My First Apology

I don’t think I ask for much. Just a click on the website every day. Nothing too demanding.

But today, I need something more. Relax, it's not money.

I need your help. 

When I was a metro columnist I ticked off hundreds, maybe thousands of Virginian-Pilot readers. Hey, it was my job and - I don't like to brag - I was pretty good at it.

I quickly learned that irate readers are name callers. They aren't particularly creative, so columnists are regularly called idiot, moron and fool. But opinionated females get something a little extra. Angry readers routinely sling insults at our appearance because they think they know how to push a girl's buttons.

You’re ugly, they’d say. As if I didn’t own a mirror. You’re fat. As if they weren’t. Your hair is a dye job. (Actually one apoplectic reader spelled it die job.) As if the color of my tresses could possibly be found in nature. 

As time went by they started calling me an old bag, a hag or a harpie. 

One thing I never got was an apology.

Until now. Sadly, I can’t read the damn thing.

A greeting card arrived in my mailbox the other day. It’s some sort of mea culpa from a guy with a guilty conscience and fancy-but-illegible penmanship. Family and friends spent the weekend trying to help me decipher it. We're still missing critical chunks.

Now it's your turn.

Join our parlor game. Have some fun. Help translate this missive. Even if you only get a couple of words. 

Hey, it's my first apology. I need to know what's in it!