To the parents of the child whose shoes I stole outside of the gymboree. I’m sorry. It’s that time of year again when I’m supposed to ask for forgiveness so I think it’s best if I start with you, seeing how your child may have been left barefoot at the mall. I promise you that we arrived at the gymboree with a pair of children’s size 9-10 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle crocs. I even remember seeing my little Mohican toss them into that big pile of shoes just outside the gymboree. When we wanted to leave a few hours later they weren’t there.

Naturally my wife assumed the worst. Someone had made off with my son’s TMNT crocs and was at that very moment walking around the food court in his shoes. So she did what any rational parent would do; she started walking around the food court looking for the culprit of the larceny.

I checked the little cubby holes where more organized and self respecting parents place their child’s shoes and I found a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle crocs size 11-12. They looked almost exactly like the ones that had been burgled. In fact it may have even been the ones in question. Except that my wife was convinced that his was a size 9-10 and not a size 11-12. Besides, I had seen him throw his shoes haphazardly into the pile of shoes only four hours earlier. Had someone moved the shoes to the cubby? I needed the sleuthing skills of Columbo. Unfortunately I had the sleuthing skills of a hangry, frazzled and mentally exhausted circus bear who just wanted to get the hell out of that fucking place before the army of babies with poop in their diapers crawling at my feet decided that my toes were a permanent fixture of that hell hole. We ate lunch at the food court while I half expected some angry mother to beat me over the head with her purse for stealing her son’s shoes.

To the cockroach I tried to bludgeon with my shoe. You managed to escape the sole of my running shoe (which has seen more action killing roaches than pounding the pavement) and certain death. I know that I am like fifteen thousand times larger than you but still there is something so disgusting about you that I can’t resist the urge to fucking smash you with my shoe. You managed to escape up the wall and into the air conditioner. Please don’t take my attempt to murder you personally. I have nothing against your species in general. In fact I love the cockroach in that Pixar movie Wall-E. Best cockroach ever. In fact some of my best friends are roaches.

To the guy in the Kia who parked illegally in the handicap spot (and ran to the ATM and then into Aroma to get a coffee) I know I cursed your mother and wished you would die in a horrible, painful death at the hands of ISIS and that every member of your immediate family also die in a horrible, painful death and that the very memory of your existence be wiped out of existence like in the good old Stalin days. That may have been a bit excessive. Just because you are a fucking asshole and a horrible human being doesn’t mean you deserve to die in the wildly graphic ways I envisioned. I hope you realize that there are people who really do need that handicap spot because they are actually handicapped. Enjoy your coffee.

To my wife. There are literally like a million things I should apologize for. Like my flatulence or the way I pick my nose when no one is watching. Or worse, for snoring (even though I’ve never actually heard myself snore) so loudly that it wakes you up. No, I’d like to apologize to you for making so much fun of Maroon 5 in general and Adam Levine in particular. Forgive me. Ever since you forced me to listen to those really catchy songs a million times a day I totally understand why he is such an amazing singer. Seriously, now that you’ve moved on to Bruno Mars I realize how amazing Mr. Levine is. Please stop making me listen to Bruno Mars. Thanks.

To every hipster bar in Tel Aviv, Israel. I’m sorry for making fun of your avant garde décor and posting those shots on Instagram with hilarious captions. I totally understand why you would have a wooden ship, an old rotary phone and a bicycle wheel on your exposed brick wall. Well played hipster bar. You were right and I’m just completely disconnected from popular culture. I won’t make fun of your name, even if you so audaciously decide to call yourself  “Rosa Parks”. I can totally see how you are also iconic in the civil rights movement.

To my friends, all three of you that are left. I’m sorry I didn’t come to your wedding, your son’s Bar Mitzvah or your mom’s funeral. Seriously that was a real dick move on my part. I probably shouldn’t have blogged about it either. That just made matters worse.  Next time your mom dies, you get married or your son has a Bar Mitzvah I’ll totally be there. Can you help me move?

To my family. Sorry for being such an asshole. I never meant to imply that a) my grandfather used his gout to get out of World War II or that b) a certain relative lost everything in his bankruptcy or that c) my brother was in fact a spy for the Mossad. I hope you’ll forgive me this year. That shit is on the internet and there’s literally no way of deleting it.

To the readers of my blog on Times of Israel and on my own site (Read that shit it! It has pretty pictures and lots of curse words tossed in for no good reason) I apologize if I have offended you over the past year. Let’s face it if I pretty much do this shit for free and the least you could do is read and then comment and then send me money and then a new liver (mine is pretty much shot) and then adopt me and put me in your will.

That’s it. The rest of you can go fuck yourselves or ask me for forgiveness. I’ll be waiting here at some hipster bar drinking my cucumber infused gin and tonic with extra cucumber slices.