Dear...uh, you people,
On behalf of all Arsenal supporters worldwide, I would like to extend a heartfelt apology to you for sneaking into your neighborhood in the middle of the night, like a pack of toothless tricksters, and claiming the grassy spot just south of your marshland as ours. I totally did it. So did all the other Arsenal fans. All of us, worldwide. We stole that plot of land like a shameless Massimo Busacca red card stole our hopes and dreams in the Champions League two years ago. Which was 98 years after the club moved to Highbury, but I understand your fury nonetheless. Of course, I wasn't around back when the club moved to your neighborhood, but again the definition of squatting still stands and you were wronged, dammit.
While I'm on the topic of apologizing, I should probably seek out others who've I've wronged. Like the Dominican Republic. You had a pretty good thing going for you, and then one day some Italian in a boat comes whizzing up your shoreline like some crazy Hollywood stuntman, packed to the gills with Spaniards infected with smallpox. Sorry about that, since that same dude kinda somewhat discovered our country and then set forth my ancestors over to that chunk of rock. My bad.
Also, I want to say sorry to Taylor Swift. Back when I was trying to impress this girl in, like, 2003 or so, I thought it'd be a great idea to buy John Mayer's album that had "Your Body is a Wonderland" on it. I mean, this girl was pretty fit and the song totally matched up to both my feelings for her and her physical features. For reals. However, because I bought the album, like so many other dudes trying to score with a potential mate back in that time period, we gave him more money than his ego could possibly sustain. As a result he took that money and acclimation he received from that smash hit of his, and he turned into a womanizing dick and went on a spree of treating ladies like dirt - you included. You were so upset, apparently, that you even wrote a little ditty about him. While the millions of dollars you've earned off that song about him, along with other musical numbers you've penned and recorded, have been more than enough to wipe away the countless tears you shed as he was bedding you while being photographed hammered drunk with four topless ladies on him the very next night, it was still wrong of him. And me. So I'm sorry for that.