Open Letters

Dear Madonna,

I was looking at your "Hard Candy" album cover and it's time to realize that you're getting pretty damn old. I know you've been my Material Girl for a long time and I'm so Crazy for You that I'd love to Live to Tell about Getting in the Groove with you. However, you've only got a few good years left and I can't wait forever. Just think about it 'cause I'm not inviting you to my fleshy freakfest if you're old, wrinkly and smell like moth balls.



Dear Lazy, Fat Lady at Target,

Boy, did you really give me the eye in the Target parking lot as you were contemplating whether to avoid taking that grocery cart to the cart corral. I guess you had to make eye contact to see if I was gonna narc you out before you popped that cart up on the grassy median then bolted for your car. But here's the deal. I counted the steps you made from car-to-median and back to car. It took you 10 steps. Had you added 6 more steps to your trip then you would have politely delivered the cart to its proper resting place. You could not take 6 more steps to be nice to that poor, minimum wage earning Target employee who had to fish your cart out of the grass? Perhaps if you made the effort to add 6 more steps to your daily exercise routine then I would not have to blog about how fat and lazy you are.


Dear Foul-Mouthed, Fat Redneck at the Gym,

Yes, you again; Notre Dame grad -- ish. At Notre Dame (or some surrounding community college) did you take a class on how to construct sentences such as "I don't f#cking give a sh*t f%ck about these young kids today. They've got no f^cking discipline." I love how you always seem to raise your voice and look at me everytime you make such insightful comments. I sincerely hope that you reconsider the definition of discipline the next time you (1) lack the self-control to keep from knocking out a dozen vending machine bear claws and (2) show up to the gym everyday to religiously run your mouth while lifting the equivalent of 6 paper towels during your "workout."


Dear Smokers on the Elevator,

Do you guys always have to smoke then immediately jump into a poorly-ventilated enclosure with me? Do you realize that you smell like, um, you know... a cigarette? This is war. You guys try this again and I'm pooting on the elevator. I'm sorry that innocent bystanders may die, but you're the ones responsible for this. You brought it upon yourselves; you have the power to stop this.