I must admit that my heart begins to quake in recalling last evening. When I offered you a cup of tea, I meant it as a sincere gesture of friendship, and I firmly resolved to behave with the utmost decorum whilst you were in my quarters unchaperoned. However, when you loosened your cravat, I very nearly swooned. The gentle coo of the roosting pigeons, the humidity of the salty air, the relentless throb of the city traffic, your stately, well-proportioned frame – all conspired against my modesty! All thoughts of prudence were dashed. Pleasure was my master, and ere long, Pleasure bid me commit unspeakable acts.
I savor the memory of our passions. I have your assurances that we have done no wrong. But darling, I have one memory which causes me grief; though I tried to stifle any sound, I let forth a cry that may indeed have been audible to the downstairs neighbours.
Fear not, my sweet! I was not wounded; I merely lost my sense of propriety in the rapture of your gentlemanly ministrations. I fervently hope that you will not judge me too harshly and that I may remain close to your affections and in your highest esteem.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Thanks again for inviting me to the Hillary Clinton rally. I’d never been to anything like that before and it was definitely interesting. But as far as volunteering for her campaign with you, I’m going to have to say no. I just can’t support her candidacy.
She has always struck me as a disingenuous opportunist. While I had a lot of respect for her in the early days of Bill Clinton’s administration with her push for health care, it didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in her ability to unite people and get things done. On top of that, as we learned in Michael Moore’s Sicko, she was quite content to be bought off by the pharmaceutical companies to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars. People talk about Barack Obama’s inexperience as a liability, but to me the lack of senatorial experience seems like a relief from corrupt politics as usual. The less time you have in the senate the less time you’ve had to get your hands dirty. He bears himself like a statesman, and while I do admire Clinton’s quick wit and sharp tongue, I think that her style of leadership makes her a lot of enemies.
And if I had to boil it all down to one issue, that issue would be the Iraq war. Obama spoke out against the war from the very beginning. Clinton helped vote us into the mess we’re in now, and while I understand that she admits the error of her ways, it doesn’t change the fact that she was easily led. And I don’t know which is worse; being so hawkish that you don’t even blink at the thought of unilateral military invasion of a country that poses no proven risk to us and has made no hostile advances, or if you are so concerned with your popularity that you will vote against all common sense in favor of the murder of thousands, the destruction of a civilian society, and a price tag of billions of dollars.
Sorry. I can’t help but hold a grudge. I would vote for Clinton over McCain, but I hope it doesn’t come to that.
I’m sitting here with thirteen chapters of your new novel in front of me. This is the first free moment I’ve had to even think about this, and I am so sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no way that I can offer you the kind of feedback you’re looking for.
I have got to say, I envy you your retirement! And I think it’s great that you devote so much of your time to the creative projects you find so fulfilling. But the sad fact is, there is no way I have the kind of free time it would take to keep up with your output and give you the thoughtful response you deserve.
I wasn’t able to give you any feedback on the last book, and I feel terrible about it. I felt guilty for all those months when you were asking me and I just couldn’t make the time. The thought of going through that again is giving me real feelings of dread. I think that we would both be a lot happier if I was honest with you and with myself about what I am capable of doing, and if I wasn’t disappointing you all the time. I hate letting you down when you’re asking for help, but I think I could be a much better daughter to you if I wasn’t also trying to be your editor. I don’t call as much as I used to because I hate having to tell you that no, I still haven’t gotten to your manuscript.
I’m not saying that feedback isn’t important – as a writer myself I take feedback very seriously. I just think that you need to find people you can rely on to give your work time and attention, and I also think you should try asking people other than your kids. Let’s face it – you’re my dad and I love you, and I’m going to like what you write more because you’re my dad and I love you. You should be asking people who can be brutally honest with you and see things from an outside perspective.
I know that you really hate the idea of writing workshops, but you might want to reconsider. Not only could you get advice from other writers and guidance from the workshop leader, but looking at the work of other people can really help you see yours in a new light and teach you how to make things better.
Again, I’m sorry to let you down. I hope you can understand.
It’s over between us.
I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it. I went to the doctor last week and he confirmed my worst fear ― your love is killing me.
We’ve had some amazing times, chocolate. I remember my very first Kiss® at the age of four - even in those tender years, I knew you were the one for me. I think back on our school day trysts, deftly peeling back your wrapper, muffling the sound with my own heavy breathing. I remember hiding you in a drawer as I heard mother’s footsteps in the hall, my heart pounding with the fear of being caught, my blood boiling with the torment of delayed gratification.
How blissful it was when I left home! At last, I could be yours fully. I loved the soft, warm liquid of you in the mornings, I savored you on strawberries, adored you wrapped around peanut butter and caramel. I lived for those special nights when you adorned yourself in the richest ganache ― you looked too beautiful to eat . . . almost.
God! The way you used to look at me, with those gooey brown eyes! The things you used to make me do! Do you remember the night of my company Christmas party when I took out the entire chocolate fountain in my ecstasy? Oh, my love, I was a slave to you!
The doctor tells me my arteries are thick with you ― our torrid love affair is written all over my body. I blush that he knows our secret ― you are so much a part of me.
I’ve promised my loved ones that I will give you up, and I must! I must choose to live for their sakes. But what kind of a life will it be without you?
Please, chocolate, if you love me at all, you’ll leave me without a trace. No dramatic billboard goodbyes, no flirtations from office candy bowls. Leave me before it’s too late. I fear I don’t have the strength.
Dear Anthony Torrence,
I have been collecting Smurf memorabilia for a great many years, and believe me, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the merchandise. I recently purchased Gargamel’s Castle for $225 on your online auction. You advertised a “rare” item in “mint” condition. Therefore, you might understand my dismay when I discovered that you had sent me a counterfeit item.
Inside an authentic box I found a shoddily made replica that bore a slight resemblance to the cover. Rather than the two Gargamel figurines you advertised – one stirring a potion, one sitting and planning dastardly schemes – I found one of Gargamel running from danger, and a Mickey Mouse figurine from The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The Azrael figure looked as though it had melted in the casting process. And Gargamel’s spell book and stand? Nowhere to be found.
Needless to say, this isn’t very smurfy of you, and that is a smurfing lot of money. I am requesting a full refund, and if I do not hear from you in the reasonable period of five smurfs, I am going to come to your house, cut a smurf in your smurf, tear your smurf out with my bare smurfs, and smurf it as a bong.
Have a smurfy day!
To: Zach “The Denihilator” Thomas
From: Princess Zahara of
Zach, my love, how long has it been since the esteemed and prophetically named Heartland Wrestling Association brought you to
Dear one, I crave your passionate embrace, and I tremble remembering the way you called me your desert blossom. Where are you tonight? I trace my fingers over the strange, foreign words;
No one can ever know of our love, or I fear I would lose everything. His majesty, my father is a difficult man. But my 20th birthday approaches, and I have heard whispers that I am to have my own private jet. My darling, I will fly to you, far from my father’s spies, and we will walk hand in hand along the shores of your
A thousand kisses,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
I have just about fucking had it with you. I have been waitressing at Yates’ for the past six months, and before that I’ve worked everywhere from the dumpiest diner to the poshest bistro, but honestly, all y’all take the cake.
To the lady who asked that her table be moved from close to the door (“Too cold!”) to close to the kitchen, and then moved again to the middle of the dining room (“Too hot!”), this is not an episode of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Take your estrogen already.
To the group of boisterous Italian tourists, who recently asked for your meat well-done, then kept asking me why it wasn’t ready yet because you were “in a rush,” then complained that the soup wasn’t piping hot and sent it back, then lingered at the table for about two and a half hours in the middle of the dinner rush: Nell’America, abbiamo qualcosa ha chiamato “tipping.” Loro dovrebbe tentarlo un giorno, buffoni grassi.
To the frat boys who “sampled” several bottles of wine, sending each one back in disdain, I heard your ladyfriends talking in the bathroom, and surprise! They realize you’re douchebags. Also, I don’t know which one of you is named Yale, but apparently you have a very small penis and have “no idea how to pleasure a woman.”
And finally, to the gentleman on Friday who ordered the foie gras and then sent it back when you realized what it was, I hope you enjoyed your burger! I know, you’re probably thinking I spat in it or something like that. I would never do that. I just handed it to our dishwasher, Big Yuri. I don’t even want to know what he did with it.
You know that your mother and I love you and we’re very proud that you were cast in a production of Hair: The Tribal Love Rock Musical. We’ve really enjoyed coming to your shows in the past, and we’re sure you’re gonna knock ‘em dead. But please, don’t make us come see you naked.
I know, we brought you into this world, and it’s not like it’s anything we haven’t seen before. It does strike me as ironic that from the age of six, if anyone walked in on you changing, they were met with piercing screams. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there. It’s just one of the many ironies of parenting - you suffer while your child is self-conscious and inhibited, and then you suffer when she grows up and becomes a community theater exhibitionist.
The truth is, we’re not big fans of nudity in theater in general. At best it’s unsettling, at worst it’s grotesque. We know you said that the production would be “tasteful” and “artfully done,” but it’s hard for you to judge when you’re up there showing it off, and we’re down in the audience shifting uncomfortably.
For argument’s sake, though, let’s assume that the lighting and choreography really do make a beautiful tableau. Then we have the supreme discomfort of knowing that everyone else is looking at our daughter, and thinking things that we’d rather not think about when it comes to you.
Your mother is insisting we go, which means that we likely will. And trust me, honey, we’ll be cheering for you all the way through – despite the fact that I have never understood how people buy into the idea that a bunch of characters will spontaneously burst into song and choreographed dance moves in order to advance a plot. Don’t worry, we’ll have fun. We’ll just be praying for a major power outage during the nude scene.
PS Your mother and I just got cast in an all-nude review of CATS – now we’re even. HAH! I kid.
It has been my privilege getting to know you each morning as I walk to work. You have so very many important jobs to do – removing garbage, constructing buildings, driving in souped-up cars, leaving the halfway house for the day – and you all have something to say to me.
I’m sure it will please you to know that I am quite satisfied with my anatomy, so there is no more need for you to try to boost my self-confidence by complimenting my “rack” or my “ass”, which, while admittedly well-proportioned, is not trying to be the center of your attention.
In addition, I would like to note that while my boyfriend is a slim, erudite, and well-dressed vegan, he is not actually a “faggot” or an “ass-monkey.” Really! You’re just going to have to take my word for it. I know him a lot better than you do, and trust me, he loves the ladies, if you know what I mean.
Also, as flattering as it is to hear that you would like me to “suck it,” “take it all off,” or “marry” you, in addition to my current boyfriend, I have a long list of potential suitors, close male friends, and attractive acquaintances who I did not meet at the side of the road. I urge you not to wait for me, as the list of people I would sooner date than you grows exponentially, and you clearly have needs I alone am unable to fulfill.
A number of you have taken to calling me “snow bunny,” which I admit was a new one on me. I looked it up in urbandictionary.com. There are several accepted definitions, and I struggle to choose the one that could possibly apply to me. I am going to assume that you have not mistaken me for a “poser snowboard girl,” as our encounters take place about 100 miles from the nearest slopes. Perhaps you were announcing that I am a “stuck-up, preppy white girl” – I could accept that definition if it wasn’t said in such a lecherous and hopeful tone. If you were insinuating that I am a “female who loves to have sex for free cocaine,” then I must inform you that you are gravely mistaken. The only reasonable assumption I can make is that by “snow bunny” you meant “the white girlfriend in an interracial couple.” Sirs, I appreciate your ardor, but I wouldn’t sleep with someone who catcalled me at the side of the road if the world was about to end and we were the only ones stuck behind a police barricade.
Dear Ben Stiller,
I write to you today as a long-time fan. I fondly remember the early nineties when I was turning my friends on to the Ben Stiller show. I had picked up on you years before that during your Saturday Night Live stint, and your show confirmed my feeling that I was watching a fine young talent emerge.
You were the guy everyone loved to hate in Reality Bites, but I knew you were just showing off your range. I was happy for you when you popped up in cameos over the next few years, and when you got another big break in The Cable Guy. I admit it – I became invested in watching your career blossom.
There’s Something About Mary? Classic. Permanent Midnight? Dark and riveting. Meet the Parents? Forgivable, especially when you redeemed yourself with The Royal Tenenbaums.
I believed that you had great things in store for you. I spent a lot of time defending Zoolander to your many detractors. Which may be why I feel so completely burned by you now.
Mr. Stiller, you were not put on this earth to play a romantic lead. Meet the Parents worked because your character was utterly contemptible, and you didn’t get in the way of DeNiro’s swan song, which is a letter for another time. Much like There’s Something About Mary, people were not sitting through your movie in the hopes that true love would triumph in the end; we just wanted to see what new and hilarious disasters would befall you.
I’m afraid that Meet the Parents encouraged your worst instincts and gave us the career we see before us. I thought you were destined for greatness; A Duplex, a Focking sequel, and a Heartbreak Kid later, and I can hardly remember what I saw in you. Not to mention the 2004 Razzies where you had the dubious honor of being nominated for worst actor FIVE times. Sometimes you were just the weak link in an otherwise fine film. But I sat through Along Came Polly that year, and if that was supposed to be a comedy, I’m going to file a class action suit for false advertising.
Please, Ben Stiller. I hear from my nieces that the kids movies you’ve been doing are entertaining, but you’re only 42. It’s too soon to relegate yourself to a G rating – which is exactly what will happen if we have to watch you worm you way into the heart of another beautiful woman. Go back to your roots, sir, and for fuck’s sake, do something challenging.