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.

Letters from the Mailbox written with Love

Yes, ladies and gentle...ladies (and Dan). It is time for more letters from around the globe from my adoring readers. My mailman finally allowed me to take a picture of his smiling face today (see left).

He looks happy because he isn't wearing any pants. *cue dramatic detective music*

Needless to say, I was taken aback by what he pulled out of his mail sack today. Have you ever been taken aback? It sucks. I have been taken asideways and taken aforward more times than I care to remember. I was taken adiagonally once. That was a little ticklish. Being taken aback is truly mind-altering. Anyway, on to the letters...

*************************

Dear Man,

Help me with my problems today, I begging of you. I can not open this jar of jelly, no matter which way I turn my hand. I tried smashing it against my face, but now my face is so sore and sad. I am so sad to not have jelly. So sad. The jelly mocks me with every twist of my wrist. I want to bite it.

Signed,
Hungry in Hungary

Dear Hungry,

Get a grip on yourself (instead of that jar LOL). Jelly is overrated and quite frankly disgusting. I have written 12 books on this subject (“Jelly is Smelly and screws up your Belly”, “Grape Helly”, “Peanut Butter and Nothing”, “Fuck Jelly and other Nursery Rhymes” and others), all of which you can find in your local library. Do your research and give your hand (and face) a rest. Jelly Kills.

Dear Miss,

I slid down the stairs in my home and now find myself concussed and without pants. Besides the dizziness, I am dreadfully chilly. Plus, my nose is running. I have been crying all morning and my cat won’t come and cuddle with me. Do you have a sure-fire home remedy for this predicament?

Signed,
Ailing in Acapulco

Well, my dear old Gamma-Gamma Maw-Maw used to cook up this cure for the symptoms you describe above. I hope this helps:

1. Boil a large pot of cat urine.
2. Stick your concussed head in it. All the way in it. That’s right.
3. Put your pants back on.
4. Act like a man.
5. Stop crying!
6. Smack yourself thirteen times.
7. Shut up.
8. Sit down.
9. Get up!
10. I said SIT DOWN!
11. GET ON YOUR FEET!
12. We can do this all day!

Gamma-Gamma Maw-Maw was a tough S.O.B.

Dear Stupid,

You once wrote “to each heart is delivered a flower from which the pollen will cause blooms of love never-ending in the bloodstream of man.” I answered a question on my medical school final exam with this statement, which I took to be fact. I was expelled, disgraced and raped by my fellow students. I want you to refund my entire medical school tuition immediately. You will be hearing from my various lawyers and therapists.

Signed,
Non-Doctor in Nantucket

Dear Non-Doc,

First off, I definitely never wrote what you said I did. I think it daily, but I never wrote it. Get out of my head. What I did write, was this, which is similar: “to each fart is delivered a nose from which the snot will cause blooms of vomit never-ending in the toilets of man.” It is easy to see why you got confused. Sorry about the final exam. When in doubt, the answer is 42.

Dear Friend,

I was wondering if you could resolve a dispute I’m having with my friend. He says that the Rolling Stones are all vampires, and I say that they are all zombies. What say you?

Signed,
Curious in Caracas

Dear Curious,

I thought by now it is common knowledge that the Rolling Stones are vampire zombies. Note the herky jerky way Mick Jagger walks across the stage and hisses at the fans in the front row. Observe how Charlie Watts robotically moves his arms while drumming and periodically hides his face behind a cape, showing only his eyes. Notice how Keith Richards eats skin off of his already-dead hands and feet between each song and takes long swigs from a bottle labeled "Go-Go Juice" that looks suspiciously like the blood of 10,000 virgins. The Stones are ravenous vampire zombies. And also werewolves. And Incredible Hulks. I would call this bet a tie.

Dear M.O.M,

I was in line at the supermarket today, and I saw this headline on a popular tabloid magazine: “Millions of Atoms Man goes to the movies with his enormous stomach hanging over his cowboy belt and butter stains on his shirt. He’s just like us!” Care to comment?

Signed,
Gossipy in Gainesboro

Dear Gossipy,

Guilty as charged. What can I say, I love movies and processed butter-flavored liquid on my popcorn. Those tabloids need to stay out of my life. I know I am a big blogging star, but can a brother get some privacy? I would like to see this headline one day: “Lindsay Lohan trips on the sidewalk outside her house and cocaine falls out of her socks. She’s nothing like us at all!”

Dear Mister Millions,

I fly first class any time I have to travel. Recently, I was banned for life from Delta Airlines for something I did on my last flight from Atlanta to Toronto. Everyone in first class was asleep, so I decided to drop my pants and gently (ever so gently) place my buttocks on top of the person’s head who was sleeping next to me. I took a picture with my cell phone and titled it “Butt Hatt”. 45 minutes later, the flight was grounded and I was in handcuffs being lead off the plane. I told the authorities that you told me to do this. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you are contacted by the FAA.

Signed,
Photographer in Fairview

Dear Photog,

You owe me 100,000 dollars American for unauthorized use of “Butt Hat” (my first band’s name – we were big in Germany. Trademark. Look it up.). Beyond that, I never told you to take any pictures of your bare ass cheeks perched on a snoozing air traveler’s noggin. I told you specifically to put your nuts in their Vodka Tonic and call it a “Balltini”.

On second thought, I don’t know you. Never heard of you. Or Airplanes.

Open Letter to my DVD Player

Dear Panasonic MT-500X432WQ

You and I have had some good times together. Remember that time I was sick for a week and you played the first five seasons of LOST for me? That was a great time. Remember all the pornography? Remember that time where I ate half a bag of mushrooms and I played the “Yo Gabba Gabba” DVD 342 times consecutively? Or that other time when I watched "The Notebook" and cried like a 10 year old girl with a skinned knee and you didn't laugh at me? Good times, right?

I’m writing this because I care, but you have to know that I’ve reached the end of the line with you. When I hit the “Menu” button on my remote, I want to see the menu. Expeditiously; with no delay and immediately. I do not want to be told “You cannot do that at this time.” Ever. One time you just put up the little “not” symbol with the red circle and the diagonal line running through it. Not cool, man. Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do with my own movies and TV shows. If I want to see the menu, or skip a chapter, or whatever the hell else I want to do, then you do it when I say so. You work for me, don’t forget that. I brought you into this house and I can send you out of this house just as quickly.

You and I both know that there is no earthly reason why the menu can’t be shown while the DVD is currently vomiting its way through a preview for Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The squeakuel. I mean, are you serious right now? Having you tell me that I “cannot do that at this time” is infuriating to the point of madness. I don’t want to see a trailer for “It’s Complicated” starring “two actors going through the motions for an enormous paycheck.” If only someone had told them “you cannot do this at this time” when they were reading the script for that shitpile. Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked.

I might even let it slide if you provided a good reason for your insolence:

“You cannot do that at this time because I’m constipated and I don’t want to.”

“You cannot do that at this time because the electricity just ain’t flowin like it used to.”

“You cannot do that at this time because I’m hungover.”

“You cannot do that at this time because you hurt my feelings that one time where you yelled at me.”

“You cannot do that at this time because one time you paused me for 3 hours while you banged that chick from the Quick Check and I got really tired and hot from all the extra spinning and stuff.”

Here is the bottom line: respond to my commands promptly when they are issued, and you and I will be cool again. Start playing games with all your little messages and “not” signs, and you and I will have a major problem, friend. Don’t test me.

Signed,
The person who bought you and gave you life

Letters from Real Folks Part 5

Letters keep coming in, so I must share with you dear readers. This batch is particularly interesting as none of them arrived with death threats or anthrax. A refreshing change, to say the least (and I do like to say the least of all people I know). As always, these are letters from all over the universe from people who mostly can't stand the sight of my fat face.

Dear Friend,

How many times have you opened your window and just slowly fallen out of your house into your front yard? Mark me at three times. I got caught in a tree for a second until my underwear ripped and dropped me in the bushes.

Signed,
Clumsy in Cleveland

Dear Clumsy,

I will put your score down for posterity. You are currently in twenty-sixth place overall. Twit69 in Tallahassee remains our current leader at 47 times. You do get a five point bonus for “tree-hanging”. Keep reaching for the stars.

To Whom It May Freak the F Out,

My boss has been coming to work later and later each morning. Each day he walks in, he is wearing less clothing than the day before. At first it was just a sock missing, then both socks the next day, and so forth. As of today, he was 45 minutes late and without pants. My question is twofold:

1. Where are his pants? WHERE ARE HIS PANTS?
2. What can I do to stop this cycle from reaching its inevitable, and horrifying, conclusion?

Signed,
Freaked Out in Florida

Dear Freaked,

This man is obviously a Republican. Don’t panic, sometimes offices get infiltrated with these types of people. My advice to you would be to start a major land war in the parking lot of your office. Not only will your boss arrive at work early to watch the war and cheer loudly (albeit safely in his 30th floor office), he will be fully clothed again in red, white and blue garments; possibly a tall Uncle Sam hat. Take pictures and please send them with your next letter. Godspeed.

To that which hath been spawned from Hell,

I know you think you are being clever here with your “blog”. Your fatal flaw has been exposed, however. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Millions of Atoms is a code phrase for “Riotous Flatulence” that has been used in the military for eons. Clearly, this blog is a military blog that holds many codes and phrases that are being stolen by the Russians. The cold war may be over, but the fart war rages on even now. Consider yourself exposed, Comrade.

Signed,

Messenger in Moscow

Dear Messenger,

First of all, I never expose my fatal flaw in public. I’m not very comfortable exposing it in private either, truth be told. Everyone tells me “it’s fine” and “it’s normal” but they also tell me my love handles are “cute” and my bald spot is “shiny…and cute”, so you get the picture.

Anyway, I’m no stranger to the fart wars. I have been on the front lines for many years and taken my share of damage. I have dropped too many bombs to count on unsuspecting soldiers. I lost a lot of good people at the Taco Bell Offensive of ’96. A lot of good people. The title of my blog is in no way a military reference. It refers to the tiny beating hearts of all lovers who share one love: The love of making fun of people who slip and fall on the ice and pinwheel their arms comically before doing so. Nothing more. Bark up some other tree, Russian puppy, I ain’t your dog.

Dear Sucknut,

This is my last letter to you. I know you have posted letters from other readers in the past, and mine has never been one of them. I am deeply offended, of course, but have decided to try one last time to get through to you.

Anyway, I attempted to kick a soccer ball in my front yard one morning and much to my chagrin my pants split right up the back and I slipped and fell in a pile of deer excrement. Adding insult to injury, my neighbor came out of their house at the exact second my pants split and said, “Hey Pele, nice kick! It went a mile!” and proceeded to mimic looking off into the distance to see where the ball went. While he was mimicking shielding his eyes from the sun and looking down the street, I evacuated my bowels onto the hood of his Porsche. He didn’t think I was Pele any more, but he also called the Police.

My question to you is: are you a lawyer and have you ever handled a defecation case involving soccer and foreign automobiles?

Signed,
Soccer Star in Sacramento

Dear Pele,

I have handled three such cases, all unsuccessfully (and all involving yours truly as the defendant, LOL ROAOVEALRWMF Guilty as charged! ROFLMAAOF!) In all three cases the soccer ball strangely was an insignificant part of the case. My advice to you would be to try to blame the maker of the soccer ball for not being “shit repellant” and then scream in your neighbor’s face about conspiracies and Brazilian soccer and the makers of your pajama pants being “in on it”. When all else fails, a blow dart to the neck works wonders and is surprisingly effective. Good luck to you.

Letters from Real Folks Part 4

We are back with some more letters from my faithful followers. My mailman and I patched up our differences and I found that he had a whole stack of letters that he had been withholding. He then tried to give me an awkward hug which I immediately shunned and responded by shoving him into a compost heap. This may be the last batch of letters for a while…

Dear Horseface,

You have the face and teeth of a horse and you smell like horse. You probably were born in a horse house. It makes me want to throw sugar cubes at you and gently feed you carrots.

Signed,
Disgusted in Denver

Dear Disgusted,

Hey, this comes across as slightly negative! Why would I like sugar cubes and carrots so much? And I think I’m very handsome! Are prostitutes known to have different kinds and shapes of teeth? Oh, you said horse face…

Dear Doctor Love,

You can join my gang any time. The way you lay it down and shape it up? BAM! The ladies all be doggin’ you and the brothers all be sweatin’ you. I know you know what I know. DING DING! We have a winner, and it ain’t on the Price is Right! Plinko, my man. Plinko.

Signed,
Admirer in Almira

Dear Admirer,

I have to say, your letter has touched me. Inappropriately. You can expect a call from my lawyer.

Dear Richard Dawson,

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You kissed my mother. Prepare to die.

Signed,
Swordsman in Seville

Dear Swordsman,

I think this is a clear case of mistaken identity. I am not British, I do not have an oversized alcoholic’s nose, I never hosted Family Feud and I ain’t done never kissed no mothers. Back off.

To Dad,

The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon. When you comin’ home son, I don’t know Dad. We’ll get together then, Dad. You know we’ll have a good time then. You know we’ll have a good time then.

Signed,
Lonely in Louisiana

Editors Note: No response due to uncontrollable sobbing from everyone in the office.

To Whom It May Concern,

When I read your blog, I get so much information about clubbed thumbs that I don’t know what to do with it all. So, I have catalogued it and made it available for the entire world to see. I never knew that someone besides me was so concerned with slightly bulbous thumbs that appear as though they were flattened by a steam roller.

Signed,
Clubby in Columbus

Dear Clubby,

Well, I know this letter is for me because I am deeply concerned. Don’t waste your life on chubby thumbs. There are so many more appendages that deserve your attention, like rough elbows or spiked nipples or mismatched legs. Open your mind and you shall see that humans are mostly freaks.

Dear Doctor Emmet Brown,

Are you tryin’ to tell me you built a time machine…out of a blog?!?! This is heavy…

Signed,
Flying in Fairbanks

Dear Flying,

I’m going to have to have a talk with my mailman because I’ve been getting a lot of mail not meant for me lately. Granted my blog could be seen as a ‘time machine’ of sorts, but I haven’t gone out of my way to actually build a time machine here. I would like to go back in time, though, and rethink my breakfast of Oreos and a week old burrito...

Dear M.O.M,

I find myself caught in a sticky situation. I’m writing to you from a hot air balloon (with internet). The entire Indiana State Police force is after me for a crime I didn’t commit. This balloon will eventually lose altitude and I have no idea where I will end up. Once I land, the police will surely take me into custody. What is my crime you ask? I followed your Catastrophe Preparedness Plan to the letter. And now I’m in a balloon. Help!

Signed,
Floating in Findiana

Dear Floating,

I did say that the police may become involved and you should just ignore them. Anyway, I have a plan for you to get out of this. What you do is,

*A child arrived just the other day…came to the world in the usual way…*

Uh…like I was saying (can someone turn off that damned radio). What I was saying was, you have to pick a safe place to land and

*…but there were planes to catch and bills to pay…*

Someone please turn off that God. Damned. Radio! As I was saying, the police have a hard time tracking dirigibles, so

*He learned to walk while I was away. And he was talkin’ ‘fore I knew it, and as he grew, He’d say I’m gonna be like you, yeah. I know I’m gonna be like you…*

I…I can’t do this anymore! I’m sorry; your floating ass is toast. I have to go, uh, call someone.

Letters from Real Folks Part 3: The Search for Spock

The letters just keep coming, and I am grateful for every one of them. Not to mention the fact that most people use e-mail nowadays, but to take the time to write out a hand-written letter. That is Love. To be fair, I’m assuming you are all using your hands. Without further ado (because there has been far too much ado already) here are your letters!

Dear Sexpot,

I would love to star in one of your music videos. Do you have any plans to include more backup dancers? I can also sing a little, so if you need a singer I’m right there for you. I also LOL often which should keep everyone on set entertained.

Signed,
Antsy in Annapolis

Dear Antsy,

My last music video was an unmitigated disaster. I threw up and strained my hamstrings. Both of them. At the same time. At this time, I am cancelling all future music videos. At least ones with me in them, with no music or clothing. I’ll keep you on the shortlist for any future musical endeavors. Thanks.

Dear Fatty,

I ran straight into a brick wall at a high rate of speed. My teeth are out. My nose seems to be in a different place than yesterday, and my elbows bend the wrong way. My feet are twisty and my buttocks are sore. My left ear got all scraped up and my shoes don’t fit. My back is dislodged and my hair is parted incorrectly. My kneecaps rolled under the car and my neck is all like ‘Whaaaat?’ Can you help me?

Signed,
Concerned in Cleveland

Dear Concerned,

Step One: Get rid of that brick wall! LOL! Step Two: Everything happens for a reason; just know that God has a plan for you…as a circus freak! Oh SCHNAP! Step Three: In all seriousness, Just Dance; dance for your life you silly son of a bitch. Step Four: Changing the part of your hair is sometimes that last little tweak in your appearance that you need to make women stop spraying mace in your eyes, although the lack of teeth and displaced nose may be a few steps backward in that regard. I wish you good luck, my friend; kneecaps can go a long way once they get to rollin’.

To Whom It May Concern,

If I had to compare your blog to something, I would compare it to a swamp: A giant pool of stagnant water that smells excruciatingly horrible and is surrounded by stunted trees and exotic bugs. Good day to you, Sir.

Signed,
Indifferent in Idaho

Dear Indifferent,

If I had to compare your letter to something, I would compare it to a warm Summer day: It makes me sweat uncontrollably and run around in circles swatting awkwardly at bees that probably flew away already.

Dear Jeffrey,

We cannot continue like this. The letters must stop. The phone calls, the unsolicited genital photographs, the half hour voice mails, the balloon sculptures, the murals made out of your fingernails, the increasing amounts of dog feces on my lawn and roof and porch, all of it. Please cease and desist or my lawyers will have to become involved.

Signed,
Harassed in Harrisburg

Dear Harassed,

I find it odd that you insist on calling me Jeffrey, even though my name is not that. Definitely not. But just out of curiosity, did you see any artistic value in the fingernail murals? Not that I made them. I am not Jeffrey. But did you get the artistic meaning there? Paired with the dog feces and the balloons and the pictures? There is a thread running through all of that which would truly amaze you and I think even fill your heart with a lot of love, if you let it. Um, Jeffrey called and told me all of that. On his telephone.

Dear Writer,

I have a conundrum. What does conundrum mean? Is it a type of drum?

Signed,
Curious in Caracas

Dear Curious,

You raise an excellent point here. The word ‘conundrum’ from the Latin ‘con-in-drum-us’ which means ‘with drums there is loud’ leads us to believe that the Spaniards had it right when they said “Conundrums, me no like it.” That being said, not for nothing and so forth, when all is said and done and we arrive at our conclusion, the best bet is to understand. I hope I cleared this up for you.

Dear Helpy Helperson,

I could use your help. I find myself engaged to be married to a hedgehog (long story, LOL). I wish to end this engagement immediately for a variety of reasons. The main reason being that he is a mean SOB. He drinks and calls me horrible names and tried to knife me once. How do I gracefully end this relationship?

Signed,
Desperate in Dallas

Dear Desperate,

Of all the “I’m engaged to a hedgehog” letters I get, this one concerns me the most. Are you giving him a fair shot? Maybe the knife was supposed to be a bouquet of flowers? Maybe he drinks because he is embarrassed about being a hedgehog? What I’m saying is, give him a chance to redeem himself. Hedgehogs are notorious drinkers, but they make up for it in loyalty and love. Plus they look cute in Christmas cards. Don’t give up hope, my little dumpling. Love will find a way.

More Letters from Real Folks

Well, after I published some letters from real American folks a few weeks ago, the response was overwhelming. I got even more letters and emails than ever before! My mailman threw them at me and tried to choke me because his back hurt from carrying them all (I don’t even know how he carried the e-mails! OMG!). I pinched his fat little cheek and said “Chin up, mailworker! The sun will come out tomorrow!” With this, he side-kicked my knee and tore my ACL. Luckily for you, I don’t need working knee tendons to write a blog post! LOL! Without further ado, here is some correspondence from my dear readers:

Dear Douche,

What is your problem with Twitter? I use Twitter all the time to tell people my whereabouts and whatnot. Not for nothing, Twitter is a godsend. Everyone who knows me knows what I am doing and where I am at any minute of the day. If I don’t update at least every 5 minutes, I get 10 phone calls from my friends saying “Where are you? What are you doing? Update your Twitter!” and I say “OK.” Then I hang up and update Twitter again. Lay off Twitter. Sounds like someone is jealous?

Signed,
Tweeting in Tahoma

Dear Tweeting,

If Twitter is a godsend, then God must have also sent a retarded stick down from heaven for you to bash yourself in the head with. Update your status with that.

Dear Atoms Man,

Can you help me with my math homework? You appear to be very bright and mathematically inclined, so I figured I would ask you. I have attached five pages of algebraic equations that I have to balance. Please help me.

Signed,
Desperate in Delaware

Dear Desperate,

x+y = (1/3x * y). If x is 5, then y is ask your parents and stop bothering me with this useless crap. Write that answer down for every equation on all five pages. Thank me later.

Dear Willow,

My dog is staring at me. He won’t go away, but he also won’t tell me what is wrong. What do you think his problem is?

Signed,
Dogged in Denver

Dear Dogged,

My sorority name was Willow. How did you know that? What else do you know about me? Did your dog tell you? Anyway, there may be nothing wrong with your dog. He may just be waiting for you to get up so he can sit in your seat. He also may be infested with rabies. Swine Flu is also possible here. Use caution.

Dear Sweetie Pie,

I read your blog the other day and immediately broke out in hives all over my body. I think I’m allergic to your brand of humor. Would you consider writing in a different style? Maybe like ‘early-90’s Friends’ or ‘Cheech and Chong’? Let me know, I am in considerable discomfort but can’t stand the thought of never reading you again.

Signed,
Itchy in Iowa

Dear Itchy,

Sadly, I have tried to write in the styles you mentioned but then I broke out in hives. Must be a cross-generational hives thing. Here is a sample, hope it helps with the hives:

Ross: “Hey Joey, I want you to meet my new girlfriend Sophie.”
Joey: “How YOU doin’!”
Ross: “JOEY!”

Dammit, see, now I’m covered in hives. Please don’t write to me ever again.

Dear Mister Fun,

I would like to put on a play. OK?

Signed,
Hopeful in Houston

Dear Hopeful,

This is a thoughtful letter, but I’m not sure what you are asking me. Do you want me to be the lead in the play? If so, then I accept, but only under the following conditions:

1. The play must be ‘West Side Story’.
2. I must be a ‘Jet’. Because when you are a Jet, you are a Jet all the way.
3. I must be allowed to use a real knife for all fight scenes.
4. My “singing double” must be Neil Diamond. The real Neil Diamond, not some Vegas lookalike.
5. Neil Diamond must be knifed and killed by the end of the play.

I have no ulterior motives here, so stop looking for them. My fee is 100,000 American dollars.

Dear Mr. Awesome,

I took a picture of you at your house while you were taking out the garbage. I was hiding behind your bushes, so the photo came out a little blurry. Plus, it is now covered with knife marks and dog excrement. Can you send me a clearer picture? Maybe autographed? Thanks.

Signed,
Fingers-Crossed in Fairbanks

Dear Fingers,

Mom, you always know how to cheer me up. It’s nice to know I’ll always have a fan in you. Of course I’ll send you an autographed photo. Just send a check for 45 American dollars to my P.O. Box. You should receive your photo in 6-8 weeks. No refunds.

Dear Blogger,

Would that I might bend your ear for a moment’s breath. Ere the dawn fall and the night tower over the sky like a mighty hammer poised to strike, I am eager to communicate my ideas. ‘Twas early and the fog rolled over the meadow like creeping dread pausing only to allow the wind to interfere with its fiendish plans. I am a sun god ready to wield my flames like a torn lover wields their heart: with bitter words and furious bloodlust. Hear me and cower in your corner you worthless dog.

Signed,
Mailman in Driveway

Dear Mailman,

Well well well, who knew Mr. Mailman was Shakespeare Junior? Keep those letters coming. In my mailbox, OK? Not on the street, or in my trees? Thanks.

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.