An Open Letter to the Jackass Who Hit My New Car
July 2, 2009, 8:00 am
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Open Letters


(Haven’t done one of these in a while, but man is this gonna feel good…)

Dear Fuck Face,

How the fuck do you hit a parked car?

You were driving in reverse(?!?) down a one way street with cars parked on both sides of you. There was no way you could have missed the large vehicles surrounding you. All you had to do was hold the fucking wheel steady and you would’ve been fine. But, of course you couldn’t do that. You had to drive backwards and diagonally, right into my bumper… and then proceed to keep going like you had no idea. If I hadn’t looked you in the face and gave you the “Are-you-THAT-stupid?” look, you’d still be obliviously backing up.

That was my new car. Not a single fucking scratch on it.


I hate you.


This Is Why Our Schools Is Failing



Basically, what it’s saying is that the second L isn’t all that important, because, well, we understand what you were trying to say, anyway. Clearly, you meant cancelled, but probably just misspelled it. Hey, no sweat. At this rate, we can also leave off the last E, because obviously canceld is close enough, as well.

So fuck it, guys. It’s not just the school system anymore; the entire English language is being graded on a curve…


I Don’t Care That It’s Miami, I’m Cold
January 21, 2009, 8:36 pm
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Apartment 718, Open Letters

Dear Guy in the Short-Sleeved T-Shirt,

It’ was roughly 40° in Miami this morning when I left for work. I saw you snicker at my sweater as we passed; frankly, you were pretty obvious. Well, fuck you. I’m cold.

I’m sure you’re a pretty big badass, what, with your flimsy t-shirt offering almost zero protection from the elements. I’m also sure you’re a pretty big douchebag who needs to make it known to everyone he sees in a jacket, that people in Miami don’t know what cold is.

Oh, I wonder how many people have stopped you on the streets to marvel at your incredible powers of self-insulation. One? Two? My guess would be none, because nobody wants to hear your mindless dribble about being born in New York and how much colder it is, up there, in the winter. Dude, you lived there till you were 3 and your mom dressed you like a fucking eskimo every time the wind blew. Now, go put on a fucking coat.

Fact is, we live in Miami and it’s below 60°. Because of that, I’m wearing a sweater and I’m comfortable. Really, really comfortable, mind you. Now, go away and try to hide the fact that your teeth are chattering and your body is shaking worse than a San Francisco aftershock. Michael J. Fox is more subtle than you.

Enjoy pneumonia, fuckface.

Adam Smoot
Apartment 718

I’m Slowly Losing Faith In Mankind
January 17, 2009, 6:30 pm
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, ShamWow!, Terrible Inventions


Why do people insist on sending evites?

Who the hell came up with this idea, anyway? An evite has to be on the short list of World’s Most Pointless Inventions. You log onto a website, fill out all the information about your event, enter all the email addresses of people you’d like it go to and it emails it for you…

Wrap your mind around that nonsense for a second.

You log onto a website, so that it can do exactly what you would do if you were sending an email yourself. There’s absolutely no point to logging onto a website in the first place. Just send the email yourself! It’s a totally unnecessary step added to a an already practical invention, for the sole purpose of making it completely impractical.

Now, this one extra step might not sound like a big deal to the sender, but just try and put yourself in the shoes of the about-to-be-annoyed recipient. Here’s how the entire scenario breaks down for someone on the receiving end of an eClusterfuck: (For the sake of this example, I’ll use myself as the recipient and make the sender, oh, I don’t know, my mom.)

I get an email alert on my BlackBerry. I check the message and see that it’s from my mom and it has a perfabricated subject line. Nine times out of ten, this means it’s a joke. Probably one I read 400 times back when I used AOL and wore out the S, 2 and R keys on my Compaq. But this email doesn’t start with the dreaded “FWD:” that I’m so used to opening and quickly trashing. (With AOL, that was a great trick. This way, if the sender ever checked the status, it would say opened and not deleted, and your aunt wouldn’t get pissed that you were deleting all her chain letters.) It does, however, say “So-and-so has sent you an evite…” This is where I start to get annoyed, because there’s no way to check that on my phone’s crappy browser. And it doesn’t actually tell me anything in the email body, other than what I’m invited to. So I know there’s a birthday party, but I have no idea when or where. Wonderful.

Now I have to find the nearest computer and log onto gmail. Once I get to a real computer, I can open the mail in an actual browser and click the link that will finally tell me where the hell this event is taking place. Why am I doing this? Why couldn’t the original email have just told me all of this to begin with? (Ed note: I never actually make it this far into the process anymore. Usually, once I see the word evite, I call the person to ask them what it says.)

I’ve always assumed that over time, we, as a society, would become smarter and more efficient; that the collective ideas that the great minds of this world crank out on a daily basis, would greatly improve usability and overall satisfaction in the products and services we use in our everyday lives.

Then I think about the ShamWow and evites.

And, mom, would you please stop sending me on a nonsensical scavenger hunt just to tell me you’re making Hanukkah dinner?

An Open Letter to Reebok’s Customer Service


This letter was originally going to be sent to Reebok via email. It appears, however, that their complaint center only accepts messages of 500 characters. That, my friends, was not going to be enough to voice my displeasure. Here, is my full letter. (Reebok, if you’re reading this, my second complaint is that your 500 character limit is a fucking joke.)

Dear Reebok,

I recently purchased your 3-pc. Curl Bar Set from Target. After opening the product, I realized it needed some assembly. No problem, seeing as how I’m a perfectly capable 27-year old man in relatively good health. It was 2 halves of the bar, with a hole in the middle and a small metal peg to connect the two sides. Nothing all that complicated.

Until you actually try and connect said pieces. You see, the peg doesn’t fit in the hole. Why one would include a peg that doesn’t actually fit the product is beyond me, but I pressed on. I looked it up on the internet and found a bunch of other people with the same problem. They recommended using vice grips, hammers, pancakes and hot sausages from the local McDonald’s. I opted to go the hammer route. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to jam that magnificently stubborn peg into the hole, the peg got jammed at a bad angle.

At that point, I threw the hammer on the couch and went to McDonald’s for the pancakes and sausages. When I got back and finished breakfast, I tried, unsuccessfully, for 15 minutes to get the peg out of the bar. When I finally did, the peg was warped.

I am no quitter, though. Armed now with 2 bar halves, a warped metal peg and the power of McDonald’s breakfast, I went back to work. After another 35 minutes of hammering, sweating, grunting and scaring my neighbors, I had a full curl bar, with a correctly placed peg.

Of course, because of all the hammering and prying and advanced construction work I had to perform to complete the task of putting this simple bar together, it wobbled and felt like it was going to fall apart anytime I lifted it.

Needless to say, it is now in the garbage.

I never write companies for faulty or shoddy equipment. It’s usually my belief that a company puts its products through a multitude of tests and experiments before they actually hit the market. This curl bar, I imagine, is the exception. Originally, when I purchased this product, it was with the idea that I would be using it get a workout. I didn’t, however, expect the majority of that workout to come in the hour and a half it took me to put it together.

My wallet is now $20 lighter, my arms are now 20% stronger and I, myself, am exhausted. I suppose I should have known what to expect from a piece of equipment that cost less than a DVD, but for some reason, I assumed a product brandished with the name Reebok would be of a respectable quality. My mistake.

While I don’t expect any sort of compensation or any form of apology, I just thought I’d write to let you know how one of your consumers feels.

And also to thank you for the awesome workout I accidentally received from your product’s assembly.

Apartment 718

I Hate Because I Love… Or Something


The last time the Dolphins took the field for a home playoff game, it was the year 2000, Jay Fiedler was the signal caller and I was sitting in the upper deck of Pro Player Stadium, hammered on $12 beer. Lamar Smith took a hand-off and bounced to the corner of the endzone, in overtime, to give the Dolphins a playoff victory and the chance to get spanked by the Ravens in the ensuing round. They haven’t made it back to the postseason since, and because of that, my NFL fandom has been severely hampered. Allow me to explain.

I hate the Dolphins. I know, I know. Bright Orange Seats and all that. But, while I fell in love with the Marlins, there was no part of me that actually cared for the Fins. I’m a Falcons fan, and nothing could ever change that. The great thing about sports, though, is the ability to have two rooting interests: your favorite team, and anybody who plays against the team you hate.

All real sports fans have a team they wish would burn in hell. Because my dad is a Jets fan, for me, that team has always been the Dolphins. Watching Marino get blown out in the final game of his career brought me almost as much elation as being in a packed bar, with 200 other Falcons fans, for the ’98 NFC Championship game. It’s not enough to just despise a team, though. They have to also be good. Hating Marino in the playoffs is a hell of a lot more fun than hating Cleo Lemon in a meaningless game in December. When a team is historically terrible, the hate is replaced with pity. It’d be like taunting a team of wheelchair-bound, autistic 8-year olds. And that’s what post-2000 Dolphins-hating felt like.

One win. One. Freaking. Win. How the hell do you hate a team whose season slogan is “Fail. Forward. Fast.”

But yesterday, with every Brett Favre interception, every new wrinkle of that ridiculous Wildcat formation and every second that ticked off the clock, bringing the Dolphins that much closer to the division crown, my hatred was restored. By the time the clock reached zero and Miami was annointed AFC East champs, I was in full-fledged throw-shit-at-the-television angry mode. And it was awesome.

Now, with the Falcons and Dolphins both back from their vacation in Irrelevance, Idaho (at least, that’s where I imagine it would be located), my sports fandom is revved up to full throttle. It’s on Knicks-Heat mode right now. This, my friends, is fucking awesome.

There are, of course, some people I’d like to thank for this, as well:

Bill Parcells. If there’s a bigger douchebag, egomaniac, head-of-the-team football guy in all of the sport, I’d love to meet him. It was hard to hate the total incompetence that was Randy Mueller, Dave Wannstedt and Cam Cameron, but Parcells and Sparano? Totally hatable.

Chad Pennington. You sexy beast, you. You know, with all the clusterfucks the Dolphins have thrown behind center the last few years, I almost forgot what it’s like to be pissed at a quarterback for throwing perfect passes. You sir, give me the creative strength to come up with new curse words as I throw my TV remote across the room.

The Wildcat. Why is nobody completely destroying Chad Pennington when he lines up as a wide receiver? Holy shit, that’s infuriating.

Chiefs Patriots FootballBernard Pollard. When the season started, the AFC East was already decided. If any of these craptastic teams were going to make the playoffs, it was going to be as a wild card. Then, Pollard performed a minor miracle and the division was, once again, wide open. While, by the end of the year, Matt Cassell proved he’d be more than capable of leading that offense to the playoffs, those first few games–when he was still trying to figure out what the hell he was doing–were just enough to let someone else have a go at the division this year. (And, um, maybe next?) For that, the Dolphins and myself thank you, Bernard Pollard.

Brett Favre. Even though you should’ve been a Falcon, and I’ve had more than 10 years to stew over your Hall of Fame career with the Packers, I’ve never truly hated you. I don’t know if you would’ve been the same guy in Atlanta, and it wasn’t even your fault that you got shipped away. I’ve had no reason to hate you. And then you went and pulled that retirement shit last year, invaded my television, hijacked and eventually signed with a team whose fans are generally as obnoxious as your incessant news coverage. It was a match made in heaven. If heaven were a bar whose TVs showed only reruns of Murphy Brown with the sound cranked all the way up. How perfectly fitting then, that I got to angrily watch the Dolphins return to my shit list while angrily watching you put them there. Who the hell were you throwing to anyway? Do you realize that your team was the one in green? You suck. Go pull a Mark McGwire; take your HOF career, get off my TV and get the fuck on with your life.

There’s probably some more people I have to thank, but I’ll keep my list brief. After all, the important thing is that the Falcons have a date with the Cardinals next week and I have a team to hate for the playoffs.

Welcome back, Miami. I truly missed you.

Now go shit the bed on Sunday. I’ll be rooting for it.

Dear Laundry Fucktard…
December 13, 2008, 11:40 am
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Announcements, Apartment 718


To the jackass who insists upon opening the dryer while my clothes are still in it,

If you want to see if my clothes are done, the company that produced the appliance was kind enough to include a pretty display on the outside that shows the number of minutes left. I cannot, for the life of me, understand what you could possibly be looking for on the inside of the dryer. Should you continue to open the appliance–and subsequently cost me $1.15 every time you do so–I’ll be forced to dry my clothes in the fire that I set to your fucking apartment.

Apartment 718