The Mauling of the Faithful

Open Letters to My Enemies is starting a new holiday.  December 12 is now known as the Mauling of the Faithful.  On this day, I will take the time during this holiday season to post slanderous and possibly unfounded facts about individual readers that have "Liked" the blog on Facebook.  That could be you!  Go "Like" it now, and celebrate with us tomorrow. 
 https://www.facebook.com/OpenLettersToMyEnemies

We now have the official song of The Mauling of the Faithful- an adaptation of Bruce Springsteen's "Wild Billy's Circus Story", done by reader Matt Lesley.  Lyrics are

The angry man climbs into his chair like a drunkard onto his stool
And the scribbler's writin' in a cold sweat, victim of his rage
Behind the desk, his hand tightens on his pen, like a madman's finger on the button
His wrath is on the shortwave

The red rage lies ahead like a great false dawn
Aging Hippie, Family in a Minivan, Lady sittin’ barefoot in her chair
Denver the Last Dinosaur
And the crazy eyed Giada De Laurentiis
His wrath has been born

And the pressure is a buildin’, pacing to-and-fro, pullin' out his hair
With a cannon blast, lightnin' flash, burnin' through the ink, Hell-bent
He's gonna vent his rage, oh, God save them all
And the words are a flyin', watch the enemies feel his pain
And the writer gets the crowds to read along

A ragged keyboard in his hand, he stomps angrily through the world
And the internet's haunted by his impotent howls
They echo like a great a banshee on the wind
A baggy shorts man in December, writer’s block, and a mockingbird
Fleein' to some small Nebraska town
Jesus, send some sweet women

And the Angry Man dances like a monkey on barbed wire
He romances his fury, with a fire in his belly
And how his marks flee in fear to the sounds of his computer like machine gun fire
The man’s a live wire

And the angry man lifts the pen, fist trembling with rage
And puts tip to paper, through the red, past the fury, in his dimly lit trailer
And the nub scratches and scratches and it ain't ever gonna stop
And the blogger bends over the keyboard and whispers to himself
"You all better run,
Because it’s time to maul the Faithful

Dear Local Utility Company

Things had gotten dire.  The compressed air for my soda stream had been spent, and I was left with no choice but to venture out and replace it.  This involves traversing perhaps the most wicked and painstaking three mile drive one can endure through a small town.  First, one must cross the infamous "bypass" that has almost as heavy traffic as the road it is supposed to be a helpful alternative to.  Next, you must sit at least four minutes at the Five Point Intersection of Despair.  After a short delay at the Stoplight-of-Constant-Construction-and-Snotty-Tennis-Players -Watching-You-From-The-Tennis Courts-Next-To-The-Road, you must make a left hand merge, LEFT I SAY, onto one of the busiest roads in America.  Finally, you must contend with the traffic of the lost souls and demons leaving Walmart in order to make it to the relative peace and seclusion of the Staples parking lot.  Here, and only here, may you exchange your officially licensed Soda Stream carbonator for a replacement. 

Things began badly from the outset.  As I boarded my trusty Jeep, my stomach knotted as I found my pockets vacant of my Ipod, the only source for tasty and uplifting tunes.  Having long abandoned terrestrial radio, the only preset on my car radio is the station for the Phillies games.  It is on every button.  The only CD I had was a scarred and battle worn mix made for a trip to Atlantic City years before, and I was damned if I would return to the house, climb the stairs, and retrieve my Ipod.  Time was of the essence.  I climbed into the car, inhaled deeply, and hit the scan button on the FM dial.  Apollo, god of travel, smiled upon me this day.  The third station held ominous silence for several moments, only to unleash the unmitigated fury and unabashed revelry of 80's supergroup Toto's Africa.  This journey would be prosperous.  I could not lose.

Together, Toto and I crushed the bypass beneath our heels.  We sailed unmolested through the Five Point Intersection of Despair, and we ignited the tennis courts at the S-o-C-C-a-S-T-P-W-Y-F-t-T- C-N-T-T-R in a blaze of purifying sound thanks to a blistering air key-tar solo.  Not even the dreaded left hand merge could phase us.  Toto and I were untouchable together.  As we crested the rise and entered the Staples parking lot, the final chorus entered a pitched fever, and as the final strains of the song echoed through the ears of the mortals enjoying their Quiznos subs, I exited my car, air canister held aloft, ready to kick ass, chew bugglegum, and make a small business transaction to allow me to make my own soda once again.

Unfortunately, like Icarus, I had flown too close to the sun.  As I swiped my credit card, mere seconds away from my goal, you murderous trolls at the Utilities company deigned to bring me back to earth.  I entered my debit code, returned my wallet to my pocket, and just as the machine was ready to print my receipt, the power was shut off to every business on the block.  Disbelieving, I asked if it had worked.  The man behind the counter told me no, and that I would need to leave with my old, nonworking carbonator.  Without power, there would be no transaction. It took me thirteen minutes to drive the three miles home, listening to the mournful wail of Billy Joel as he ate at an Italian restaurant.  I wasted a total of close to half an hour because you cannot keep the power on, one of your only jobs, aside from making sure no one poisons the town water supply.

You owe me my time back, as well as my pride, and a carbonator.  I will settle for the carbonator and the phone number of the lady behind the customer service counter at Staples.  You have 30 minutes.

Dear Nebraska

I am a vain man, and I occasionally (constantly) check the stats on the blog.  Last night, I decided to have some fun and see the overall viewership geographic data.  Sounds boring, but it makes me happy on a bad day to know that some wonderful people (weirdos and perverts) that I have never met are reading what I write.  I pulled up the map, and this is what I see.

In case you are confused, the shades of green do not stand for how many people per capita Greg thinks are hot in each state, because Maine and New Jersey would be much darker.  It also does not stand for how many people per state send Greg nice messages and sexy pictures on the Open Letters Facebook page or email, because then the map would be white.  See, Nebraska, the green means that people in that state are reading my blog.  The darker the green, the more people read.  You are the only state that has never had even one single reader.

Your state motto is "Equality before the law", yet I feel that I have been rudely prejudiced against.I reported this injustice to the local authorities, but apparently this does not constitute a "hate crime" and I was "wasting everyone's time and patience."   My next course of action was to go to the internet and try to ascertain why you would hate me so much.  The few facts I was able to gather did not shed much light.  I found out that your largest ethnic group is German-Americans, which means share common lineage and both hate the Dutch.  Koolaid was invented in in your state, and I like Koolaid.  Well, not cherry Koolaid.  That tastes like broken promises and expired Pez.  You sired such legendary entertainers as Fred Astaire, Marlon Brando, and Wade Boggs.  You also have 311, the guy that made the snuggie, and Larry the Cable Guy, but we will ignore that for now.  There seems to be no reason why not one of your 1,842,641 people have ever bothered to read my site.  So, this leads me to blind speculation and slander.

Illiteracy seems too easy.  I could attack the fact that one of your main tourist attractions is your Testicle Festival or that your state looks like a weird little kindergartener tried to draw the Slave-1 and failed miserably.  I could claim many things, but I won't for two reasons. First, you are so bland I had to look things up about you because I couldn't just come up with stuff to say about you. Second, you are where Children of the Corn is set, and that is punishment enough.

So, Nebraska Board of Tourism, I issue you a challenge.  If I see 200 views from Nebraska this month, I will publicly apologize to your state.  Also, if you send me a bus ticket and secure me lodging at your finest Clarion or Embassy Suites, I will do a public appearance, and we shall forge a new union of friendship and readership.

If I do not get the 200 readers, I will lead the Children of the Corn in an all out attack in your nightmares that will make what happened at Sesame Place when I was four look like the accident I still claim that it was. 

Dear Giada De Laurentiis

Back when I was in college, we used to have something special.  I would wake up sometime around 2PM, and catch an episode of Everyday Italian while my housemates were in class.  That was our time, and no one could take that from us.  I would close the blinds and put on my best Bouncing Souls shirt.  You would smile at me, and cook some spaghetti alla puttanesca.  This is how we would do our dance of love.

Eventually, I came to find out that I was not the only one smitten with your heavenly Italian foods and low cut tops.  I shouldn't be surprised, seeing as gnocchi is a natural aphrodisiac.  The most jarring instance that comes to mind was during a trip to a pawn shop in Bangor, ME.  As I perused the display cases with my friend Furious T. and debated the merits of the plethora of bolo ties on display, we noticed that you were on the television.  Both of us stopped to watch for a moment, then looked at the grizzled man behind the counter.
    
           "You boys like this show, too?" he uttered lustily, never taking his eyes from the screen.  A smattering of spittle and B&M beans crusted the corners of his mouth, and I am certain he had uttered the phrase "Looks like the spider has caught himself a fly" at least once in his life.

           T. smiled at him and commented that it wasn't hard to watch, to which the man told us, in no uncertain terms, that he would like to "Crawl up between those titties and live there."

That was the beginning of the end for us.  The gloss was off of our once perfect union.  I began to notice that you felt the need to make sure that everyone knew you were Italian, since being the host of "Everyday Italian" might leave some doubt.  Therefore, any time any vaguely Italian word came up in the script, you would milk it for all it was worth.  Mozzarella suddenly had eight syllables, and nine e's and l's.  You said pancetta in such a way that it sullied cured meats for me for at least a week. 

I will not say I no longer find you pretty.  I will simply say that through the years, you've gradually come closer to resembling a lollipop with a disturbing, omnipresent vacant smile.  It's not a happy smile.  It's the kind of smile you see on a stripper before she starts crying in the champagne room, or that glazed over look a child gets when they realize they can't spell "crescent" in the spelling bee. Also, I hate the fact that anything on your show that is filmed outside of the kitchen seems to be filmed through several layers of gauze and filters.  It's like your second unit director came straight off of a soft core porn film and decided to just use the same camera.  

I regret to tell you this, but I've met someone else.  Her name is Nadia G.  She's from a different station, and I think that maybe that is what I need at this point in my life.  I know I don't usually go for blonds, but there is a real connection there.  You both have some things in common.  You are both Italian, and you pronounce things weird.  She is Italian/French/Canadian though, so she has a little more of an excuse.  Also she dresses like she's got a 1950's fetish, and she she seems like she may be genuinely insane, but it is the exciting kind of insane.  Kind of like she may make you some dinner, give you a kiss, then punch you and sing a happy song while she eats all of the food in front of you while staring you in the eyes and never blinking.

 

Dear Woman Leaving Bed, Bath, and Beyond

You may remember me from last Wednesday night.  I was the tall Adonis with the shaved head walking into Bed, Bath and Beyond as you were walking out.  You were the attractive woman that gave me a look usually reserved for use by my ex girlfriends, or for Courtney Love when someone asks her to please stop singing and take a bath.  It was a look that combined confusion, disgust, and unearned abhorrence into a frothy and bitter stew, and for once, I didn't deserve it.  You seem to think that I had been hitting on you while I was out with another woman, and there are several reasons why that is not the case. 

Yes, I smiled at you and said "Hi, how are you doing?" and yes, I was walking in with my friend Cindyloo.  She is a lady, she is my friend, but she is not my ladyfriend.  In fact, she was a few steps ahead of me, partially because she walks like a caffeinated hummingbird, and partially because I was watching a woman on an elliptical in the gym next door.  I looked away from the wonder that is yoga pants, and there you were.  We both caught each other's eye, and as a matter of courtesy, I addressed you. There was no reason to stare at me, then look at Cindyloo, and then look back at me like I was a pervert. 

Perhaps it was my smile that alarmed you.  I agree, it can be unsettling, kind of like Moe from the Simpsons.  My eyes close, I only have a dimple on one side, and it looks forced because my face hates smiling.  In the same regard, even though you are probably attractive most of the time, you looked like Don Knotts giving birth when you gave me the stink eye.  See, it doesn't feel good to be called a gargoyle, does it?

The only other issue you could have had was how I greeted you.  I would grant you that it may have sounded like I was pouring on the charm, but I assure you, my natural speaking voice just happens to be that amazing.  I am a big hit with the middle aged women that call into my work, so I am sorry if my salutation made you feel like you were being nestled in a soft, baritone embrace.  It could not be helped. 

All of this being said, you were kind of cute, so now that you know what really happened, you can meet me at the restaurant around the corner from the old B, B, and B next Tuesday.  I will be the one yelling at the server named Ryan, because he was worthless and doesn't understand what "no tomatoes" means. 

Dear Movie Theaters

I don't make it out to the movies as often one would think.  I love movies, but I hate people.  Well, at the very least I have learned that I can't trust that people will behave themselves enough for me to enjoy the show, so I often go without.  Recently, I've made a concerted effort to get out more, so I took a trip to Washington DC to see Seven Psychopaths with my friend, Spike.

Before you think you have this all figured out, I will tell you this letter is not about the filthy drunk hipsters that sat in front of me, braying and snorting throughout the movie.  I could have told them that the movie had just been named the #1 movie in America, and they would have left to go listen to a CD of some guy in Paris, Texas banging a glockenspiel and singing off key in a petting zoo, or whatever asinine thing hipsters are doing now.  It also wasn't about the woman behind me that rustled through a garbage bag full of food through the first twenty minutes of the movie.  She stopped that when I growled at her.  I refuse to be that obvious to complain about the people making noise in a movie. 

No, this is about what you, the greedy movie theaters that are hell bent on ruining my experience.  This new movie trivia crap that you have before movies is awful, but I understand.  Instead of letting people get their conversations done before the movie begins, you have to play loud, annoying top 40 music while you give stupid multiple choice questions about celebrities.  I don't care at all if Natalie Portman almost didn't take the role of annoying female love interest in Thor, or in Ashton Kutcher has seven nipples, but I get that you get ad revenue for this, so I was content to leave it alone.  This theater in DC, however, blatantly showed commercials instead of the trivia.  I see these commercials for ten minutes out of every half hour of television I watch.  I don't need to see them for the twenty minutes before a movie starts. 

Finally, the lights went down, and I prepared myself for the previews, which I like almost as much as the movie.  I was eagerly awaiting a trailer for Red Dawn, and grew more excited as the standard "Turn off Your Phone", "Buy Our Candy", and "Obey" messages all flashed across the screen.  Finally, the previews started up!  And lo and behold!  MORE MELON PICKING, CORK SCRUBBING, FORK AND RASPBERRY COMMERCIALS.  The actual movie did not start until thirty minutes after the advertised start time.  If you are getting ad money from all of these commercials, you should not be selling movie tickets for $15 a piece.  I could have done so many things, and I doubt a jury would have convicted me for any of them.

A few nights later, I went to see Argo with my parents.  My father only sees movies that "could really happen", so he only goes roughly once every five years.  I weathered through the stupid trivia, I made it through the seven, and I counted you sick freaks, SEVEN commercials, and I was a good boy. 

Was I rewarded at the end of this with the trailer for Red Dawn?  Of course not.  You showed a music video by Kimbra.  The entire music video.  And when my father leaned over and asked me who Kimbra was and why we were watching this, my only response could be was that she was an putrid, squalling sea hag and that we were being punished for some long forgotten hubris that mankind had offended her with.  She was here to teach us that nothing would ever be alright, ever again.

Dear TNT Network

It wasn't so long ago that you were known as the "Shawshank Network" because that was where you got 15 hours a day of your programming.  With that in mind, you can't tell me that you've got so much going on that you can't entertain ideas for better programming.  I looked up your schedule for Fridays.  You show 6 hours of Law and Order, followed by 2 hours of The Mentalist.  Unless you are trying to fight CBS for the Old People demographic, maybe it is time for a change, and that change is bringing back Monstervision.

When I was growing up, Friday night on TNT meant watching Joe Bob Briggs, that tall, lanky redneck, hosting B, horror, exploitation, and just plain fun movies.  The man was in Casino and was a correspondent on the Daily Show, and you had the gall to cancel his show.  Would you do that to Pesci or Jon Stewart?  I thought not.  Before him, Penn and Teller were hosting it, and your took the show away from them.  You were obviously young and confused, or else you were simply content to watch the world burn around you. 

In the twelve years since Monstervision aired, America has been laying the groundwork for its triumphant return.  Case in point, the Redneck Renaissance.  Blue Collar Comedy, Duck Dynasty, Hillbilly Handfishin', Rocket City Rednecks....I unfortunately could keep going.  Apparently we love rednecks and hillbillies now, so Joe Bob Briggs would fit right in.  This has to be the case, or Larry the Cable Guy would never have had ten movie roles and 50 tv roles after he decided to adopt a redneck persona.  Would this guy have gotten any of those things?  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nqm-vKWEkoU  To be fair, the persona he does now shouldn't either, but I digress.

Pretentious wad and horrible director Quentin Tarantino has spent the last ten years convincing everyone that B- movies and exploitation movies are the best, and that every movie today owes them.  Unfortunately, he is the only one who isn't repulsed by his voice, so no one listens.  Joe Bob was preaching about how fun these movies can be for years.  He introduced me to Phantasm and Don Cascaralli, who would later direct Bubba Hotep, a movie that may in fact heal the world.  Do you want to know how he sold me on the movie?  He gave a Drive In Total to start each movie, and for Phantasm II he said

"Twelve dead bodies. Exploding house. One four-barreled sawed-off shotgun. Dwarf tossing. Ten breasts. Embalming needles plunged through various parts of various bodies. One motor-vehicle chase, with crash-and-burn. Ear-lopping. Forehead-drilling. Wrist-hacking. Bimbo-flinging. Grandma-bashing. Devil sex. Crematorium Fu. Flamethrower Fu. Four stars. Check it out."

 That was all twelve year old Greg needed to hear to know that he had stumbled across something special.  You are depriving the world of this kind of joy, just to cram in a reshowing of some Hollywood blockbuster from five years ago  No one wants to watch Book of Eli edited for television.  That is how you get a "Yippee Kay Yay, Mr. Falcon" scenario.