Attn: The Three Jerks Next To Me At The Counter At Pete's Kitchen

Gentlemen (and I use the term in the loosest possible sense of the word), can I suggest that you are living in the wrong city? Denver, a whole mile above sea-level, is not known for having a lot of fog, and so, one is caused to wonder, upon being subjected to your loud, inane and, frankly, ignorant conversation, why three walking fog-horns are living here.

It is perhaps a measure of your suitability for warning shipping in low-visibility conditions, by your bellowing loudness (loud even by American standards), that you managed to pretty much drown out all the other patrons in what was, a rather noisy diner.

Had you had anything remotely interesting, thought-provoking, or indeed multi-syllabic to say, I could possibly have forgiven you, and enjoyed (compulsory, by virtue of my not being deaf) listening in. You did not however.

Your opening, lengthy conversation about "extreme fighting" programs (on TV), managed simultaneously to both alert me as to the level of intellectual discourse to expect, and put me right off my food. A rare feat indeed, that left me almost wishing you'd start talking about sports.

The fact that you didn't change the subject, for some considerable time, but instead morphed it into an equally grisly discussion about Pay-Per-Wank Boxing just made me long for the days when it was relatively legal to shoot someone because you didn't like the way they looked at you. I suspect, however, that if those days were still with us, you'd have been long since dead, by the hand of someone else, who doesn't fucking care about your television watching discussions.

And gentleman, that's kind of a pertinent point. None of you inane babble was about anything you'd actually done. It was all about stuff you'd watched on your televisions. I dare say those televisions are massive, macho 95-inch cathode-ray penis-substitutes (just in case you Ford F150 pickups weren't enough (and I suspect they weren't)), but it doesn't detract from the fact that none of your tedious waffle, referred to anything that any of you had got up off your flabby arses and done yourselves.

I think the most amusing part of your conversation, was when you were speculating about the origins of the meat on the "doner kebab" (or giro) rotary grill. It was all I could do, not to spray the counter with coffee when one of you geniuses suggested that the metal pole around which the meat sat, was where the bone used to be!

Get a clue morons! It's formed meat, made of compressed lamb! Just what part of a sheep do you thing has such a long and broad cylinder of meat in it?

Of course, inevitably, your droning drivel turned to the subject of sports. Again, not sports any of you actually play, but instead, athleticism that you clearly enjoy from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy recliner, whilst guzzling Coors' carbonated urine.

No doubt, you're of the kind of fan that likes to suggest, "we won!" when in fact, it was the players who went out and won, whilst you just stayed on your arse, no doubt spouting dumbness on a par with that to which I was subjected, today.

Of course as your lunches arrived, I thought we might all be treated to an intermission from your loud idiocy, whilst the three of your had your heads in the trough. Alas it was not to be. No. Unsurprisingly, you all continued babbling loudly, whilst chewing your food. Delightful. Never let it be said that you can't multi-task.

By the way, the word to describe an exact item is "specific", not "pacific". The Pacific is an ocean. I mention this as likely none of you have left the state of Colorado yet, being only in your thirties, and so you may not be aware of the vast body of water to the west, or indeed, the strange cylindrical lamb-fish swimming in it.