried having my own opinion, but I give up. I'm sorry, I just don't have a thought process." But that can't fit on a mesh hat.

There is nothing International about the House of Pancakes. Calling it that is like Major League Baseball claiming to host the World Series. Sure, Canada shows up every now and then, but the event is really based in America.

I wonder if IHOP's clientele is proud of their diversity when they eat there.

"Come on kids, we're expanding our horizons. Let's go eat at that International place. I hear some of their maple syrup is from the far off land of Vermont."

I eat a lot of fast food, so I have time to contemplate things like this at length. During a recent trip to Denny's, I began wondering who Denny was, and if he'd had his cholesterol checked out lately. When the healthiest thing on the menu comes with eggs, sausage, and pancakes, regulars ought to get a check up once in a while.

"I don't understand why I'm so unhealthy, Doc. I mean, I eat three square meals per meal!"

McDonald's has a cool feature where when you order, you see the average wait on the register. I think it would be more interesting to see the average weight instead.

"The average wait is 90 seconds. The average weight is 315 pounds."

"Great. Can I have a double-quarterpounder with cheese? Make that a large meal."

"316 pounds."

I love fried chicken, and my favorite chain is Kentucky Fried Chicken. Which is the only thing I know that's made better by the use of the word "Kentucky" in front of it. I've never sought out a Kentucky Public Library. For those Kentuckians offended by that joke, take a look at the motto on your state signs. "Welcome to Kentucky - Where Education Pays." Is that because if you have your GED, you make more than anyone without it? Maybe I'm still bitter because Kentucky is where I totaled my car. Though I still allege that accident was caused by a cop parked on the interstate, I also admit I was driving erratically from laughing so hard at the "Education Pays" sign.

I haven't eaten at a Jack In The Box yet, but that's because I'm afraid of anywhere that sells Burgers, tacos, and egg rolls on a value menu. Maybe it would be better to have jack in that particular box.

It's gotten hard to find local restaurants, outside of big cities. Country cafes aren't nearly as common as they used to be. America's landscape is now littered with Chick-Fil-As and Waffle Houses. Most of the country looks like a poor man's Las Vegas, where the Bellagio and Venetian are replaced by True Value and Dick's Sporting Goods. And those lit signs need to be fixed. More often than not, you'll end up eating at the FLE HOSE.

I don't think A&W should serve more than Root Beer, I hardly go to Hardee's, and Papa John sounds like the creepy guy who gives you pennies on Halloween, But since it's increasingly difficult to find a privately owned business and it's not worth an extra $4 per meal to see crazy stuff nailed to the wall during dinner, I end up eating fast food more than I'd like to. I can't really resist. The tastes are familiar, so when I see a sign I begin craving what I know. And while I love the convenience, it's a tough world to be healthy in. Most religions have a version of the messiah who went on a hunger strike. That'd be almost impossible now. Instead of fasting for 40-days, it'd be fast food for 40 days. And by the end of it, you'd have Jesus Christ Super Size. I wonder if he could still walk on water if he polished off a few orders of Moons Over My Hammy.

Though Jesus came from the Middle East, so maybe he would be more at home at the International House of Pancakes. Or the Internal Hose of Pances.

"Git R Done!"

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.