Letters from Real Folks

Every day I get millions of letters from readers all over my street. The letters are literally left all over my street every day. It’s like the mailman has letter diarrhea all over my street and sidewalk. I called the post office about this and asked them if the mailman could consider my mailbox his figurative “toilet”. They hung up on me. Anyway, enough about my problems. I decided to start posting some of these letters and my responses. Enjoy.

Dear Blog,

My boyfriend and I are always trying to kick at each other. Not full roundhouse karate kicks, just little foot flicks. Do you think this is something I should be worried about? He is also cheating on me with his Mother.

Signed,
Worried in Walla Walla

Dear Worried,

I don’t think you should worry about the little kicks. As is written in scripture, “Little kicks are like little kisses from God.” As for the cheating thing, we again turn to scripture for our answer: “If Momma is hot, you gots to take a shot. If Momma is ugly, kick her ass under the rug-ly” John 3:19.

Dear Man,

I am drunk and have shot my scrotum off.

Signed,
Ball-less in Baltimore

Dear Ball-less,

Ah, I see you are preparing for a catastrophe! Fret not, little angel, your scrotum will regenerate in its own time and be all the stronger for the effort. In the meantime, attach a small leather purse where it used to be and make a fun art project out of it! Use beads and rhinestones and don’t be afraid to add a splash of color!

Dear Light of Existence,

Is there any way you can escort my daughter to her prom next spring? She would be very surprised if you showed up, especially since you are in your thirties. Please do whatever you can to make my daughter’s special day memorable. She has brain cancer and lost a foot to frostbite while hiking to the summit of Mount Everest last winter. She reads your blog every day and the only time she smiles is when she sees there is a new post from you. Her dying wish is to meet you and let you know how much your words mean to her. What say you, kind sir?

Signed,
Hopeful in Wabashaw

Dear Hopeful,

I have five rules that must be adhered to before I agree to this:

1. I must be allowed to wear my beard in a pencil-thin style much like Justin Timberlake wears. I must be allowed this.
2. The limousine procured must be no less than 100 feet long with at least three different types of lighting inside. Your daughter must ride in the trunk of this limousine. No exceptions.
3. Three words: Top Shelf Liquor.
4. The band ‘Men At Work’ must perform at least an hour long set during the prom. ‘Who Can It Be Now?’ must be dedicated to me at which time I will perform a solo dance to the song. At this time, the entire dance floor must be cleared and all prom patrons must turn their backs to the dance floor while I dance. The dance is elaborate and dangerous and is not meant for human eyes.
5. I am willing to shave my head and wear a wig to make your daughter feel more comfortable. The wig will be provided by you and will be cut in the style of Katie Couric from the Today show. I will not remove my own foot to show solidarity for your daughter, so don’t even ask.

If you agree to these terms, I’m sure an arrangement can be made. By arrangement, I mean a steep financial obligation.

Dear Millions of Atoms,

Why are M&Ms so delicious? Do you think they have trace amounts of cocaine in them? I do.

Signed,
Wondering in Orlando

Dear Wondering,

I ask myself this question every day. I decided to do a little research and I found no trace amounts of cocaine, but what I did find was very interesting. Each M&M has microscopic bits of fecal matter in them. I wouldn’t think this would contribute to the addictive qualities and incredible taste, but apparently this is the magic ingredient! Doody! My assistant insisted that it was just microscopic bits of chocolate, but I openly mocked and shamed her until she ran away. I freely admit that I’m no scientist, but tiny bits of poop in each M&M seems like a reasonable hypothesis to me. I’m going to try adding microscopic shit particles to other foods to see how much their taste and addictive quality improves. I will report on the results in a future post.

Dear Assface,

Thanks for nothing. Your blog sucks. In your case, ‘Blog’ is short for ‘Big Log of Shit’. TTYN.

Signed,
Fuck Off in Ottowa

Dear F.O.,

I am sorry you feel you have been let down by my blog. Obviously with my face in this shape, it is hard to write well and see clearly (because I have an ass instead of a human face! LOL! Who knew?). I only wish that we could have been friends. You know, real friends. The kind that hug all the time and laugh until our ribs hurt. The kind of friends that hold hands and kiss sometimes. The kind of friends that stand uncomfortably close and suddenly find themselves naked for no apparent reason. The kind of friends who get arrested at parades for defecating at random intervals along the parade route just in time for the marching band to arrive and then the band leader gets all loud and starts yelling about shit covered boots and Tubas and Flutes and Trumpets and whatnot. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I hate you. Godspeed.

Dear Typer,

I have a dilemma that maybe you can help me with. I find myself quite embarrassed. It seems as though I have farted in the middle of an important senate session and with the acoustics here and the silence of the other senators, it ended up sounding like a barrage of gunfire. There was no question where the noise came from and the other senators have now ostracized me. How can I get back in their good graces?

Signed,
Flatulent in D.C.

Dear Flatulent,

This is a tough situation you find yourself in, but I think I have a viable solution. Bring an actual gun (semi-automatic if possible) to the next session and fire it off in the middle of a vote. Let everyone know that you are planning on bringing guns to the senate to remind everyone of our freedoms and what our forefathers had to go through when they founded our great nation and blah blah blah. If anyone gives you any lip, shoot it off for them free of charge. Then tell them the next one is coming straight at their dumper and that they should bend over and prepare for impact. The best part is, while you are shooting your gun you can fart all you want and no one will give a hoot. I am a big advocate of using gunfire to mask embarrassing flatulence. I’m actually planning on starting a foundation around this theory and could use your support. Thank you for your time and your question.

Dear Miss,

I am thinking your horse is on fire. My book is flying. Will you purchase an umbrella? Maybe one time we won’t come to the picnics. Where do hamburgers register? This banana is giving me some heartburns. My English is having a baby. I am words.

Signed,
Flip Flops

Dear Mr. Flops,

I can’t tell you how many times I hear similar sentiments from other readers. You raise some very good points here. Good luck with your baby and please keep reading.