Dear super-expensive car driver,
Thank you. No really, thank you for going through that stop sign and almost plowing down my family. It gave us a great opportunity to teach the kids a great life lesson – that rules are for the poor. After all – you stopped whole the folks in front you were obeying traffic laws (the mid-80s Buick and a late 90’s minivan), so you really can’t be expected to do more.
When you do yard work right at the edge of the road – the wooded, rural road, near a blind curve – perhaps head to toe camo isn’t the best choice. Just a suggestion.
Dear Cell Phone Guy,
This may come as a surprise to you, but nobody here gives a shit about you, your phone call, your investments, your car or your weekend. Take it outside.
Dear Guy in front of me at the movies,
Do you really need 5 minutes to stand there and take off your coat, then put it back on then take it off again then fold it, then hang it over the back of the seat, then pick it up and arrange it on the seat, then pull up your pants then check your phone for calls then stretch your back before you get settled in your seat? Because you are one big dude and I can’t see. And they may only be previews, but if I can’t seem them, then I can’t get all excited and declare my intent to see every single on of them when they come out, even though I know I will see approximately none of them. Still. I want to see. Sit down.
Dear people behind me in the movies,
Ok, first off, your toddler? Too young for this movie. The only thing he understands is that doggies say “ruff ruff” and that The Rock is tough. I know this because I heard him say it. TEN THOUSAND TIMES. And the fact that you refused to stop him from kicking my seat for two straight hours made me have to work really hard to not punch you in the face. It wore me out and made me unable to fully appreciate this:
Next time I can’t promise not to punch you.
Dear Uncle Crappy,
I promise it was just a coincidence that I saw you in the library – I am not a crazy fangirl stalker. And I apologize for not remembering your “real” name and being forced to refer to you using the word “crappy” in a public place. My memory is not what it used to be. I blame college.
Dear Melissa Rivers,
Shut the fuck up. When, on Celebrity Apprentice, you said that it was embarrassing for the men’s team because they lost to a bunch of girls, you became dead to me. Dead. Way to perpetuate sexism, dumbass. And while we’re talking – lay off the goddamned plastic surgery – it makes you look older rather than younger.
I hear a whole bunch of you are refusing to perform a ceremony at the playboy mansion. I understand that you probably consider the playboy mansion to be the veritable Cinderella’s Castle of pornography. But really, who gives a shit. I am sure you feel that by refusing that you are standing up for and protecting women from the big, bad pornography industry. And don’t get me wrong, I am sure that there are some young women that get taken advantage of. But in general, the women involved with playboy have chosen to be there. Many are educated, intelligent women who have used their assets to get ahead. Many go on to successful careers in other fields. By trying to “protect” them, it is implied that they need protection – that they can’t make decisions for themselves. While I am not a big fan of playboy, I can’t really sit here and lecture about the objectifying of women, blahblahblah, when I think that most beer ads are more offensive. At least at playboy they are honest – it’s all about sex. But when just about every product known to man is sold by oiling up some tits and ass and pretending it has something to do with beer or shoes or cars or Doritos, it’s hard to get worked up about a company that is only using tits and ass for the sake of tits and ass. Ease up, dudes.
Go away. And take your fat friends thighs and belly with you. And please do so without any intervention from me, OK?