Dear Buster the Calamity Collie

I am an animal lover.  In addition, most animals love me.  The only exceptions to this rule include every Mainecoon cat ever born, because they were forged from the very fires that heat Satan's jiffypop, an obese blob of pudding, fur, and hatred that was once a cat named Baby, and you, Buster the Calamity Collie.  Oh, yes, you act like you love me.  You pretend that all you want is my acceptance, love, and all the tummy rubs I can give.  Your actions speak much louder than this, though, and your aggression will not stand.  You can't fool me by placing your head on my leg, or by discretely placing your head under my hand so that I have little choice but to pet you.  Yours is the face anxiety.

 

Yours is the face of menace.

Yours is the face of impending, unrelenting, unstoppable chaos and fear.

People think you are so delightful with your boundless energy and constant need for attention.  That's because they only see you in small doses.  They also don't tend to realize that you are like a case of tinnitus mixed with an opera sung by Cher and Gilbert Godfrey.  You are always emitting noise, be it loud, soft, high pitched, or gratingly low.  You can be sitting on a comfortable couch, surrounded by people you love, and still constantly whine for an hour through the GODDAMNED FINALE OF HARPER'S FREAKING ISLAND...just because you want to.  You are the reason people drive slow in the left hand lane.  You give people that feeling of slimy cold unease they get when they sweat too much and then enter a store with really strong air conditioning.  You are the reason there will never be a sequel to The Rocketeer, even though Billy Campbell still looks great and the technology available would make it look amazing.  You cannot be happy until everyone else is miserable, and that is highlight with every last interaction you've ever had with Murphy the Customer Service Cat.

Murphy is the nicest, most happy-go-lucky cat to ever walk this earth, and this infuriates you.  If he walks by, on his way to get a small drink of water, or to find a place to nap, you viciously growl, jump up, and try to eviscerate him with the teeth that you haven't rotted out with years of drug and alcohol abuse.  Poor little Murphy, not the most sprightly of felines, is forced to duck, dodge, and flee for his life.  He can be found later, wedged behind whatever cover he can find, still winded and confused at the level of hostility and aggression that was hurled at him.  Then, there's his playtime.  Murphy's chief joy in life comes from the few precious little fuzzy balls I bought him years ago at the grocery store.  There's only a certain type he likes, which they no longer make, so he doesn't have many.  Should he politely stand at the bannister, as he does, and gently lower a paw to request I throw him a ball to play with, you, you bastard son of sin and sacrilege, go into a frenzy, trying to intercept the ball.  Should he actually get the ball and begin to sing his joyful ball playing song, you lift your head and howl in misery, trying to cover the sounds of merriment with pain and anguish. 

You even turn the nice things I do for you into awful lessons in the futility of pleasing you.  A few weeks ago, you spent the majority of my day off acting like a normal, well behaved canine.  I decided to reward you by taking you for a drive.  The lurid, high pitched mating call you cackled at every passerby could not be stifled by the radio, and you forced my hand at keeping the windows closed as you carpet bombed the car.

Not learning from my mistake, I saved a jar of peanut butter I had finished off and gave it to you to lick clean.  Two days later, you again pretended to be a "good boy" and I tried to scratch under your chin.  From the front of your jaw to your collar was a solid, unyielding crusty shell of dried peanut butter and a complete lack of shame.  You thrilled in the fact that you had made me touch that mess, and let out a shrill keening wail as I tried to disinfect my hand.  Still trying to be a hero, I tried to clean you with a wet paper towel.  At first you acted like a petulant child, turning your head away from me whenever I tried to get near.  Then you snapped at me, struggled, and tried to hide behind a chair the did nothing to conceal you.  When I raised my hands in frustration and cried out "Why won't you let me help you?" you lifted your head, smirked at me, and fire burned in your eyes. Also, I am fairly certain, you turned into a horrible looking lizard, but only for a second.  Then you were just plain, awful, feculent Buster. 

If you were a person, you would split your time between watching reality television and pulling the Hitler card on people in the comments section on the Fox Sports forums while Wayans Brothers movies play on your VCR.  Every one but Blankman, because you hate Blankman. 

Dear Top Hat Guy

The other week, I was at the casino, getting my monthly free dinner splurge.  Afterwards, I wandered around for a bit, gaming and enjoying myself.  The only reason I set any of this up is to point out where I was, or more importantly, where I wasn't.  It wasn't a wedding, gala, or inauguration of any kind.  I had the day off, I was out relaxing, having fun, and getting hit on by a very attractive cougar while I had a belly full of waffle fries and golobki.  Things were a-ok in my book, until I look over the head of the very short but well put together lady touching my arm to see you standing ten feet away.  Thanks to you, I had to explain to that lady, who, by all methods of standard weights and measures, had a ratio of boobs to body of nearly 43% thanks to her short stature and ample bosom, why I was discreetly taking pictures of a guy.  Specifically, you.  You, with that dopey look on your face.  You, with that brand new set of Etnies kicks, and you, with that damned hat.

Part of me wants to applaud you.  Clearly, you give not one damn what anyone thinks of you.  If you did, at the very least you wouldn't be wearing mom jeans.  Maybe, by writing this letter, I am committing some extraneous form of body shaming.  I started think I could be in the wrong, because no one else seemed to be having the reaction to your dumb, stupid hat that I was.   Perhaps I am the one that needs to rethink things.  Surely in my past I had worn stupid things to try to get attention.  Sure, I was younger, and mostly drunk at the time, but I had done it. 

So, there I was, having a moral crisis as I stood in front of The Walking Dead slots with a woman that was very nearly half boobs.  I thought, maybe more people should be like you, just running free, doing what they want because it feels good.

Then I remembered that we've tried that before.  They were called hippies and beatnicks and they ruined everything.  You are lucky I was indoors, where there were no rocks I could throw at you, you Maynard G. Krebs, Wavy Gravy looking son of a bitch. 

Dear People Who Want Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites

Some people don't understand what it is like to not be able to find Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  Either the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites come easy to them, and always have, or they just happen to have found some Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites and were lucky enough that they never lost them.  Some people though, are to ugly, awkward, or busy, and it is very hard for these people to find Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  Those people either die alone, without the warming comfort of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites, or they take more drastic measures to find some Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites to call their own.  Some people, like me, join websites where other people looking for Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites go, so that they can finally have what they've been wanting. 

I exhausted the somewhat limited bounds of "People my friends are willing to introduce me to" quite some time ago.  It has never worked out well, which probably says plenty about me and the quality of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that I have to give.  Since then, I signed up for online Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites sites.  I've been on two sites for a few months now.  They have guarantees on the one site that if you don't find your Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites soul mate in six months, they'll give you another six months for free. They are that certain that you'll find someone to share in Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites together. 

One would assume that, to have signed up for these sites, a person would be eager to meet someone else.  Otherwise, why would they be on there?  Sadly, this seems to be the farthest thing from the truth.  Without hyperbole, I have sent message to over 500 difference women on those sites, ranging from a simply "Hi!  How are you doing?", to the more complex "I really enjoyed reading your profile.  I'd really love to chat with you and discuss Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites".  One lady who I really didn't want to waste a chance on, so full of Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites she was, I wrote "Hi! You are an amazingly gorgeous lady with a well thought out profile. It would be a pleasure to me if you'd like to message a bit and get to know each other,and to talk about Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites".  Minus three people, I have gotten the worst possible response.

No, they didn't just write back "Ew, no.".  They didn't tell me I was too ugly or poor to share their Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites.  They didn't take the kind and polite route and say "I'm sorry, but I am not interested."  They simply read my words, and did nothing.  I know, because you can see when someone has read the message you sent.  They felt that my Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites and I were not worth the few keystrokes it would take to tell me that a better idea than talking to them would be to fornicate with myself. 

That's right.  People that have a hard enough time getting Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that they have to join the site can be cruel enough to ignore someone else in the same boat as them.  They can be cowardly enough to hide when someone puts themselves out there offering them all the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites they can give, because somehow, kicking someone when they are already down has become such an acceptable thing that 497 ladies out of 500 think it is a perfectly acceptable thing to do.  The other three?  They wrote to me once or twice and THEN they stopped writing back.

It may shock you all to realize that the Ooey Gooey Awesome Cheesy Chewy Bites that I mentioned in this letter are really just a euphemism. 

Dear Kentucky Jim

You have been reticent since you left for parts unknown for your new job.  I don't remember if it was with the government, the carnival, or an all male burlesque show, but I remember you said there was a grueling training period and that you anticipated being very sore.  None of this means that you can't return a text message or an email to the greatest friend you've ever known, but somehow you still manage to ignore all communications.  Then, like the teasing trollop I am sure you are at The Stripmaginarium of Dr. Peenasus, you told me you would call me last Saturday.  Even though I was on vacation in Atlantic City, I carried my bluetooth around all day, taking up valuable cigar space in my pocket, just so I could talk to you and see how the accommodations were for you at Wiggling Willyzs Weinerz Warehouz.  Alas, you never called, so I am forced to send this letter to update you on the goings on back home.

I've been well, thanks for not bothering to ask, jackass.  Since you've left, I save money not having to travel over the bridge to visit you, and I can eat at any Indian, Mexican or Asian restaurant I want because I don't have to have dinner with someone who is racist against any culture that has rice as a staple food.  My workouts have been goings well, but I'm sure they are nothing compared to the exercise they put you through to keep you in shape at your new job at Urethra Franklin's Rhythm and Boobs Revue.  Everything else is fine too, so enough about me.

As you surmised, when you left town, The Angry Scholar lost his only support system.  Adrift in a sea of angst and academia, he can be found nowadays wandering the halls of his campus library, muttering facts about long gone cultures and stats of Pokemon characters.  He's also taken a fancy to performing interpretive dances to Fine Young Cannibals songs at coffeehouses.  Not during open mic nights, just at any point he feels like it, during regular business hours.  He has been deemed not quite the entertainment spectacle I am sure you are at Kim Dong Il's Imperial Penis Palace and Neverending Omelet Buffet, so he's been banned from every coffee house in town except for the one called "Cofee Beens" run by a guy whose legal name is Ketchup.  I'm not really clear on if that's a first or last name, or if this is some sort of Cher or Sting situation, and frankly, I don't care to find out.

Your former roommate, Mr. Estevez, has been doing a valiant job trying to clean your old apartment since your departure.  You left an alarming amount of scratch paper lying around crumpled in various rooms.  Most seem to be failed poems from your goth phase, as well as several sheets of paper with variations of the signature "Master Lucien Oblivion".  They are dotted with stains of eyeliner, your unmistakable shade of Midnight Misery, dripped from tears of unfathomable sorrow.  He did find something in the heating vents of your room that you may not have meant to leave though.  I'm not sure what any grown man would need with hidden stashes of over three hundred My Little Pony dolls living painted with personalized names on their chests, but sure enough The Angry Scholar has taken possession of all of them, except for the blue one with green hair you named "Rambling Roger".  The Scholar says he doesn't trust Roger, and gets very defensive when the name is brought up.

Your mother and father are doing well.  Very well in fact.  One gets the feeling that you might have been dragging them down this whole time, and that since you have left, they've finally come into their own.  It's nice to see them smiling again mostly.

Anyway, I'm sure you are busy with your next shift at Barbara Ehrenriech's Nipple and Dimed, so I guess I probably shouldn't wait for you to call this weekend either, even though you said you would since you missed last weekend.  It's cool.  It's only Sunday night.  There's still plenty of weekend left.  You'll be calling any minute. 

Dear Superbowl Commercials

This might as well just be an obituary for the golden age of Superbowl commercials as much as it is a condemnation of the current classless class of dreck that was trotted out last Sunday.  Superbowl Sunday used to be a night of championship level football interspersed with the best that advertising agencies had to give us.  Now, the commercials seem indistinguishable from one that you would catch premiering during a rerun of Shark Tank.

There were only two commercials all night that I heard any positive reviews about.  The first was the Budweiser Clydesdales with the puppy.  Yeah, sure.  No one is going to hate a commercial with a cute little puppy, so that was a gimme.  More surprising was the second, the Brady Bunch commerical with Steve Buscemi and Danny Trejo, mainly because it was a rehash of an idea they stopped doing two or three years ago.  So, those were the best ideas that the supposed best minds in advertising could come up with, and that companies felt were worth shelling out millions of dollars for a prime slot.  Yet, the two most non football related topics discussed from the broadcast were the weird and uncomfortable Dead Kid commercial, and that freaking shark at halftime.  Let me tell you, I definitely want to hire a life insurance company that feels like bumming out millions of people that are busy shoveling guacamole down their gullets at a friend's house.  Maybe for my birthday, the company will come out and psychologically torture my housepets while I'm forced to watch.

There are still good commercials out there.  I still laugh every time I see the Value City coffee table commercial, and Blake Bennett playing straight man to the children in the cell commercials got some great mileage.  Somehow, though, on the biggest night for commercials all year, we get nothing of substance. 

There may never be another Terry Tate, Office Linebacker ever again, and I weep for the future.

Dear Television Theme Songs

There is a set way things tend to be done regarding theme songs.  In the sixties, theme songs were instrumental.  Seventies, rock songs.  Eighties spawned gleeful jangles most likened to radio jingles for the show, and the nineties were a strange amalgam of clips, whistles, and children screaming.  Then, when it got to the Aughts, you were allowed to experiment.  You had the laid back cool of The Sopranos, the vague unease of the Lost noise, the awesome of Tom Waits and Tom Waits covers on The Wire, and the brilliant instrumentals of The Office and Parks and Rec that convey the joy of the shows.  Somehow, in this renaissance, the worst theme song of television history was born and unleashed on the world. 

I'll take a moment, and assure the ladies in the audience that I am in NO WAY making fun of the show.  I know better than to do that, lest I be besieged in a fast talking flurry of hatred and obscure pop culture references.  Also, please remember, if you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you ever imagined.  Ok?  We good?

Alright....so, that song is the Gilmore Girls theme.  I've been subjected to this treacly monstrosity many times lately, and it never gets better.  It sounds like a nice old lady that just baked cookies for everyone, and she's singing while getting beaten with a sock full of kindness, gentility, and 1922 Liberty Head quarters.  Latin America can't produce as much sickly sweetness in a year as this song does in a minute.  It doesn't even qualify as a throwback to 80's shmaltz.  It's just ungodly, unjustifiably awful.  It is so bad it couldn't even be Steven Segal's theme song.

I haven't seen much of the show.  I assume it is some strange prequel to Supernatural, otherwise Jared Padalecki would have had nothing to do with it.  The more I thought about it, I became convinced this was a very elaborate, extremely lengthy Meta episode of Supernatural where Sam is posing as a teenager named Dean, and Dean is a hot thirty something single mom with an odd daughter that dates Sam/Dean.  For some reason they live in a town where it is perfectly acceptable for a grown man to wear a backwards baseball cap at all time (maybe this is Cass?), and no one is yet sick of Melissa McCarthy. If it isn't, I want the royalties when it gets made. 

Dear Kali

There isn't much to do when you are stuck in the dentist's chair, waiting for the hygienist to come in and clean your teeth.  You can't have your phone on, and you'll do just about anything to not listen to the soft jazz playing over the sound system.  So, I looked around the office, trying to amuse myself.  There is only so much in the 180 degree view I have from the chair, so it wasn't hard to bypass the framed pictures of sailboats, schooners, and other things I can't afford because I'm not a dentist.  My eyes settled on a hand drawn picture from a child. This picture: 

It took me a couple a seconds to process what I was seeing.  Kali, a small red child, was obviously attacked by the dentist, who likes wearing human hearts on his smock to terrorize his victims.  Immediately, too many questions came to mind.  I have never seen a child in the office.  This is not a pediatric dentist office.  How did you get in here, and who are you working for?  How did you smuggle in crayons, because they don't have them here.  I know, I've asked. 

Once those were posed, my brain went further.  What have your parents done to you?  What kind of name is Kali?  Short for "Kali Ma You Have Sinned Against Shiva"?  Is Brittany not a good name anymore?  Susan, Betty, Jennifer, Flo?  Why Kali? 

Horrified, I saw what my mind had blocked out the first eighty times I read it.  It was too much to see that the picture was "Form Kali".  That one last thing would have broken me, so my mind made me see it say "From".  I also read it as Dentist, because the only thing I know that is called a Demtist is a lesser demon from hell that feeds on the fears of baby koalas. 

My mind wouldn't stop as the hygienist and dentist worked on my teeth.  It was exactly like sex: me lying motionless and confused while a woman pokes around in my mouth, a man watches, and Peabo Bryson plays softly in the background.