An open letter to everyone
First Posted: 3/9/2015
We’ve all had the urge to write a letter to someone who’s done us wrong, took advantage of our complacent nature or was simply just a colossal moron. We don’t actually send these missives, yet it’s an effective exercise in airing our small grievances — privately — in order to avoid one enormous blow-up down the line. I have a few of these babies rattling around in my own cranium, and, lucky you, it’s time to share:
Dear Dr. Seuss:
Are you a real doctor? I realize you were an expert cartoonist and unsurpassed whimsical lyricist whose clever words spurred Read Across America- but did you actually find a cure for any diseases, like polio? I mean, why don’t we celebrate Madame Curie? Or Rosa Parks? Hop on Pop and get back to me on this.
Dear American Eagle Employee Who Asked if I Was Shopping for my grandchild:
Death wish much? I realize you’re under 21, but I can still hate you. Perhaps, in the future, a simple “May I help you?” will suffice and save your life.
Dear Oil of Olay:
Liar, liar pants on fire. Younger looking skin my a%$. Get back to the drawing board.
I love you so much it hurts. Like, really hurts.
Dear Steve Jobs:
You make me feel stupid. I miss my Walkie Talkies, Etch-A-Sketch and the doorbell as my main means of communication. Life was so easy, then. Now, I need operational thumbs, (without arthritis) and a brain. Nicely played.
Dear Makers of Preparation H:
A recent beauty tip instructed me to apply your product under my eyes to reduce puffiness! Does this also mean I can apply it to my stomach pudge and upper thighs to the same results? Please get back to me on this before I apply it elsewhere. Urgent.
Dear Victoria’s Secret:
Here’s the real secret: It’s that no authentic woman resembles your silicone models; we’re fluffy, and if we have zero boobage, we can’t wear your crap, which is mainly assembled by children in Bangladesh. It’s all wrong on all levels. This is why I prefer my underpants in packs of three, and sporting the logo of fruit. Of a loom, apparently.
Dear Forever 21: Exactly.
Dear Miley Cyrus: Get dressed and stick that tongue back in your mouth where it belongs. Your grandmother is watching.
To The Girl Who Asked Me to Roller Skate at Roller King Because She thought I Was a Boy:
Granted, I shouldn’t have worn my Fonzie T-shirt for a big night out on the town, but come on. I was 12, and didn’t all 12 year olds in 1975 look like little misfit boys with bad hair cuts? On the plus side, you must have thought I was cute. But, still…talk about fertile ground for my therapist.
Dear Library Patron Who Snarled at Me Today:
Here’s what: The library is free. Movies are free. Books are free. The air you breathe is free. Next time you feel high anxiety because your copy of Downton Abby hasn’t arrived in a timely manner; may I suggest you visit the big red box? Good Bye and Good Luck.
I know as you peruse this column every Thursday while occupying your throne, you thank God for your own wives. So wives, you’re welcome!
Thank you to each one of you who tells me you enjoy this column and makes me believe I can be funny. I love you.