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An Open Letter Apology to the Management of the Skokie, IL Chuck E. Cheese Franchise

An Open Letter Apology to the Management of the Skokie, IL Chuck E. Cheese Franchise

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Dear Management of the Skokie, IL Chuck E. Cheese Franchise, I wish to convey my deepest regrets and apologies for my behavior at your Chuck E. Cheese franchise last Saturday between the hours of 2:30 and 10:56pm. My odious behavior was a monstrous offense to the good name of Northwestern University undergraduates everywhere, and not befitting of my proud standing as a citizen of the United States, Democrat, AP Honor Roll member, Sherman Ave co-editor, Presbyterian, frat star, Chipotle VIP card holder, illegitimate child of Morty Schapiro and Brooklyn Decker, starting Wildcat Wide Receiver, Keg bouncer, Homo sapien, or Chet Haze hype man. Needless to say, I am tremendously sorry, and promise that such heinousness shall never happen again.

I understand that there is no proper way to apologize for the havoc I wreaked. More specifically, there is no proper way to heal the psychic trauma that all those fourth graders suffered as I used my 5,697 tickets as a garrote to assassinate the animatronic Chuck E. Cheese.  Let’s just say that mistakes were made.

Overlooking the miserable gaffe your Technical Manager Jerry made by allowing a robot band that didn’t know one single Heart song to take the vaunted Animated Variety Stage, I apologize for my treatment of the band members backing up Chuck “The King of Cool” Cheese. Had I known about Mr. Munch’s decade-long battle with Type 2 Diabetes, I highly doubt I would have told the singer/songwriter/keyboardist/lard-ass that his cleavage looked like Israel Kamakawiwoʻole got a boob job. Nor should I have suggested to lead singer Helen Henny that her professional career as a shallow placeholder for the hopes and dreams of thousands of pre-pubescent girls can hardly be an adequate replacement to fill the void left by the existential fear of loneliness at the age of 37. In retrospect, I would also like to apologize for failing to inform Chuck that even while recovering from lung surgery, the Marlboro Man could probably do a better job than Mr. Cheese’s half-assed effort at “I Kissed a Girl.”

Look, when I heard that Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Time Theaters were safe places “Where a kid can be a kid,” I naturally assumed it meant “where an immature and inebriated 20-something can try to combat the steady rise of responsibility and daunting prospects of the adult world by making a complete ass of himself.” Well, apparently I was wrong.

Luckily, most of the children in the Kiddie Area were too goddamn ignorant to understand what I meant when I informed my waiter that my pepperoni pizza tasted like somebody adorned a pizza crust with tomato sauce, the flesh of Old Yeller, and a finely shredded Slobodan Milošević turd. And for that we can all be grateful. I mean, in all probability those kids just thought “Oh look, that one guy who tried to pour Smirnoff into his Tropicana® Apple Juice while driving in the car simulator is really angry!” But that is neither here nor there.

I owe the management of the Skokie Chuck E. Cheese my sincerest apologies for accusing a Game Room attendant who looked eerily similar to Ben Bernanke of participating in a devious inflation plot designed to raise the token exchange rate to 700 tickets per one crappy Chinese-manufactured yo-yo, all while feeding my raging gambling-addiction with your glaring lights and free-flowing ticket dispensaries. Also, I apologize for failing to heed the numerous written warnings detailing the dangers of playing Chubby Bunny with the balls from the ball pit.

When I walk into a Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Time Theater, I expect entertainment dammit. Not some Kafka-esque pageantry that reminds me of the bastard lovechild of Radioshack and Cirque Du Soleil. That being said, it was probably not the best decision to vent my emotions by lecturing all within earshot on the similarities between skeeball machines and the human bajingo or pretending I’m Dirk Nowitzki as I devastate eight-year-olds trying their luck at your infernal basketball games. I am sorry.

I do not, however, wish to apologize for setting mousetraps in every corner of your Pizza Time Theater to help with your “mouse problem.”

Sincerely, Evander Jones WCAS ‘14 Runner Up, George Washington Junior High 7th Grade Geography Bee, 2005

p.s. Is Pizza Planet still open?

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