Sunday, October 30, 2011

Dear Woman Who Took Her Shoes Off at the Restaurant Where I Was Eating

This restaurant is decorated with a slight Irish flair.  It is not decorated in early 21st century whore, therefore, this is not your home.  No shirt, no shoes, no pity from me when you get tetanus from stepping on a rusty harpoon.

The fact that you curled your legs up onto the booth and are sitting on them does not help.  In fact, it makes it even more appalling, because your hobbit feet are even closer to the table.  Now, no one can eat off of that booth bench or that table.  Congratulations on ruining every child's birthday that is being celebrated as we speak, not just at this restaurant, but worldwide. 

This is Bennigan's madam, and we look for a little more class in this establishment.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Dear Family in the Minivan Driving over the Delaware Memorial Bridge

I have bataphobia.  This is not fun for me.  One of the worst places for me is the Delaware Memorial Bridge with its tall towers.  What helps even less is when dear old dad in the minvan ahead of me decides to go ten miles an hour under the speed limit when we get on the bridge.  Ever tried to drive while also trying not to vomit all over yourself and your passengers?  You made this worse for me.  I began to scream at you, until I saw that you were already in your own hell as well.

There is no need for a sane human being to put those ridiculous stick figure family bumper stickers on their car.  Why are you even worse?  Because after stick dad, stick mom, and stick kids, you had four stick figure kitty cats.  My nausea grew threefold, and I knew at that point I had to pass you.  As I sped past your banality-mobile, I yelled out "Why don't you buy some more cat stickers!" 

Sadly, you foresaw my gem of a quip.  As my awesome car pulled along your depression on wheels, it was revealed that YOU PUT MORE CAT STICKERS WRAPPING AROUND TO THE SIDE OF YOUR CAR.  I could see you and the fam, giggling in the garage as you got high snorting piles of cat dander, thinking how you were going to blow everyone's minds when they realized you didn't have four cats, but NINE!

Did we lose a war?  Did your lack of a patriarchal iron fist lead to a cat rebellion?  Are the feline overlords demanding we pay tribute to them on our vehicles?  All I know is at this point, should something terrible happen in your house, you have let the numbers sway out of your favor.  Should a democratic vote be called, be prepared to lay in a swatch of sunlight on the carpet for several hours instead of taking little Billy to the hospital to remove that inflamed appendix.  Cats don't give a damn about appendectomies.  All they care about is sleeping and violence.  They are just smaller, slightly cleaner versions of Danny DeVito, and you have let them into your house in large numbers.  They are going through your things as we speak, because they do not respect you.

No one respects you, because you paid good money to let everyone that sees you drive by know that you and your family suck.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Dear Netflix

As you know, months ago you got me addicted to a horrifyingly addictive drug called "Friday Night Lights". I smoked up all the FNL you had in your glove compartment. I knew there were 13 more out there, but you didn't have them. I locked myself in a room and slowly got myself off of FNL by freebasing some Sons of Anarchy, but I can only get that from the clinic once a week. I started to get my life back together.  Then you showed up in a dark parking lot, late at night. You tracked down those last 13 hits of FNL, and you wanted to give me a deal on them, since we have a history. 
So now, I am ignoring my children and locking myself in the bathroom just to get a fix on it. I have six episodes left, then there will never be any again. And maybe my life can move on after that. Unless you get the cast back together for another episode, then make me do unspeakable acts in an alley to earn them.  

 Please get scabies from a rabid panther.

Dear Citizens of My Neighborhood

So very sorry I am picking blackberries with a flashlight at 11PM.  Not everyone has cushy jobs with set hours that allow them to do gardening during daylight hours.  I had to work today and it was too hot to pick before I went in. 

Also, sorry I am playing Beverly Hills Cop loudly on my garage tv.   I don't have creative ways to make lots of noise when others are sleeping like having a stupid rooster, or having a son with a terrible heavy metal band.  I have to dance around a blackberry bush in the dark, rocking out to Axel F. and gorge myself on sweet, juicy blackberries that are better than anything that any of your children will ever create. 

Finally, I am deeply penitent about the fact that I was shrieking, threw my flashlight, took my shirt off, and threw that into the night. A spider living in my grapes tried to rape my head.  Hopefully I didn't awaken your silken slumber with my unholy cries of horror as an arachnid forcefully tried to take my ear's virginity. 

I hope you get a horrible sunburn, you unsympathetic daywalkers.

Also, dear spider living in my grape arbor,

I sincerely pray that I killed you good. Seriously, I hope you get the spider equivalent of herpi-gonhorr-syphyl-aids.

Say hi to your mother for me in spider hell.

Dear Aging Hippie in Acme Market

You can't block the entire aisle with your cart and sing "Margaritaville" while you try to determine exactly what pretzel will assuage your munchies.  The pretzel aisle is also where the soda lives, and I love soda more than anything.  This includes family, liberty, and not going to jail for bludgeoning a dirty ponytailed balding man who can't make up his mind between zesty ranch and honey mustard explosion.

Also, when someone says "Excuse me", you move out of the way. You don't say "I'll be done in a minute" and then start singing "Boys of Summer".  

 I will eat all of the pretzels and make you watch, just so you will cry.