To the Manager of McDonald's #9874:

I am deeply sorry about what happened in your ball pit.

Note that this apology is offered genuinely and without coercion. Indeed, my legal council, Zeke, does not recommend I write this letter at all. "I strongly advise against that," he strongly advised. But it has always been my opinion that a sincere apology is the lubricant that oils the gears of civilization, and so I stand here -- not literally in front of you, but figuratively in front of you (I'm literally in an undisclosed location) -- and apologize, thus keeping civilization lubed.

On that note, I am sorry about all the lubricant that ended up in your ball pit. I'll get to that in due time.

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I know that's the only reason you're reading, but I basically need to lube you up a bit first.

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First, I should be clear that I am not sorry I was in your ball pit in the first place. Even if it is "frowned upon," there are no laws prohibiting adults from enjoying ball pits. No matter what facial expression society chooses when thinking about a 35-year-old man frolicking in a pit of plastic balls, I was not committing a crime. According to several websites I've just read, as a white male I am the most discriminated-against creature on this planet, in immediate danger of going extinct. My decision to partake in the pleasures of your ball pit can thus be characterized not as the "creepy" and "very creepy" act of a disturbed man but as a defiant shout, a cry that I am proud of who I am and where I'm frolicking.