By Chris Loveland
Ever since I was little I’ve cared about two things. The first: my loving parents. The second: that rat-fuck who goes by the name Chuck E. Cheese.
I remember the moment my life changed forever. I was seven, it was my birthday, and I was spending it at Charles’ humble abode. Everything was going swimmingly—I was rolling through games and I had even managed to kick open the ticket counter on one of the machines in the corner and pillaged it until my little greedy grinch heart was content.
The day went on and as my tokens dwindled, I decided to move onto more competitive games to assert my dominance. I broke the record on pop-a-shot. I was thrashing my friends in skee ball (I only shoot for the 500’s and I let those silly icarus bitches go for the 1,000’s only to whiff and watch their ball sadly fall down into the 100). I even managed to beat my father in Need for Speed Racing (I couldn’t even drive, what a fucking loser!).
The following ceremony was incredible. My parents had the perfect cake prepared—Strawberry flavored with no ice cream (I have sensitive teeth). All the children sang their tune, as the band joined in, everything reached a beautiful crescendo.
Then it happened.
That rat fucking bastard was bringing my cake to me when I heard a loud sneeze come from his permanently smiling face, and in Charles’ effort to not sneeze onto the cake, he ended up splattering it right onto the ground. My parents immediately got up and attempted to comfort that dumb klutz rat, while I sat and I stewed in an anger that still drives my every waking moment.
That day, I wrote my first letter to Charles. The opening line read, “Timmy from class had an allergic reaction to the peanut butter cookie I gave him that I said didn’t have peanuts in it and everybody paid attention to him instead of me and then I didn’t even get my cake that I really wanted. I will always hate you for that Chuck E.”
The next year I found myself penning him another letter, “Hey Chuck E. long time no see, I know you told Santa that it was me who broke the clock in the living room and I just want you to know I’m fucking coming for you.” I said no more.
Every year I wrote similar letters on my birthday, surely finding it a cathartic expression that silenced that little nagging feeling inside that I was aging and marching closer to death. Here are a few of my favorite lines that justly express my anger for that scumbag:
- “I bet that “C” on your shirt stands for conniving piece of dogshit you buck-toothed bitch.”
- “I genuinely hope you’re impotent.”
- “I still can’t watch the Rugrats without thinking of the conspiracy theory you whispered into my seven year old ear. Who tells a child that their favorite television character is actually dead and all the figments of a schizophrenic Angelica’s imagination? WHO CHARLES?!”
- “Every second you take in breath brings me distinct agony.”
- “Your color scheme is absolute garbage. Purple, yellow, and green? If I ate 12 cupcakes of varying colors then vomited onto a church’s stained glass window, I could create a more visually appealing combination.”
- “I saw you wink at my mother, and to this day her following giggle haunts me.”
- “Why do you have a baseball hat on? You can’t play baseball. You’re a dirty rat.”
- “I hate you I hate you oh my god I hate you. I didn’t get the louisville slugger I wanted for my birthday, so you’re lucky you have another year left on this Earth you slimy, grimy son of a bitch. I hope your mother hates you.”
- “I just Uber Eats’d pizza from Chuck E. Cheese. I kinda miss this.”
- “I can still feel your hot breath in my ear, from when you said that my teeth, ‘looked like I bit into an apple that was seen by Medusa’s eye.’ And what the fuck does that even mean?”
- “Chuck E. Please cut your own brakes.”
- “Dave and Buster’s is sooo much more fun, fuck you.”
- “Your nose sucks ass.”