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I just want to say right off that I have nothing but the highest respect for your establishment. You have seized on a unique selling point and made it your own. I congratulate you on making pingpong the new hipster sport.
When I first heard about your concept, I was concerned that the pingpong tables would soon be destroyed by water marks. Pint glasses can kill a table pretty quick. But your tables are still—-months later—-in decent shape. They seemed to be well cared for, which is greatly appreciated. And in fact, the service——from the waiters to the bartenders——has been more than impeccable; it’s been gracious.
All this is to say that I would like to patronize your establishment on a more regular basis. I would gladly give up the entire bar scene in Adams Morgan and slog through Connecticut Avenue traffic to give you my hard-earned dollars. Not only would I play pingpong——with the utmost sportsmanship——but I would even pay for one of your delicious pizzas. And when the bill arrived, I would not complain about the price of your delicious pizzas (unlike some of my colleagues).
But you are preventing me from giving you money. I have visited your address six times since late December. I have only managed to play pingpong two of those times. On three occasions——two weekday evenings and one weekend afternoon——you have been closed. This was extremely disappointing because one of those days happened to be my birthday. I wanted to share my big day with you.
My fourth rejection came this past Saturday night. I arrived around 9:30 p.m. My friends and I took up a table and were ready to order when we were informed that you had “run out” of ingredients since you get them fresh daily. At that point, I would have settled for microwave pizza. It was a Saturday night—-you should have stocked up on that smoked mozzarella.
I still wasn’t ready to give up on the pingpong. After eating bad Chinese across the street, we went back in the hope of enjoying few rounds. We were even willing to buy beers. Unfortunately, we quickly discovered that your tables had been stacked away and a DJ had taken their place. I must now refer you to the name of your establishment: Comet Ping Pong. Please leave the DJ nights to Adams Morgan and U Street.
I ended up leaving your themed restaurant that night feeling only the agony of defeat. And I didn’t even get in a single game let alone a best of fiver. I felt so down about being spurned by you that I just went home and watched the last hour of Saturday Night Live. Please do not let me feel this way again.
I just want to play some ping pong. I hope this isn’t too difficult a request.