No. Not you. U.

And I know nothing about Steven Singer.

It’s the letter “U” I hate, Johnny Unitas, a truly great American, RIP, notwithstanding. I apologize to Johnny U. And uncles everywhere, of which I am one. Seven-Up, the Uncola. The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

I don’t feel as guilty about the umbilical cord, Urban Meyer, and Urkel.

Nothing personal. I only hate the letter in this laptop, not in my iPhone or when I’m writing a check. Why, my own last name has a “u” in it. And my first one, too, even though I go by my middle, which has no “u.”

The “U” sticks. I’ve tried shooting high-pressured air at it. Every time I write a “U,” I have to pound. I’m getting tired of it. I dream of a new laptop when I go to bed at night, one with a “U” that falls nice and leisurely, one that’s not so dangerous that it might get a hangnail started.

What’s worse is that, in order to write this blog about how much I hate U, I have to pound “U” and “u” so damn, cottonpicking, many times.

This laptop is making me U Intolerant.

I once had a friend who wanted to own a radio station with the call letters WWUU. That’s because he could call it, phonetically, “W-W-double-U.”

I’ll never own such a station. Not as long as I own this laptop.