Letters Never Received by Famous People

Dear Idiots,

On behalf of the Johnson and Wang Sterilization Clinic, we would like to thank you for your business. It was a pleasure to have conducted eight surgeries in the same day, and although you know there were a few complications, I believe we can all be pleased with the results.

On a surprising note, we have received over 7,000 letters from people around the country thanking us for eliminating the possibility for you and your degenerate housemates to procreate. Ever. It appears that improving the future for humanity is good for business.

One letter reads:
Dear Johnson and Wang,
For years, MTV has single-handedly contributed to 37% of our country's daily loss of intelligence. Shows like "Pimp My Ride" and "The Real World" reinforce the belief in our children that having a shitty car is no different than having a shitty life, and all they need to do is fight with their parents and just sit back and wait for MTV to come along and save the day. I have been fighting to find stasis against this monster, and I believe a major battle has been won today. Thank you.

Another letter was simply a picture of your cast with the crotches cut out, smeared in some sort of rodent feces.

I am not sure of the global effect this remarkable event will have. Only time will tell. I do know how this will effect each of you personally, however. Never will you have to sit down with your child, attempting to decipher through sobbing convulsions why he/she/it was so upset by watching Mommy whore it up on television. You won't have to suffer through your child's first seven years of elementary school as he/she/it struggles to learn the alphabet while classmates reinact some of your famous drunken scenes shot with the bedroom nightvision camera with your knees in your ears screaming racial slurs about the only black guy in the house while getting a steaming assful of Fratboy love.

You won't ever have to feel the pangs of hypocracy as you try to tell an eight year old the importance of hard work and safe sex, or the dangers of alcohol, eating disorders, and horse tranquilizers.

Being unable to have children also makes it impossible for you to have any grandchildren, thus preventing your adult child from being the first person in history to recite the phrase, "Because Gramdma is a stupid dirty douchebag."

Most importantly, you can rest assured each night as you lay your head on a stranger's thighs, knowing that your demon seed of bi-polar self love and ingnorant laziness will die with you. Which is nice.

As for your follow-up care, please remember that some of you will need to continue to apply the ointment to where your STD sores interfered with the surgeon's scalpel. I know I'm spitting into the wind here, but I also need to remind you that sexual activity can and will cause the incisions to reopen. I know the blonde girl said, "Oh that's hot," during our post-surgery group meeting, but I assure you it is not, and more vaginal tearing is the last thing you need.

I would like to remind the gentleman with the big shoulders and the bulging forehead that you are to refrain from punching yourself in the crotch to achieve an erection each time you are intoxicated. There are other ways to prove to your housemates that you are not gay. I also wanted to let you know that when you were under a local anesthetic, you asked our intern to call you later for some "crazy sex." Rodrigo says he is not interested.

Finally, cast of MTV's Real World, I wanted to wish you the best of luck in the future, which looks a bit brighter this morning. Now stay by the phone and keep practicing your smiles in the mirror. I'm sure there will be a reunion show soon.

Sincerely,

Doctor Marcus Bowie, M.D.

Dear Katie,

Look into my eyes. Look deeeeeeeep into my eyes. You are a chicken!

Did it work? No? Crap. Just wondering if you really are that weak minded with everyone.

I must admit. I never liked you on Dawson's Creek, sponsored by Abercrombie and Prozac. I never watched the show because I found your pie-shaped face and over-dramatic delivery to be painstakingly bland. PLUS, I can't believe you hooked up with Pasey.

VanDerCreek aside, you sort of slipped away for a few years. A few good years. I enjoyed those years. I was nobody, you were nobody, there was hope for all of us. Life was good. I mean, I'm sure you "starred" in a few things here and there, but nothing that made a difference. And by "starred" I mean "the camera was pointed at you for awhile."

But don't feel bad. (I guess, you can't actually. The mind control ray won't let you). It was at this low point when the Lilliputian Lightning bolt himself, Mr. Tom Cruise recognized your fragile state and decided you would be his megaphone, his poster child for SCIENTOLOGY. (By the way, everytime you read the word SCIENTOLOGY, make it real loud and echo in your head. That's how I hear it).

A true role model for all that is good and right (and not rude), Mr. Cruise decided he would begin sexual relations with a skinny confused young starlet who was three years old when he was having his first homosexual encounter.

And you fell for it. Hook, line, and toothy grinning sinker. He's good for your "career," and you're good for his. And by "career" I mean "Batman Movie" and "reservation in hell."

I'll be the first to admit, I have no clue what SCIENTOLOGY is, other than loud and echoey. But it looks like fun. Creepy, uncomfortably long eye contact, kisses, and an almost hypnotic denial of anything unpleasant. Just keep repeating the mantra, "Things are goooood, things are gooood..."

I do have a warning for you, though. Your new zombie-esque existence comes with a price, you know. Then again, George Romero just made "Land of the Dead," so there's hope ater all...

Dear SPAM,

I just wanted to take the time out and thank you for all of your hard work. I know you guys usually get a lot of flack, what with the pop-up blockers and spam fighters out there giving you a bad name.

But this is one happy customer. I used to sit in an apartment, checking my e-mails on a slow dial-up connection, without a college degree. I hadn't yet found that perfect single living in my area, mostly because of my toe fungus and thinning hair. Even if all those problems were solved, I could never talk to a girl, what with my small penis that obviously needed enlarging.

But somehow you found me. With the homeowner's loan I was able to move into a nice house and select a high speed internet connection (where the pop-ups came twice as fast). I got my REAL college degree in only two months, and started dating a really nice local girl named Xing Ciou Ng that I found because of you. Funny, her profile says she's been right here in Peoria, Illinois her whole life but she only knows two English words. (and they're dirty). Now even the hair on my fungus-less toes is thick and manageable, and Xing Ciou Ng isn't complaining about the size of anything in the bedroom, if you know what I mean. (At least, I'm guessing her jibberish isn't complaining).

So in closing, thank you Pop-up ads. Even though it took me four days to write this letter because of the constant clicking, it's worth it to have you in my life. If you get the time, please send an ad about carpal-tunnel syndrome and how to cure it. Thanks.

Sincerely,


Tim Lawson
Peoria, Illinois

Dear Talentless Younger Siblings,

I'm talking to you all. Ashlee Simpson, Whats-her-face Spears, and Aaron Carter. Or Nick. Whichever one of you is the midgetated one. And my message is clear: Stop.

First, you need to understand that 99% of the world really can't stand your older brother/sister, and we certainly don't need to see/hear anything out of you. Just because they get more coverage than the war in Iraq doesn't mean we like them, it means your Daddy paid enough reporters to make us think we're supposed to.
Seriously. I can't go twenty minutes without hearing about these talentless pop-tarts. And I work in a Monestary.

Second, no matter what you do, you'll always be in their shadow. (And for Britney Spears' sister, that shadow is growing exponentially. Literally). Remember before you decided you wanted to sing/act/lip sync/full-body-dry-heave like your older sibling? When only a handful of people referred to you as "Oh, you're Jessica's sister?" Or "Are you older than Nick or younger?" Well, I hate to tell you this, but you just opened that up to the entire Northern Hemisphere. And Botswana.

It used to be, "Oh yeah? So-and-so is your older sister? They suck anyway. What do you do?" At least there was hope for you. Now it's "That whole family sucks."
You'd be much better off if you applied yourself and became a Nuclear Physicist. Or an architect. Or a damn fine babysitter. Or a good Mom. But no. Those things take work. And you spent the last 4 years learning from big sis/bro that you can make lots of money by being a dancing monkey. And instead of thinking for yourself, you decided it was the right road for you too.

Idiots. Now you're just "So-and-so's not-as-talented little sister." But it could've been "Julie Spears (or whatever your name is) just came up with the cure for Cancer! She's brilliant!"
"Hey isn't her sister that stupid slut that sings?"
"Britney? I don't know. If it is, she must be feeling really stupid right now. Her little sister cured Cancer and all she does is wiggle her tits..."

It could've been beautiful. But you took the easy way out.

Third and finally, only once in the history of Popdom has a younger sibling emerged as the more talented, and gone on to make a difference.
Of course, I am talking about Marky Mark Wahlberg.

And you are no Marky Mark.

Dear Chancellor of the New York City Public Schools,

What are you? High?

Sorry. Let me start over.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Dammit. This is frustrating. Let me try again.

You have made some decisions this year that have effected the health and wealth of New York City teachers. For the worse. Okay, so you obviously were beaten as a child. Forced to sniff paint thinner. Dropped from dizzying heights only to be spared by landing on that soft empty head. Forgive me for sounding upset, but you're an idiot.

FIRST, you lengthened the school day, because apparently you thought that instead of getting up at 5:00am to get ready for work, teachers should just not sleep at all.

THEN you questioned whether teachers get paid too much. Paid too much!??!! Dude. Walk into any elementary school in New York. Just stand in the hall for five minutes. That high pitched cacophony making your ears bleed is the sound of children. Now try listening to that for seven hours every day without being able to sit down. I don't know how many people fight over who gets to sit next to you in your staff meetings, pull hair or wet their pants, but I'm willing to bet it's less than 17, and even if they DID, you don't have to do shit about it.

AND THEN, at the most joyous time of the year, vacation, err... I mean the Holidays... you publicly state that children should NOT buy gifts for their teachers, and IF they do, the limit is FIVE DOLLARS. Five. Five Dollars. Because that's what teachers need. In addition to lugging home lesson plans, homework to be graded, and crayon drawings of murder and death, teachers really want to carry a loose tennis ball, some gum, half a pint of Vanilla ice cream and two Nathan's Hot Dogs.
Five dollars. Because, according to YOU, it puts unfair pressure on teachers, and you don't want to give certain children an advantage in the classroom. Where the fuck did you go to school? Our Lady of the Bartered Commodity? I don't know about you pal, but when I was in school, Jay Davis could have bought Mrs. Zawelewski a diamond necklace and a new set of tires, but he'd still be getting a "F" on his science project, "Dead Bug," because he was a lazy dumbass.
Teachers don't teach to get presents. They don't give good kids good grades and bad kids bad grades. Hell with your system, they don't friggin get grades anymore anyway. They get encouragement. All of them. "Nice pile of sticks, Garrett. Good job. Nice equation for Cold Fusion, Susie. Good job." And now your wonderful recommendation to stop rewarding teachers at the holidays. "Nice shaping young minds and inspiring life while taking years off of your own, Teachers. Good job."

But I digress. As the husband of a teacher (a very GOOD one at that) I see that she comes home tired and defeated most days, not so much by the children, but by her so-called leaders. You have an obligation here, Mr. Chancellor. Talk to your teachers. Find out what they DO, and what they NEED. Then you'll have the right information before making these important decisions like what teachers are allowed to have for breakfast, and how long they have to work on weekends. Assface.

In the meantime, I just want you to know that I wrote a letter to the important people in your life and told them it was in THEIR best interests to never thank you, buy you anything, hug you, or look you in the eye.

But it's my guess that they never did anyway.

Dear Santa,

I know you're busy right about now, getting the team ready, getting the sleigh shined up, grabbing a stick of Juicyfruit, etc. But I hope you can find the time between snipping the excess molding off of a Mr. Potato Head and bull-whipping the Elves to answer a question.

It's that time of year again, when hundreds and thousands of Christmas plays are put on in Elementary School gymnasiums across the country (and Wisconsin). I was just at one last night where a very convincing nine-year old african american kid played the role of you. Also, every wholesale furniture outlet has a low-budget 30 second commercial where they get some of their obviously green in-laws to begrudgingly dress up like you and shout that the "Savings are so Low-Ho-Ho!" Pro-bono of course. And, there's always the obligatory Tim Allen movie, where you're either played by a fat mexican woman, you're completely CGI, or even worse, you're played by Tim Allen himself.

So my question is this. How does it feel to be portrayed as so many different sizes, shapes, ages, and ethnicities? Are you flattered? Or do you feel misrepresented? In this age of high technology and satellite imagery, you'd think we'd all have an accurate image of you in our minds, and be sure your integrity doesn't get lost intranslation.

Do you plan on letting millions of interpretations of you exist on interpersonal levels? Thereby allowing each and every one of us to enjoy Christmas in our own way? Are you telling us that's what Santa is really all about - Holiday Joy in whatever packaging fills us with love and wonder?

Or are you finally going to come out as the Filipino Gay Jewish Parapalegic Eskimo that you are and put an end to the mystery forever?

Dear Barry Bonds,

Hi. My name is Pepe Gomez. I am six years old. I am sitting in my grandpappy's woodshed writing this letter to you with a flashlight, so if it's messy, please understand.

Mr. Bonds, I'm confused and I need your help. I got in big trouble today. See, a couple of days ago, me and my friends Jason and Gary did something pretty bad. We wnt over to Old Man MaGuire's house and put pickles in his kitty's butt. We thought it would be funny, but the kitty died.

We promised each other we wouldn't tell anyone. But Jason's older brother Jamie, who gave us the pickles, told his Mommy why the pickles were missing, so Jason fessed right up. Jamie said he gave the pickles to Jason, me, and Gary.

So what should I do? My grandpappy always says to admit when you make a mistake. He says you'll be in more trouble if you lie. But I don't know. Should I say that I didn't know the pickles were for putting in kitty's butt? Should I deny it totally and hope people don't put 2 and 2 together and know I was involved? What if Gary admits to it too? Then I'm the only one denying it and I look silly.

But I'm scared to admit it because I still want to get into the Hall of Fame - er - I mean Soccer Camp.

Any advice?

Dear Italy,

I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for all of the trouble my friends and I may have caused last weekend in Florence.
I'm sorry for starting a fight with a Taxi Driver after Joe jumped onto the hood of his moving cab.
I'm sorry Luke won the dance-off then headbutted his opponent to the ground.
I'm sorry I put a bottle of beer on that little Italian guy's car and told him he was big enough to get it off himself.
I'm sorry for spitting my gum out inside the Duomo. But there are no trash cans in there.
I'm sorry to the owners of the many MANY Vespa Scooters that we defiled, sat on, posed for pictures on, or inadvertently tipped over.
I'm sorry Mark locked an 18th century gate that hadn't been closed in 200 years, trapping appriximately 400 people in their own apartment building.
I'm sorry for everything Mark did, including the fat girl.
I'm sorry that Joe thought it would be funny to walk very slowly in front of a truck on a narrow street so the driver couldn't get past for 5 minutes.
I'm sorry Mark accidentally knocked him back into his truck when he tried to get out and yell at us.
I'm sorry we all laughed when the guy's truck stalled.
I'm sorry we broke down on the highway and had to push the car 10 miles per hour while the rest of the drivers clearly needed to be going 110.
I'm sorry to the big fat cowboys for calling you Toby, Keith, Garth, and Dan.
I'm sorry Luke told that bouncer that he'd "rip out your spine and crack it like a whip."
I'm sorry to the patrons at the Cafe Duomo who had to listen to us talking about ripping out people's femurs and beating their skulls like a conga drum.
I'm sorry for all my mispronunciations.
I'm sorry Mark rang all the buzzers trying to get into the building at 4am, waking them all up.
I'm sorry to the cleaning lady for the entire bag of pretzels emptied into the bed and Mark's filthy ripped underwear.
I'm sorry to any Albanians Joe might have yelled at/laughed at/punched.
I'm sorry to JJ Cathedral pub for the rancid poop Mark left glistening on the rim.
I'm sorry to the girl that Luke banged in that same filthy bathroom.
I'm sorry for anywhere I may have peed.
I'm sorry for everywhere Mark peed.
I'm sorry to the Albanian Joe peed on.
I'm sorry for all your mullets, although I didn't do that.
I'm sorry for clearing out an entire train car with loud stories, farts, and a backpack full of Jack & Coke.
I'm sorry to the Irish bartender for faking an Irish accent. I'm from PA.
I'm sorry we made fun of the children who were smoking cigarettes.
I'm sorry to the Spanish girl for not being able to translate Luke properly when he said, "I want to wear you like a coat."
I'm sorry.
And I'm sorry to say that I'm coming back as soon as possible.

Dear Jared from Subway,

Hi there. No, don't get up. There's something I want to talk to you about. It's this whole marketing thing you're doing with Subway that just isn't working. Don't get me wrong, you've lost the weight. Great. But what has that done for you? How is your life any better. Everytime I see you, all you're doing is eating fucking subway sandwiches.

If you want people to buy Subway subs, you need to diversify a bit. Show us that you're getting laid. Show us that you're betting on horseraces. Show up as a background dancer in a Jay-Z video. People want to lose weight so they can be cool and live like Samuel L. Jackson. Not so they can celebrate their new figure by stuffing it full of "delicious sesame thai chicken! Is there anything better than that?" Yeah, superdouche, there is. It's called getting drunk and having sex with multiple willing partners of the opposite sex. Simultaneously.

You were so ashamed to show us these fat pictures of you at a party. At least you were going to parties then. Now you spend your waking hours hovering over processed meat like Jenna Jameson at a movie shoot.

You're scaring the kids.

So get out there and ride a bike. Slap a cute girl on the ass and slip her your number. Wipe the specialty breadcrumbs from the corners of your mouth and steal a car. Sweet talk the cop into giving you a BJ instead of a ticket, and have the whole thing filmed.

THAT would sell a lot of subs.

Dear Lord of the Dance,

Hello, my name is Bobby McSimonstein. I am seven years old, and I am a parapalegic bound to a wheelchair after a naptime mishap in Ms. Katz's class. Molly tripped on Zeke's paper mache volcano and drove her knee into my fifth lumbar. I cried and couldn't finish my goldfish crackers.

Anyway, being in a wheelchair, unable to use my legs has made me realize a whole lot, and opened my eyes to some important facts of life. The most important one being: YOU SUCK.

That's right, Jimmylegs. Day after day, night after night you taunt me and the rest of the pediatric parapalegic ward (we call it the the Wheelhouse) here at the RCIMI. We'll be right in the middle of Rugrats, or watching Dr. Phil, and our pre-pubescent glee is immediately turned into gut-wrenching horror when you and your spasmic band of degenerates trounce into commercials, and over our hearts.

Our foreign exchange student, BingBong, cried so hard that he threw up. He was just adjusting to life without his stiff lower half when he saw your feet flapping feverishly beneath your fuzzy puckered midriff. Your arms and torso voluntarily rigid, mocking us.

You take away hope, Flatass. You take away joy. Your rubber-kneed cavorting may whip the Irish locals into a toe-tapping frenzy, but here in the Wheelhouse, hatred is a-brewin'.

Just stop sir. Please. It's freakishly bizzare, it's pointless, and it takes us back to brighter days before ripping us back into reality; reality filled with spinal taps, physical therapy unsuitable for the most limber of contortionists, and Christopher Reeve posters.

My dream of being a place kicker for the New York Jets has been crushed by a clumsy first grader and a paper mache Kilimanjaro. But my new dream burns bright. Hot and bright. I dream to someday develop a dance that uses only the upper body, gather a group of five close friends, and challenge you to a dance-off.

AND SERVE YOU.

You've been warned.

Bitch.

Dear Alex Rodriguez,

Let's go back about 86 years, to the last time Boston won a World Series. They then traded the greatest baseball player of their era to the Yankees, thus creating "the Curse of the Bambino." Baseball fans far and wide knew it would take more than mere talent to break the curse. After years and years of good teams failing to win another series, it seems as though you have found the answer for us.

YOU ARE THE NEW CURSE

That's right. No matter how great the Red Sox could ever get, there was no way they would ever beat the curse, because there are things out there that are bigger than the game. Mysterious things. Powerful things rooted in tradition and style. In 1918, it was the passing up of Babe Ruth. In 2004, a new curse was born when George Steinbrenner finally went too far and tried to operate under the impression that money was bigger than baseball. Didn't Boston do that when they gave up the Babe?

At the beginning of the 2004 season, you were all but signed by the Red Sox, when $teinbrenner and his almighty dollar swooped in and bought you out for a higher price (you silly whore). By going to Boston, you would have fulfilled your destiny and taken your place next to other stars who have attempted to beat the curse, like Wade Boggs, Roger Clemens, Pedro, Nomar Garciapara, Manny Ramirez, and the Red Sox of yore. The curse would be left alive.

But when you signed with the Yankees for 500 bazillion dollars, you upset the balance in the baseball universe, and the curse was broken. The Red Sox didn't break the curse - YOU DID. You are the new curse, Alex Rodriguez. Because baseball is about heart. Boston sold their heart after 1918, and in 2004, New York tried to buy heart.

You can't buy heart, big boy. And heart wins pennants.

Good luck with your millions of dollars, because I have a feeling you're about to experience something like 86 years without a championship...

Sincerely,

The ghost of baseball, past, present, and future

Dear Mike Kenny,

How you feeling right now, sport? Would you like a soda? How about a soda? Walk it off, champ. Walk it off.

Money can't buy heart,

-The Sox

Dear Paul Tagliabue,

On behalf of the Delegation of Illegal Controlled Substance Users (DICS Users), we are writing this letter for clarification purposes.

(dude, did you just say "purposes?" Like a Dolphin?)

No, man, that's a porpose. I'm writing here, man. Chill. Just chill.

Anyway, we're a little confused. Even more than ususal. According to you, if a person smokes pot, they owe you 8 million dollars and they can't have their job back. But if they deal coke, they can still have their job, and get paid, and deal with "the man" after the season is over? Are you some sorta safe haven or halfway house for us man? I mean, I don't know what nickel defense is, but I'll learn how to block if you'll keep the Feds off my ass, man.

(Hey........Hey. I know what a dime package is, dude. Hahahaha. Get it? Dime package?)

Shhhhhhh. I get it. Those Feds got dogs, man. I never see dogs at NFL games. You're working a pretty sweet gig over there. Do you get a cut? What's your percentage man, cuz alls I know is Vinny takes like 70% here.

(Dime BAG dude! A package is a BAG! hahahahaha!)

I said I got it man! Jeez. Now what was I talking about. Great, now I forget man. Anyway, Mr. NFL head guy, just sum this up for me again so I know I'm not missing anything:
Pot = extradition
Cocaine = 2 week vacation and exemption from jail as long as you're fast or strong.

(Dude, what about murder? Didn't Ray Lewis kill a motherfucker?)

Shit, I don't know man.

(And Leonard Little hit like 12 people with a car, like, drunk dude.)

Dammit I'm writing a letter here! At least I'm trying to! All I want to know is how to gain this exemption. How can I become a role model like these guys? What do I need to do? Cuz all around me, everyone I know that takes drugs ends up screwed or dead or screwing someone who's dead.

(Hey you said she was sleeping dude. Not fair.)

I was told that drugs ruin your life, but these guys seem to be doing great! My hand hurts now so just sent your secret formula to:

3471 West, no East Church Road
Framingham, Massachusetts
Apartment 4B

We would appreciate it.

p.s. Go Red Sox

Dear Jason Voorhees,

Greetings from (what's left of) Cub Scout Troop 482, of Billingsly Falls North Dakota. We wanted to say thank you for making our weekend excursion to Camp Crystal Lake one to remember.

When we arrived, our Scout Master had his doubts about the location. He was concerned that the shredded, blood-stained mattress posed a sanitation hazard, and felt uncomfortable with the churning barrel of human intestines you had displayed in the Song Circle. Thankfully, his concerns were short-lived after you jimmied his face open with a lawnmower blade.

My stars, the excitement. I won't soon forget little Bobby Zimmer's headless torso crashing noisily through the cafeteria window during morning reflection. I have never seen a dead body fart before. That took skill, my good man.

I'm sure you remember most of what happened next, when you mercilessly went after the cooks and kitchen staff with a hammer and a serving fork. I didn't know a person could still make that much noise with their trachea ripped out. I learned so much this year. So did Rick McCloskey and Stacy Bloom. They blatantly disobeyed rule #9 by meeting behind the canoe shed to kiss after lights-out. When we awoke to see their naked bodies impaled together on the Totem Pole of Tranquility, we were reminded why rule #9 is in the Cub Scout handbook.

It wasn't until the third night when we ventured out into the woods for our wilderness training that I started to notice there weren't a lot of us left. I guess that's why we decided to sing "Kumbaya" by the fire and make s'mores. Without our Scout Master, we had trouble putting out the fire, but you arrived again to save the day and snuffed out the flames with Pete Renakie's eviscerated torso. I suppose we should have started running when we heard the "chh-chh-chh, ahh ahh ahh" sound that follows you everywhere, but it was almost 10:30, and we were tired from a long day of archery practice, earning our swimming merit badges, and fleeing for our lives as our friends were plucked from this earth.

So here we are, in the Emergency Room of St. Mooney's Hospital, awaiting multiple transfusions and bone grafts, because of your dedication to the complete camp experience. There are few professionals left who posess the undying determination to succeed. Don't lose your edge. Although you could sharpen it a bit. My machete wound is infected because of a wee bit of blunt force trauma. Just a suggestion.

Thanks,

Calvin Screeback and Barry Moe Clark
Cub Scout troop 482

p.s. Barry Moe says hi. He said he'd write to you next time if you give him his hands back. He says you can keep his lower mandible.

Dear Jay Leno,

Last night, on the 50th anniversary of the Tonight Show, you announced that you would be retiring, and handing the show over to Conan O'Brien.

In 2009.

Is it just me, or are the goals we're setting for oursleves a little low? I mean, Oprah is working overtime to give away cars, (okay, she's making her staff work overtime to give away cars) and you're taking five years to retire? You could do that today, Mr. Procrastinator.

And what about Conan? How would you like it if I showed up at your house (okay, one of your houses) and told you I just baked you a delicious pie. It's blueberry with a hint of vanilla in a warm falky crust. I just pulled it out of the oven, so it should be nice and cooled off in about five years. Just wait right here.

You'd be pissed. And hungry.

I'm pretty sure Conan isn't hungry, but what I'm saying is, the promise of pie just doesn't cut it. And neither does your long term goal. But it did give me some good ideas for goals of my own:

1) Sometime within the next few weeks, I'm gonna have a beer. I'm not saying tonight, maybe not even until October rolls around. But eventually I'll get around to drinking a beer.

2) Then I'm going to have another one. Call me ambitious.

3) I'm going to answer the phone the next time it rings.

4) I'm going to line up my Christmas presents in size order before I give them out. I usually only buy 2 or 3, but I'm following your lead. I don't want to challenge myself too much.

5) I like crabcakes. So I'll do something with that. I'm betting.

6) I promise to leave the TV on for my dog. I'm not sure if she likes it or not, but I'm not going to find out.

7) I'm going to hum the theme to Sportscenter without realizing it.

8) in the next 5 years, I'm going to do some work, and I'm also going to take a few Fridays off so I get a long weekend.

9) I'm going to go skiing. And I'm going to try not to fall. But that's tough cuz I do some crazy things. Maybe I'm not too good at goal setting...

and finally

10) In 2009, I'm going to eat a sandwich on the toilet. That's right. Like you, this one's gonna take some planning, teamwork, and effort. But God willing, we can achieve.

So that's it, Jay. Good luck with your goal there. I'll check in on your progress once the pie starts to cool.

Dear Republicans,

FACT: In the year 2000, George W. Bush won the presidential election due to a controversial ballot counting mishap in Florida.

FACT: Florida is governed by George's cousin/brother Jeb, a name that, until the Bush Family, was reserved for cartoons and gross stereotypes.

FACT: After a reasonably successful Republican National Convention of Old White Males, George has a slight lead in the polls.

FACT: God is trying to wipe Florida off the face of the planet before November with a steady barrage of hurricanes.

COINCIDENCE?

I think not.

Dear Erik Estrada,

First of all, I loved you in Van Wilder. Second of all, I have to apologize for our brief meeting this past weekend. My crazy brother and I have a contest where we take our pictures with famous people, and we make funny faces. You were very nice, and I almost felt bad goofing on you like that.

However, when you asked to look at the photo display on the digital camera, you got a little upset. I felt a bit threatened when you called me a "bibbly hoopsucker," even though I didn't have the slightest clue what you had said. I guess it was your tone.

When you reached for your tazer, instinct kicked in, and that's why I smashed your testicles with a Yakuza kick. Again, I apologize. You really were nice about the picture. My friend Dave is the one who administered a field dressing using his socks and some of the goo you spit up as adhesive, so he deserves most of the credit for your speedy recovery. Tell your wife I'm so sorry, and as long as you stick to your therapy sessions, she'll be swinging from your man meat in no time.

So thanks again for the memories, and please be careful in the streets of New York. Remember, there are some crazy people out there. With crazy Yakuza Skills.

Dear Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, and Will Ferrell,

I'm just a small town guy from rural [insert state here], so I don't know much about Hollywood. I don't know how much cocaine one agent has to give to another agent before they are allowed to make eye contact, and I don't understand how actors can afford to live such expensive lifestyles. I mean come on, your not doctors!

Anyway, I wanted to write to the three of you because I think you should make a movie together. I know, I know, the three of you probably don't even know each other, and might be a little uncomfortable working on the same project, but I've been watching you all a lot lately, and I think your dramatic styles would work well together.

For example, Ben, you were in a movie called Zoolander, and you played a stupid ignoramous who was obsessed with his looks, brainwashed to kill the prime minister of Ponderosa by some tall actor who I forget. He was real funny though. Anyway, I think Vince would have been a great choice to play like a straight-man roommate or something, maybe a down-on-his-luck salesman or something who sells Zoolander his hair care products.

The reason I chose Vince is because he was just in Dodgeball, where he played a down on his luck gym owner, forced to play dogdeball against a stupid ignoramous who was obsessed with his looks, played by some actor who I forget. Vince did a very good job there, and I think if you had the chance to work together, you could bring in Will Ferrell from Anchorman.

In Anchorman, Will says and does inappropriate things that gets him kicked out of his house, so he lives with Luke Wilson until he gets his life back in order and gets a special news tape from the clutches of the evil Dean of News. I think. I'm a huge movie fan.

Anyway, my sister says that lots of people in Hollywood hang out at the same bar or something. I'll bet they have a dartboard. Anyway, if you guys happen to all be there or something, you should introduce yourselves. Will is the tall one, Vince is also tall but not Will, and Ben is short and has a fake mustache a lot of the time.

I think any movie you do would be really funny, because you are all good actors, but if you need a little help, I'd be happy to offer some suggestions:

1) The three of you are Spanish movie stars who save a small town from the local bandits. Your girlfriends are Lisa Kudrow, Jennifer Aniston and Courtney Cox, but they all die at the beginning, and you go off together to the small town, so the movie is called "Three Friends." (It might sound cooler if the title is in Spanish, but I don't know to say that in Spanish).

2) Ben is a pregnant drag queen who gives birth to Will and Vince. You could call it "Miracle Tall Twins."

3) Vince is a bad guy, Ben is a good guy. You could shoot at each other and stuff, not realizing that it doesn't hurt, because Will is the gun salesman who sells you your guns, and he likes you both, so the guns are NERF. In the end, you all go on a fishing trip together, but Will dies.

or

4) You all live in space, and you're waiting for a rescue ship to come, but it doesn't come, so you start a Pinochle tournament with some deadly aliens. The Aliens turn out to be joking, they're not really deadly, and they let you win the tournament. When the rescue ship comes, you've spent so much time in space, your faces are all different, so the rescuers pass you by and the aliens become deadly again and kill the rescuers. Then will is down on his luck and Vince is down on his luck but Ben is crazy and makes it all better when he builds a house for them to live in. Oh, and the aliens are un-deadly again.

Like I said, it's just a start, but I'm really looking forward to a collaborative effort from you guys. Do something different for a change and work together. We deserve it.

 

 

Dear Meatloaf,

Hi. You don't know me, but my name is Steak Tartar. I was wondering if you would like to join me and my friends in our annual bowling tournament/fish fry this year. It's a blast. Each year, Barbecued Beef Cubes gets drunk and starts hitting on Ham Sandwich. Then Bowl of Cereal gets pissed off because he's always had a crush on Ham Sandwich, and Snow Pea has to break it up.

Anyway, the reason I'm asking you is because we all have duties that we perform each year, and this year, Egg Salad said he can't operate the dunking booth, because his kid Crouton is in some sort of play. So we were wondering if you could help us out.

If the dunking booth doesn't sound like your cup of tea, you could always ask for a switch. I know Almond Biscotti is sick of the bingo booth, and you could always use your star power to see if this is the year that 7Up finally gives up the reins on his beer tent. The last person who is willing to trade duties is, ironically, Cup of Tea, who sweeps the floors.

So let me know what you think. If you would like to bring Mrs. Loaf along, she wouldn't have to work. But it would be nice if she could keep an eye on the Fettucini kids. They're brats.

I look forward to hearing fron you, and may you have an excellent Arbor Day.

Steak Tartar

Dear Ralph Macchio,

Yo, what up Dawg? It was great hanging out with you last night. Sorry that bouncer didn't believe you were really 43 years old. I'm not too upset we didn't get into my brother's graduation party, but next time maybe you shouldn't wear that hat with the little propeller on it. Just at thought.

I'm also sorry that my friend Rachel left so early. I know we wanted to hook you two up, (even though you're married) but I think you might have come across as a little too aggressive, continually asking her how many times she saw My Cousin Vinny, and calling Hillary Swank a "Fluke Whore." You should just accept that none of the Karate Kid movies after the first one were really good, and that one's only really good for comedic value anyway. Let it go.

But I didn't write to you to tell you how to live your life. I wanted to compliment you on your apparent retirement. I think going out with your performance as "Cop #2" in the movie Popcorn Shrimp was the way to do it.

So now it's on to bigger and better things, eh? Any ideas? I saw your picture on imdb.com, and was thinking if you can't come up with a new hobby like whittling or place kicking, you could start a club of Hank Azaria Look-Alikes. Just a thought.

I'm sure with all of the time you've spent in the limelight lately, you'll want to take a few months to get away from the screaming fans and paparazzi and annoying interview requests from Ellen Degeneres and Vice President Cheney. But once you decide to come back to your adoring public, you let me know. We'll go out for a beer.

I'll keep a 6-pack in the fridge at home, just in case.

Dear Sylvester Stallone,

Trends. I hate 'em. People go all crazy for a popular fad and ride the preverbial wave for all of 13 seconds before crashing to the ground, shaking their head and saying, "What was I thinking?" Clothes, music, T.V. - no genre is safe from crap like Rico Suave, The Bachelor: Part 7, or UgBoots. They're called Ugly Boots, ladies. You don't honestly think you're going to look at pictures in a year or two and go, "Damn. I'm an idiot." Give me a pair of blue jeans any day. But I'm rambling.

The reason I'm writing to you is because I'm confused at your involvement in the latest Reality TV trend. Granted, some reality TV has done well. Survivor is in it's thirty-somethingth season, and they still get a lot of viewers. But that's the crazy thing about reality T.V. A show about the outdoors and wilderness, watched and loved by millions of lazy fatasses who could be doing half of the stuff they see, but for some reason, love it only enough to watch other people build campfires and flirt with unshaven members of the opposite sex, but not enough to do it themselves.

And so it comes to you, and your show, "The Contender." This is a show with you and Sugar Ray Leonard, where you follow young boxers trying to make it in the (fake)professional boxing world, whilst living together. Trading pancakes in the morning and knuckle sandwiches in the afternoon.

Here's the rub. You are not a boxer. You never were a boxer. You played a boxer in two good movies and three crappy ones. Remember that? So that got me thinking. Is this a new trend? If so, will FOX's Fall Lineup look like this?

8:00 - "Law & Law (No Order)" Hosted by "Matlock" Andy Griffith and Mark Geragos. The show recruits young lawyers by going into grade schools and pulling the best liars from class, where they undergo a series of morality tests (which they must fail), then get them drunk and take the Bar Exam. On tonight's episode, little Charleston VanderCreekston slips one of his female competitors some GHB.

9:00 - "Come Down Off the Ledge" Kelsey Grammar and professional Psychiatrist Cecil Montgomery battle each other for cash as they sit down together with the emotionally disturbed and fire advice with lightning quick speed. Who will the patient listen to? Life hangs in the balance

9:30 - "Where are We?" Harrison Ford and some real Anthropologists trek through the Amazon. They have the smarts, but they also have blindfolds on. Harrison has the map. Harrison's shiny earrings get him in more trouble with the monkeys tonight. Tune in and see.

10:00 - ..."Drrrrruuuuhhhrrrr" Hosted by Tom Hanks and Corky from "Life Goes On." They follow real retarded people around the streets, watching them be surprisingly gentle and full of personality. On tonight's episode, Gerald uses a fork.


I guess my point here, Sly, is that although Rocky was a good idea, timing is everything. The Beehive Haircut. Mega cool in it's day. Ladies could store all kinds of crap up there. Now? Not so much. Don't be the beehive, Sly. Act. Go on "Inside the Actors Studio" with James Lipton. Host SNL. Just don't do this.

On second thought, there's one way that I can accept you as a host for this show. Go 5 rounds with Sugar Ray, eating an entire steak between each round. If you can still remember where you keep your secret stash of naked Schwarzenegger pictures after 5 rounds puking on yourself, then you're a boxer.

And I'm a Romanian Dental Hygenist.

Dear Teachers of the World,

No more pencils! No more books! No more assy little kid smell permeating the room while little Alec wipes snots on Meredith's new silk jumper!

Okay, so I'm stretching a bit from my normally famous pen pals to write to you, the teachers of the world. Thanks again for another great year, guiding and teaching and tugging and slapping our little brats of today into the snotty, overbearing, meddling parents of tomorrow.

It's been a long tough year, having to be on your game all day long, only to come home and correct papers, deciphering which marks are spittle and goldfish cracker residue and which are backwards letters. With swollen feet, you can now sit back, sleep in until at least 7:00, and leaf through catalogues for next year's classroom goodies.

But let's take a moment, while it's fresh in our heads, to remember the good times from this past year. The light in little Jake's eyes when he pronounced "certainly" without sounding like Sylvester the Looney Tunes cat. The day you were recess monitor and you caught the 3rd graders selling heroin to a 1st grade girl. Man the looks on their faces were priceless when the cops crammed all 5 of them into the squad car. Good times. Good times.

I'm sure there are more, so pause a moment and remember them in silence. I'll flash the lights on and off to get your attention when I want to continue.

Ready? Super.

In closing, thank you, teachers of the world. Thank you for teaching "Naked Nathan Priorson" the importance of underpants. Thank you for the smiley face stickers. Thank you for telling Billy that 2 + 2 does not equal "carrots," but "you're very creative; you get a Check-plus." Thank you for remembering 20 new names like Austa, Petroleum, and Jnabdin. Thank you for not going ballistic when a second grader says "fuck." Thank you for freeze dance, the greatest game ever.

Thank you for reminding kids that it's not okay to hit, poke, or fart, but it is okay to wear a giant blue puffy bird sweater and rainbow gingham pants. Thank you for spending half of a paycheck on the stupid class bake sale so Veronica would stop crying. Thank you for the field trip to the pet store, where they learned that puppies are made out of love, and smell like poopie. Thank you for your early coffee-induced zombie-like commutes on dark cold mornings. Thank you for realizing when you have bad breath. Thank you for putting up with that awful janitor who hits on you every day. Thank you for heads-up, seven-up. Thank you for showing the pictures nice and slowly, and nodding your head as you do so. Thank you for letting them touch you in places that would be considered inappropriate if the kids were 3 years older.

Thank you for not laughing at the dumb kids. Thank you for not bitch-slapping the smart kids. Thank you for not gagging near the filthy kid. Thank you for smiling politely at the kid who tells stories that make no sense. Thank you for calling on the kid who always has his hand up, even though you know he will be wrong. Thank you for giving the poor kid a quarter so he could buy candy. Thank you for giving the slutty kid three dollars so she could buy condoms. Thank you for leaving the room to laugh every time the fat kid falls down.

I hope you enjoy these few months of sanity and peace. Do not look back on the year that was. Do not look ahead as September rushes toward you, a flood of screaming misdirected lice factories with backpacks. Look only to today. The sun is up, but you don't have to be.

Dear Tori Spelling,

I went to Central Park last Sunday and hung out in the sun for awhile, reading a book my friend Matt let me borrow. Books are those heavy square things you stand on to reach your secret stash of cocaine and Asian Porn, and friends are the people who don't spit on you. Still with me? Anyway, my forehead is peeling now and unlike you, I can't see my forehead, so I forget that it's peeling. If I happen to reach up and wipe my brow, it looks like it's snowing on my keyboard.

Thanks for asking about my new puppy. She's good. I'm sorry I couldn't comply with your last request, but she's learned to poop outside now, so you can eat all you want. My wife just didn't want you in our apartment. We're out of Stain Stick and the flamethrower's at the shop.

Overall, I'm disappointed that hockey season is over, but I'm more of a baseball fan anyway. You're a horrible, ugly slut.

See you Thursday,

Me

Dear David Duchovny,

I just had an Idea that will launch your career into uber-stardom. I call it the "Pause-A-Thon." You take yourself, Jeff Goldblum, and the king of pause punctuation himself, William Shatner. The three of you get on a stage, and you have to act out scenes from famous movies, broadway shows, music videos, infomercials, high school musicals, whatever.

It would be total improv, like "Who's Line is it Anyway," back when it was good and British and objectified women. Audience members would be planted...er...I mean would spontaneously shout out a movie title and the three of you would have to re-inact a well known scene. It would be great!

Audience Plant...er..I mean audience member: "Do Blazing Saddles!"

You: "Aren't you. . . . . . . . . .the Waco. . . . Kid?"
Goldblum: "WacoKid. . .yesyesIusedtobe. . . . .usedtobe. . . . the Waco. . . .ahhhh. . .TheWacoKid."
You: ". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . used to be. . . . . . . . . . . . .?"
Goldblum: "Ah-ha. . . . . . . . . .um. . . . . . . .you see, you see this. . . .um. . . thishand?"
You: ". . . . . . . . . .Steady as a rrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooccccccccckkkkkkkkkkk."
Goldblum: "Steady. Ah-ha, yes. SteadyTOOBAD. . . . . . I . . . . .uh. . . . . . . .toobadIshootwith this one. . . . .yes. thisonehere. . . . .the. . . . . .the, uh. . . . . .the shaky one. . .Yes."
Then Shatner comes in: "It's. . . . .HEDLEY LAMAR!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .HEDLEY!"

Anyway, you get the point. Listen, if this thing goes down, I know you three will pull in big money, and let's face it, you won't have to do much. That scene right there would take about 45 minutes. I figure you do two or three of those, and maybe some nice shadow puppets for an encore and we got ourselves a Tony Award winner.

I'm still hashing out the details, but let me know if you're interested. You can help me pick a host. I was thinking about Raymond Burr, but he's dead. See if you can track down the wedding priest from "The Princess Bride." I'll book the venue.

Loved you in Zoolander,

Me

Dear Olsen Twins,

Congratulations. You are now 18 years old and the owners of your own billion-dollar company complete with clothing line, movies, and a chain of brake pad/muffler repair shops. I know that, as Hollywood socialites, you are no strangers to the night club scene. But now that you are legally able, I’m sure you are going to check out some of the biggest and best loopholes in our justice system, bars and clubs that say you have to be 21 to drink, but you can get in as long as you’re hot. I mean 18.

I’m sure you’re both huge fans of my blog, so you’re familiar with my tendency to give advice to the needy star. For the two of you, I sat down with some of my female friends (and believe me, I have LOADS of them), and compiled a survival guide based on their experiences as 18-year-old girls going out on the town in their private helicopter.

1) Any guy that says he loves you is lying unless it’s your Dad or your Banker. Anyone else is just trying to get one hand in your pants and the other in your purse. Guys are jerks. Come to think of it, just to be safe, make sure your banker is gay.

2) Even my wife says it. You grew up to be beautiful girls. Now I know that people flirted with you when you were 17. Heck, I’d bet guys hit on you on the set of “When the West was Fun!” But most men feared that jail sentence, and decided to wait in the wings for June 13, 2004 to roll around. So prepare for the onslaught with the following materials:
- Lots of paper and pens. You are about to hear some of the funniest, most pathetic pick-up lines, and they need to be documented. They will provide you and your friends with hours of laughs in the years to come, after the initial shivers of creepiness and nausea wear off.
- Mace, two bricks, and a baseball bat with a nail through it in the trunk of Jeeve’s limo. Although your fame and fortune will provide you with ample protection most of the time, some guys can be persistent. Especially drunk white guys from South Boston. It’s good to have a plan B. In fact, why don’t you drag Stamos out of early retirement to deflect the come-ons from any bi-curious suitors. He’s pretty.
- Two or three male cousins or other family members. I’m guessing that the thinner the blood relationship to you, the more likely they would be to try to get a piece. But I’m sure after a few interviews and a rigorous body cavity search, you’ll be able to find a few guys who are fun to hang out with and won’t end up professing their forbidden love for you.

3) Don’t become Paris Hilton. Hit a few spots, find a favorite, and get comfy with it. For some of us, that place is a friend’s couch, a little bar with a dart board, or the entire West Veranda of the Ritz Carlton overlooking the ocean. Paris, God bless her, is dirty. Stay clean.

4) Finally, understand you are going to make mistakes, and that’s okay. You’ll get drunk off three Zimas and a puff of your friend’s cigarette. You’ll accidentally spill a drink down the front of your dress. You’ll take a dump on the hood of a car. The key is learning from your mistakes, and not repeating them. Or, if you must, repeat them with variations. Take a dump on a motorcycle. Take a dump on Lexington Avenue. Take a dump on a little dog.

Overall, Twins, the world is now your proverbial oyster. You will shuck it, and find it to be filled with equal parts pearls, equal parts slimy fishy smelling old men with comb-overs buying you drinks and “accidentally” touching your bottoms as he talks way too close to your face. Make the best of it. I’ll talk to you again once you turn 21. In the meantime, vote for Kerry. Welcome to hell.

Dear Britney Spears,

I wasn't going to write this. I sat down in front of my computer with a big bowl of ice cream and some photoshopped pictures of you in a three-way with Eminem and Horatio Sanz from Saturday Night Live, and swore to myself I wouldn't write to you.

I told myself, "There's just to much to say. You've gone astray in so many ways."
Then I thought that was kinda catchy, and got distracted trying to write a song. I only got to the second stanza when I ran into trouble trying to rhyme "favorite backup dancer" with "genital warts." Then I remembered why I was at my computer at 9:39am instead of at work - I was supposed to be not writing to you.

There were so many opportunities to notice the warning signs that you were going the a route of porn and crime like so many ill-fated young stars before you. Todd Bridges. Scottie Schwartz. The Golden Girls.

I wouldn't know where to begin. Your relationship with that guy from New Kids On The Block, Justin Timberlake? The fact that you thought the American public would buy your story about "not having sex?" Britney, 13-year-old girls who have chosen you as their role model have been having sex long before you came along, and they sure as hell knew that you were. You can't fib a fibber.

And speaking of denial, you also said that you didn't smoke or drink, to maintain your innocent image, but my friends and I all saw that picture of you shotgunning Jagermeister off a donkey's balls with Jim Brewer and Tommy Chong. What image are you going for anyway? Oxymoron?

I wouldn't know what to say about your deteriorating mental state, or your penchant for insulting people. You said that you weren't drunk in Vegas, but merely "caught up in the energy of Vegas." Don't lie to us. We're not idiots. My seven-year-old cousin went to Vegas on a field trip and came back with two wives, a tattoo, and a new respect for cockfighting. We know what the "energy of Vegas" is. It's in the town charter:

- Welcome to Las Vegas, where energy equals (choose one)
a) Communicable disease
b) Getting drunk
c) Getting drunk and losing all your money
d) Getting drunk and swearing to everyone that you think you see Chris Moneymaker
or
e) Zero-Gravity Hooker Paintball

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, as long as you own up to it. If you attempt to deny it, it will haunt your dreams for eternity. Or until your next marriage.

With another marriage comes another denial; a cancelled tour due to a "knee injury" (and by "knee injury" you mean "athlete's foot of the vagina"); a third breast implant in the middle of your back; and (let us not forget) the continuation of the worst pop music known to man.

These things represent a great responsibility to me, as a writer. A responsibility that I, following your lead, will deny.

So I'm not writing to you.

Dear "Blanket,"

Hello and welcome to the world, young man. By the time you are old enough to read this, irrevocable damage has no doubt been done to your fragile psyche. Damage brought on by your Father, Michael, who you probably know as "Mom."

I somehow find it my duty to clear a few things up for you. I'm sure there are issues that may confuse you, or certain things you have accepted as universal truths, having grown up on that ranch with your freakshow father and his harem of equally needy individuals from surrogate moms who could never get a date to the prom, to self absorbed journalists who think taking a picture of you on the toilet is the culmination of their life's work.

So here goes. Listen up kid, this may be the only dose of reality you get for a long time. If you're anything like your dad, you'll run screaming in the other direction. Stay strong, kiddo. Here it is:

1) Your Dad used to be one of the greatest entertainers in the world as a singer/songwriter/gyrating dancing machine,
NOT
Peter Pan, savior of young boys. Do not be fooled.

2) When most parents play "got your nose!" with their kids, it is a poor sight gag in which the thumb is held between the index and middle finger, in attempt to fool the child by resembling a nose,
NOT
the actual removal of said nose, which is actually a plastic prosthetic nose, the result of 7,000 surgeries gone bad. It is a global rule of thumb that noses are permanent parts of faces, and faces are permanent parts of heads. Do not be scared or discouraged that other daddies cannot remove their noses.

3) All of the kids who come to hang out at your house for a few days and leave with a sore throat and a slight limp are being sexually molested by your father, they are
NOT
all your friends, there to enjoy your company. There is no invisible horse in your father's bedroom, and no amount of cough syrup could ever make the pain go away.

4) Baseball, Monopoly, Poker, and freeze tag are fun games,
NOT
playing with your father's penis. Although, ironically, in about 10 years, playing with your own penis becomes a phenomenal game.

5) Finally, no matter what your father tells you, showing an affinity for an inanimate object, such as a blanket, is something all children do, but
NOT
a reasonable basis to name that child. Blanket is not a name. I used to play with my mother's armpits and dust bunnies. Just imagine the consequences had I grown up in your million dollar shoes. Your father has done you a great disservice. It is my advice that you snuggle up to some raw meat so they start calling you "Chuck." No self respecting girl will ever want to get laid by a guy named "Blanket," Chuck.

Then again, as your father will clearly show you, there are a lot of girls out there who lack self respect. Maybe you're onto something...

Sincerely,

Dust Bunny

Dear Kobe,

I saw an interesting statistic during the NBA playoffs this year. It said that "the Los Angeles Lakers are 4 - 0 on Kobe's court dates." As if attending your own rape trial somehow sparked an insurgence of heightened ability in you and your teammates. So this is what the NBA has come to? How a playoff team is doing on the days (plural) that their superstar is in court, accused of rape. Congratulations, I guess. I wonder what it would be like if the rest of the jobs in the country were similar.

"How's work, Bob?"
"Great! Productivity is up ever since I started beating the bloody hell out of my wife!
"Well keep it up, buddy! Three more sales and we get that trip to Rehoboth, Deleware!"
"You got it!"

A few years ago, Latrell Spreewell choked his coach. Choked his boss. Yet somehow, future employers were able to overlook this slight transgression. Maybe they missed Sportscenter that week, or maybe Latrell left P.J. Carlesimo off of the "references" section on his resume. Again, my mind wanders to my job interviews...:

"Sean, we called your last supervisor, and she said that you used to break into her home and hover over her body as she slept, sharpening the tip of your harpoon gun."
"Well, yes, but I can do long division in my head, and I'm willing to work some weekends."
"You're hired."

Now Kobe, before you accuse me of only attacking basketball players, I could go on and on about coach Bobby Knight, or the chauvinist moron football coach from Colorado, or the well known hoover vaccuum named Steve Howe, convicted of cocaine use nine times while pitching for the ever-forgiving Yankees.

I'm all about forgiveness, and starting over. Hell, even Larry King stole a car. (http://www.rotten.com/library/bio/entertainers/radio/larry-king/) And he continues to make a difference to this very day. To all 7 of his wives. Which brings me to my final points, Kobe. Forgiveness and wives.

You screwed up. And from what I hear, you screwed down and over an armchair. But nevermind that. Nevermind being a role model. Nevermind endorsements. Nevermind getting blown out by the Pistons. Focus on a new stat for next season: Flowers bought for your wife. And don't act too pissed off when she decides to get you back. If I were you, I'd keep my eye on the male hotel clerks from now on...

Dean Inventor of the Turtleneck Tank-Top,

Man, some women will buy anything, won't they? Funny how all you have to do is jack up the price of something and send Oprah a free X-Large and the next thing you know it's the hottest thing since side ponytails.

But I have a question for you. What was your thought process behind the Turtleneck Tank-Top? I mean besides preying on the shortcomings of women with more credit cards than braincells. Here we have a turtleneck, an item of clothing designed to keep body heat in, but you've gone and removed the sleeves. Who is this for? Women who crank the A/C in their cars up to sub zero, but still hang their arm out the window in the dead of summer? What situation could possibly call for maximum protection from the elements on a woman's neck and torso, while leaving her arms exposed without concern? Is it for training dyslexic falcons who return and refuse to perch in the right place? Armless Eskimos?

Why not just sell sleeves? If covering up everything BUT your arms is necessary for something, then the opposite must be true in different circumstances. Read Newton's third law of Motion for further details.

Why stop there? How about the fishnet raincoat? Protect every other square inch from the rain and show off that wicked new tattoo at the same time. Bottomless boots for the lady who enjoys the feel of fresh snow between her toes. Why hasn't anyone tried pants with one leg? Or transparent sun visors?

What if these bizzare trends could apply outside of the fashion world? How about the combination icemaker/microwave? Or the aquarium dehumidifier? You could work for NERF and invent a new type of concrete, or develop Crayola's first clear crayon. Just think of all of the sunvisors you could draw with that!

In closing, let me add that my wife has about 16 of your Turtleneck Tank-Tops. They take up very little room and are easy to fold. Other than the occasional frostbite or errant falcon, she enjoys them very much.

Dear Chris O'Donnell,

Where have you gone, Chris O'Donnell? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you.

Woo woo woo.

These are tough times. Tough times. We can't find Bin Laden. I had to sell half of my liver so I could put seven gallons of gas in my car. The other half is shot because I used that gas to drive to the bar. But listen to me go on and on. You know life is bad. You're Chris O'Donnell.

You were the "it" kid for 36 minutes. You cropped your hair close to your round little head and donned the Robin suit but soon the paychecks and the women began to fade. Now you're waiting around for VH1 to do a special where they can reunite you with the rest of Kajagoogoo and you can all run and frolic and cry about all the crap you did that blows. Just blows.

The funny thing is, I think you have a bright future. In these days of elevated terror levels and color schemes and confusing alerts from the (White?) House in Washington, I see us turning to you, Chris O'Donnell. Put down the desperation soft-core script and join forces with Tom Ridge and sort out this whole alert system thing.

We could call it the Chris O'Donnell Meter, and it would be much simpler than

Yellow = "Keep shopping, little drones"
and
Orange = "There's someone with dark skin and funny clothes in my backyard."

It would just be your face, and we could utilize BOTH of your facial expressions to convey the state of alert due to terrorist threats:

Sparkly-Eyed Semi-Smirking Chris = All is well. Please check out the new cargo pants at The Gap

Sparkly-Eyed Semi-Smirking out-of-breath Chris = Move to Canada, there is a rocket-powered grenade launcher aimed at your house.

Chris, I believe Hollywood has exhausted all roles that require but two emotions, and those that are left are going to "crossover stars" like J-Lo, Ludacris, and The Snuggle Fabric Softener Bear.

Your country needs you. Hear the call. Welcome back, Chris. Welcome back.