More Letters from More Folks Just Like You!

Happy '11 everyone! Twenty-eleven. Or two thousand eleven. Or Two. Zero. One. One. for all you computers reading today. So far I have had an eventful new year. I didn't just break my own resolutions, I broke everyone's resolutions in my immediate vicinity. I am like a tornado of resolution breaking strength. A Tsunami (pronounced "Tits-Nami") of resolution eviscerating glory.

Anyway, I have received many letters from many many people spanning many many many area codes and homeless shelters. I present them to you. Please having some fun now.

Dear Mr. Atommmmmms Mannnnnn Arrrrrrrrrr,

Here there be pirates! Hoist the main sail and be smart about it ye scurvy dog! First man back with the treasure map gets the first swig of rum! ARRRRRR!

Signed,
Captain Jack Ass

Dear Captain Ass,

My hoisting days are over (bad back, you know). Either way, I find your language offensive. Scurvy is a very serious disease. Plus, it is a seriously bad idea to drink any kind of alcohol and perform intensive heavy labor as is found when trying to man a crew aboard a large water craft. ‘Just say No’ and stay in school, Captain Ass. Um. Arrr?

Dear blog writer,

What did you do for your New Years’s?

Signed,
Curious in Caracas

Dear Curious,

How many years are we talking about here? Every New Year ever? The last ten? Your pluralization skills are giving me the absolute shits here. Go back to school.

Anyway, with regards to your question, I spent my New Year the same way I always do:

-- Wake up
-- Violently kick all the sheets and blankets off the bed because I swear there was a spider on them. I know I saw it.
-- Look around some more for the spider
-- Toss out a few idle threats in case the spider is hiding and watching me. He can hear me, believe it.
-- Sprint downstairs (spiders are fast)
-- Catch my breath and just start screaming in case the spider got some friends
-- Continue screaming until I pass out
-- Hopefully wake up in time to watch Santa drop a ball on the Easter Bunny while cupid tries to shoot him with an arrow.

I heard that they dropped some sort of massive crystal ball very slowly on a pole in Times Square? Is that right? What is that supposed to signify anyway? The calendar date is changing, let’s rig a massive paperweight to some pulleys and lower it slowly from a high point to a slightly less higher point? Man, if that doesn’t get you fired up for another year of working in a cubicle, I don’t know what will.

Dear Martina Navratilova,

You are my favorite lesbian tennis player. Do you have any advice for young lesbian tennis players just starting out? When you were hitting tennis balls, did you pretend they were testicles to give you an extra burst of energy? You must hate testicles right? Because they are man balls?

Signed,
Athletic in Atlanta

Dear Athletic,

You have no idea how much I hate man balls. No idea. At Wimbledon in 1989, I caught a tennis ball in my mouth and chewed it to bits in pure anger and rage. Male genitals have no place in this world or any other. So say I.

Anyway, follow your lesbian dreams. And send me detailed accounts of those dreams. So I can help you. With tennis...rackets..love..thirty...set match...um...

(Editors Note: The writer of this blog is not female, a lesbian, a tennis player or Martina Navratilova.)

Dear Mr. Peanut,

I enjoy your blog occasionally. Occasionally I do not enjoy it. Right now, you are running at a 43 percent success rate with me. In baseball you would be on the all star team with a .430 batting average. In football, you would be a third string quarterback with a 43 percent completion rate.

So my question to you is: Are you going to be a baseball man or a football man?

Signed,
Half-and-Half in Halifax

Dear Half,

I’m going to be a curling man and I’ll tell you why. I use the same techniques when eating dinner that are used in curling. I cut my steak and then frantically brush at my plate until the piece of steak ends up in my mouth. Don’t ask how that works, just love it for what it is. Anyway, screw you and your 43 percent. You can enjoy 98 percent of my fist against your lower jaw the next time I see you. Take care and God Bless, Father.

Dear Madam,

You are three months overdue on your Netflix payments. Please immediately return the following titles:

-- Lassie Get Out!
-- Osama Bin Lassie
-- Lassie and the Bandit 4: Makin Puppies!
-- The Piano
-- Alvin and The Chipmunks 6: Oh my god their voices are even squeakier than before how in fuck is that possible?
-- The Notebook
-- The Notebook 2: Electric Boogaloo
-- Four Weddings and a Fifth Wedding
-- Richie Rich
-- Halloween 37: Just kill me already. You walk faster than I run somehow and I’m ready to die.

Please remit payment immediately, or return these titles, or we will be forced to notify the proper authorities.

Sincerely,
Netflix Collection

Dear Ms. Flix,

Fine. You can have all of these awful movies back. Except one. I claim ‘The Notebook’ as my own. You will have a hellish apocalypse on your hands if you try to take it from me. I am not afraid. I will die for this movie. Will you? He reads her *sob* their story. So she will remember...god, this is hard...their love...from...The Notebook! *collapsing in a pile of tears*

Dear dear dear oh dear,

Well, I’ve done it again! Open the door, birds come at me! Close the door, crap my pants! Same thing happens every year! Why do the holidays do this to me? There go the birds! They fly right at me raising a ruckus and knock my toupee askew! They are so loud and fluttery! What should I do?

Signed,
Messy in Montana

Dear Mess,

If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, birds fly through open doors. It’s. What. They. Do. Those whore birds would fly through every door in the universe if they could. Keep the door closed you silly such and such! That would eliminate the embarrassing bowel movement issue as well. Just stay in your house and cling to your toupee as if your life depended on it, you monumental boob.

Dear person who types this mess of a thing,

My bubble bath has worms. Can you recommend a carpenter? My shoes are no longer walking. The sun is falling down into my soup cans! Will you attend the seminar?

Signed,
Balls

On that note, I bid you all adieu. Which as we all know, in French, means “Git off’n my property!” Wait, that is the Wild West translation. It actually means “Go forth and multiply. Especially with Barry White playing in the background or something with a wicked bass line.” Those French people: so horny.