Dear Writer's Block

I would like to write a cohesive and well thought out letter.  You have hampered this for three days now.

Many things have angered me, yet I only get a few lines in and the inspiration peters out.  Instead, you let me write things like this on scraps of paper that fill up my pants pockets:

"Ladz Two Blokes- a polite and genial group of four British men that cover Boyz 2 Men songs with delightful cockney accents.  Unfortunately, their accents are the only thing endearing about them.  No amount of charm can really correct the injustice of Motown Appleby-in-Westmooreland.  Baritone Timmy Smythe-Williams cannot join in with the others on the choreographed dances.  Somehow, his left leg is four inches shorter than his right leg, and his right leg is two inches shorter than the left."

Seriously?  Why did you let me write this down?  Why did I save this?  Why was this in my brain at all?  

If I start to smell oranges, this might begin to make sense.  

Dear Blog Readers (Part 2)

You have done well with your offerings to me.  Not great, but well.  There has been a distinct lack of wax lions and Moxie soda, but I choose to believe they are in the mail.

Now the time has come for a different form of tribute.  If you enjoy the blog, if I have ever made you laugh, I only ask a small favor.  Let your friends know about the letters.  Link to me on your Facebook accounts, email them a link, or hire a homeless person to break into people's homes and write the URL on their walls with a tasty gravy they make out of dandelions and tears.  Those that have Google+, don't bother.  The five other people that use that already know about me.  Get the word out.

Bottom line is, this has been more popular than I could have imagined when I jokingly texted my friend Spike and told him I would start this blog.  He didn't believe I would, so I registered it out of spite.  I would like to see the blog become even more popular.  That way I can parlay it into a book deal, and use that money to buy a koala.  I hate koalas more than anything, so that will ensure many more letters to come.

Sound like a good plan?  Of course it does, because I thought of it.

A new letter will be posted tomorrow should I see that five people linked to me on Facebook.  It will probably be posted if no one links, but the quality will greatly suffer because of it.  Mainly, it will be scene by scene dissection of the movie "Blank Check".

Dear Blog Readers

I've never asked for much from you, my readers.  I used to be happy that you would come here, enjoy my blog, and leave me some comments.  That was just fine to keep me going when this all started.

It's not easy staying angry all the time.  I keep depriving myself of things I love to make sure I have that mental edge I need to go off half cocked on an old lady at the grocery store, or to scream at children on the street.  In the last six months I have given up smoking, stopped eating the food I love, and spent my free time exercising, all to make sure I stay angry at all times.  I woke up one night and my right kneecap was turned 90 degrees in the wrong direction, all because I have been running too much and possibly have no ligaments holding it on.  I would ask the doctor, but as we've covered, I refuse to go to him.  If I had a wife I would have made her leave me.  That is how far I go for all of you.

This hasn't been enough, though.  Against my will, I have had a good couple of weeks.  The weather has been great, I've gotten to go golfing, I went on vacation last week, and baseball season starts soon.  I've spent time outdoors and have seen my friends more than I normally do, and because of all of these things, I have not been as angry.  When I am not angry, I don't sit in my dark little home office, stabbing at the keyboard with vehemence as I feed you readers the juicy, savory broth of my malcontent and enmity.  When you are not nourished by my hate, you poke, prod, and belittle me until I am angry again, and the vicious circle continues.

Now it's time to call in my marker.  If you people want me to stay angry, you need to make me a little happier.  If I don't know happiness, how can I truly know rage?

So, you bloodsucking leechmonkeys, I demand gifts.  Ladies, send in your sexy pictures.  Gentleman, I demand handcrafted wooden trinkets and t- shirts from The Chivery.  I would like three pallets of Moxie diet sodas, a copy of Brain Donors on DVD, and seven of the wax lions like they had on the tv show Wonderfalls.  God help you if those lions do not have smooshed faces.  I also require one of the original A-Team vans to facilitate some shenanigans with one of my two lawyers (lawyers, you can bicker between yourselves as to which of you it will be).

Go ahead.  See if I am joking, people.  You have three days.

Dear Adam Richman

I am naturally competitive.  Some say aggressively so.  Others refuse to play games with me because I am prone to violent outbursts and one time during Yahtzee I spoke in tongues when an opponent rolled five sixes.  I also love food so much I got myself the diabetes from eating so much of it.  I am the best at eating.  There is no one better.  I rarely choke while eating.  I can eat while driving and/or walking.  I have been eating my whole life.

I am not sure why you want me dead.  Alan Rickman, sure, he has plenty of reasons to want to see me on the coroner's slab, but et tu Adam?  What you've done is create the perfect plan of my destruction.  It is beautiful.  And terrifying.  Like the sea.  You are basically showing someone doing something I am good at, but they are doing it so poorly I have no recourse but to scream at the television and start bonging steaks I put through a blender to prove I am indeed a man.  You taunt me and tease me and show me that I can lead a life of gluttonous glory, that I can finally be the greatest at something that isn't blogging or making sweet sweet love.

Then you started "Man vs. Food Nation" because in your quest to mentally break me, your body revolted against you and you had to have a heart of a lion born free on the Serengeti grafted into your chest.  However, your plan was only nearly fool proof.  By making a forum where any gastronomically proficient fool can come on television and eat a mime's weight in glorious food, you knew I would have to break my own feet to stay away.  One thing you didn't plan on was that I actually have some self respect and preservation skills.  The other thing that you  forgot is that when you make me angry, I am about as unpredictable as a carny on amphetamines.  Twelve smashed television and five hospitalized Washington DC transients are all you have to show for the frustration you gave me.

So, I tip my cap to you, Adam, but you will not win this battle, or this war.  I am too brilliant a tactician for you to ever outsmart me, and I have curbed my anger enough that you can never provoke me again.

Also, I pooped in your mailbox.

Your move, tubby.

Dear Denver the Last Dinosaur

Your story does not add up.  Your egg gets buried for millions of years, but is under just enough dirt that construction workers can dig it up?  Then when a rag tag group of multicultural teens knock into it, you emerge victorious, ready to skateboard and play guitar no less.  No dinosaur I have ever known rides a skateboard.  And only a few have ever been able to play the hammered dulcimer, but none could play the guitar.

You are a grifter.  It is easily seen as you deal with the poor teenagers you have duped into serving you.  They think you are teaching them life lessons.  You are probably robbing them blind of their newspaper route money so you can buy something, anything to dull the pain of the realization that you are the only one of your kind left.  No amount of spray paint in a paper bag will change the fact even the most unique snowflake eventually melts and leaves behind nothing.

Seriously, you think by putting a wig on you, people will think you are a dog?  You are green and appear to be at least ten feet tall.  You are trying to get these kid caught and arrested for dealing in antiquities or possibly have them hanged by PETA.

Speaking of those kids you hang out with, please explain what this "friend" of yours is wearing on his head.  

I know what it looks like, and that is not the head it it supposed to be worn on.  If I find out you had something to do with this, I will have the Smithsonian carving you up before the day is done.

And that little lick you are giving him leads me to my last point.  Your friends like to sing a little song, don't they?  How does that little ditty go?

 "Denver the last dinosaur, he's my friend and a whole lot more.
 Denver, the last dinosaur, shows me a world I've never seen before."

That's the song, isn't it, Denver?  What does "a whole lot more" than a friend constitute?  What is this "world" these children have never seen before?

Answer the question, pederast.

You sicken me.