Dear Mobile Phone Menace,

I quite enjoy the zombie commute. The early morning ride to work where silence is golden and interacting with other humans is not required. It is a cherished time when I can stare at other commuters and silently judge their haircuts, poo-poo their choice of shoes and guess that their marriages will last about as many years as the number of karats in the ridiculous rocks on their fingers.

So, you see, when you break that silence, it had better be for a good reason. And talking in full volume on your cell phone is not.

Today, I was forced to listen to every detail of the interview you conducted in your office yesterday. The candidate was extremely qualified, judging by the salary that you publicly broadcast. Your only concern was that you should not be the person to whom he reports.

Funny, I had the same thought.

I don't know why it amazed me, but it did. You were SO LOUD. Everyone on the bus watched you as you spoke. You looked directly at all of us several times, as if you were pleased to have everyone's attention. Perhaps it was my fault that you continued on in such a fashion. I was most definitely smiling at the whole spectacle. I guess you didn't realize that it was more of an American Psycho smile – the kind that comes from plotting a brutal murder.

Oh, I realize you're not the only one of your kind out there. Just a few of the topics I've been exposed to over the years, against my will:

• The not-so-confidential particulars of a real estate deal a woman was putting together. This includes all of the home's attributes, including one very large window I was hoping she'd jump from.

• The exact intersection where one girl was meeting her friend in an hour. No, not the northeast corner...the southeast. Not in front of Duane Reade, but outside of Staples. Next to the place with the guy with the dog with the limp. Just this side of I DON'T CARE.

• All the ways one guy was getting the shaft at work. Man, was he on a roll. I named him Complainy Smurf to keep from bludgeoning him with my gym bag. Luckily, a sweet, elderly woman came to my rescue and shouted "What, so 50 other people have to hear your private phone call???" I named her Supergram. 

The point is, if you're going to continue being rude, the rest of us will continue giving you the stink-eye. (Or my equivalent – writing Loathe Letters.) We've all had to endure people like you since the dawn of the mobile phone. From that passer-by who's phone call we catch just a few words of ("Everyone gets rashes. I'm sure it's nothing.") to you – the chick so engulfed in your "private" conversation that, 20 minutes into it, you sprinted to the front of the bus because you thought you missed your stop. And that just made you look silly.

OK, now I'm smiling again.

Call me,
Long-time listener, first-time loather

Dear Football Fool,

You are throwing a football in the middle of a city block bustling with people and traffic. This is not Giants Stadium. You don't belong here. Judging by your skills, you don't belong there either. Besides images of pizza and beer pong and boobies and lint, I can only imagine what was going through your mind.

Your first throw fell onto the sidewalk, about 3 inches in front of a nice couple taking a weekend stroll. Your receiver must have gone REALLY wide, because he was nowhere to be seen. The couple screamed. You laughed. I loathed.

Your second throw trumped your first, rocketing about 8 feet in front of you. Into traffic. A cab swerved to miss it. You laughed again, then ran out into traffic to retrieve it – the only decision of yours with which I was in total agreement.

Sadly, I was only in the vicinity long enough to witness your third throw. You stood in the middle of the street (good boy...now staaay...) and launched another bomb back onto the sidewalk. It just missed a parked car that I secretly hoped belonged to someone named Jimmy Two-Fists.

I saw your friends following you and laughing, but I'm not sure you were ever really throwing that football to anyone at all. Which begs the question...why exactly am I wasting any more time writing this letter to you?

Gotta go.

Yours cruelly,
Not your biggest fan