douglaskoke.com

Dear Malicious Cock-Gobbler, 

I hope you get pink-eye.

Warmest Regards,
Douglas Koke 

Dear Vandals,

I write to you in regard to your collective graffiti in the stall of the men's room of a ramshackle dive-bar in the Congress Park neighborhood of Denver, Colorado.

While your detailed fetishes for Asian women and hastily sketched drawings of generously-endowed hermaphrodites entertained me during my brief visit,
I thought you might benefit from a few tips that may help you to better communicate your ideas.

Choose your writing instrument carefully.
Markers and paint will do.
Avoid using pencil; it rubs off far too easily-"KILL ALL____"???? What? Who?
We have no idea. Your audience will depart, forever wondering who/what it is they should kill in totality. Pencil's no good.

Your ideal method may be to use some sort of sharp implement, to etch directly into the aluminum wall of the stall, perhaps with a prison-shiv, or a particularly sturdy ballpoint pen. Along with imbuing a rustic, almost old-timey charm to your message, it will also help your audience to avoid confusion about which ethnic group definitively gives the best head.

Secondly, bear in mind that a great majority of your fellow vandals are right-handed, subsequently causing most of the graffiti to appear on the right side
of the stall. Writing your insult and/or scatological exclamation on the left side will not only set it apart,it will add a pleasing, feng-shui effect to the stall. If you want to truly stress that Tony does, in fact, take it up the ass-- *think left*.

Finally, take great heed in responding to other vandals' messages. Imagine for a moment that your fellow hooligan has printed a vulgar and entirely suspect statement in pencil, perhaps about the aberrant length of his penis and the throngs of busty, attractive women, who just last night, took great delight in servicing its every inch.

You must be decisively smug and brutal in your response, but you must also be general and ambiguous. Make your retort sting, but keep it vague-- remember, since your quarry has written in pencil, his initial statement may be inadvertently rubbed off by someone's elbow, scrubbed clean by a particularly prudish visitor,or lost everlastingly in
the terry folds of a janitor's rag.

Nothing is more flummoxing than an inscrutable "NOT IF YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR IT", accompanied only by a mysterious arrow, pointing to nothing. Again, make your response harsh, but keep it universal. A simple "fuck off" or "your mama's a bulldyke" should suffice wonderfully, both as an exquisite comeback, and an unconnected assault.

It's my sincerest wish that you will consider these suggestions carefully, not only for the sake of coherence and literacy, but the sake of your fans-- *us*, the readers. We have faith in you, and only want to help you successfully convey your vast and enduring affection for AC/DC and tight pussy.

Respectfully,
Douglas Koke
Denver, Co.

Dear Insipid Fashion-Boy,

I hate you.
Go to Hell.

Warmest Regards,
Douglas Koke

Dear Peddlers Of Bonecrushing Disappointment,

Today, on the coldest, most miserable Tuesday in 28 years, the candy-man has come to take away the last bit of pigment in my bleak, monochrome existence.

I rise, I work, I eat lunch, I work late, I sleep again. Daylight wakes me up, but does not sustain me. By and large, Daylight plays an entirely incidental
role in my life, like a distant Aunt, or a bankteller. I stare at computer monitors and jostle with the mouse to arrange pixels into shapes. I run my
web-design business out of a three-bedroom apartment located just outside of Denver's lightindustrial district; a bland, featureless cubicle on the top floor of an architectural eyesore overlooking Invesco Field. It is gray, esthetically bankrupt, and I spend FAR too much of my life here-- sometimes not leaving the building for days on end, literally.

Somewhere below me, outside, there are sleek, twentysomething women crunching snow under their boots with childlike satisfaction, their eyelashes sparkling blue-white with a tracery of snowflakes. I never meet them. Somewhere below
me, outside, there are eccentric, ignored old men on park benches, their heads filled with stories that would confound and captivate anyone who dared to listen. I never dare to listen.

And then, Colorless M&Ms. They are black, white, and shades of gray. I try them after lunch. They disappoint. I put them in my mouth and taste nothing. I know I am losing my mind: it's the same candy! Disturbed, I go back to working on graphics, and then distractedly reach for more. Again, they are not the same. Again, I taste nothing.
I have lost my mind.

I stagger down the apartment hallway and everything is black and white and gray. I feel panic set in. I duck back into my bedroom to compose myself. I lean my face against the cool pane of the window and look out on the chunks of ice sliding from the roofs of the covered parking spots. They are gray. The sky is gray. The snow that blanketss Invesco Field is gray. The icicles hanging from the balconies are gray.

Tomorrow, I will buy Skittles.

A Discouraged Consumer,
Douglas Koke