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We all know it’s you, Luther. The kids know it, too…

Dear outdoor survival nut, If you enjoy spending your weekends eating grubs and sleeping in the rain on a mountainside, that’s cool with me. But don’t bring it to work, man. Like the time you urinated on my paper cut to disinfect it and wet all the papers on my desk. And eating those leaves and grubs that you bring from home is kinda freaking out Doris in HR. Not to mention that hole you dug out near the parking lot for storing meat. Sure, you’ll be able to survive the “Big One” that knocks out civilization, but until then I think I’ll nuke a pizza and watch some Celebrity Fit Club. You enjoy that tree lizard, man. Columbia City Paper

Dear “no touch” paper towel dispenser, So, I’ve wiggled my upper body in front of you for a little while now and am getting nothing… well, except for a few snickers from the guys over at the sink. I can see the paper towels in there and am really wishing for the old days when you could just reach in and pull one out. Instead I’m in a public pisser waving insanely to an inanimate object that still seems to be smug in some inexplicable way. And, great, now my hands are almost dry anyway. May as well just wipe them on my jeans. Columbia City Paper

Dear dancing hippie, Ah, the venerable white guy chicken dance, flapping around through a haze of pot smoke like our Native American brethren of old. What do you see, dancing hippie, as you gyrate through that strychnine-fueled mental landscape? Do you imagine yourself dancing in an ancient rite, calling upon the gods of rain and maize, while the lead guitarist takes a solo and the rest of us look on with our beers? Whatever is going on, I applaud you (and am thankful you’re too preoccupied with dance to recite your poetry to me between songs). Columbia City Paper

Dear small-town party clown, We all know it’s you, Luther. The kids know it too. It’s just kind of creepy to show up at my daughter’s party as “Mr. Fluffles” in that makeup and stuff. We didn’t even hire you. And we know that bulbous yellow smiley face thing on your neck is really just a disgusting goiter with some paint on it. Do you just do this for the free cake and ice cream or what? Well one thing’s for sure, if the local hookers start going missing, we know whose basement to check first. Columbia City Paper