March 05, 2007

Letters

Dear Dan Brown:

Please make The DaVinci Code interesting at some point. This is supposed to be gripping, according to all that hoo-ha in the press, and I know I’m coming late to the party, but… zzzzz. Please fix.

Hoping Angels and Demons is better,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Neighbors,

Sunday night is not a party night; people actually work the next day. On Sunday nights, they typically need to park their cars, sometimes even in a space somewhere near the building in which they live. Then they need to sleep, which your yelling and laughter does not intersect happily with. Most importantly, they need to arrive at work in the morning not smelling like Woodstock as a result of the copious amounts of doobage you found it necessary to smoke. Also, the two- and five-year-olds in Apt 6 thank you for getting their drug habit started early. You owe them rehab and Cheetos.

Get help / a life / a job / the hell out of my building,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Noble:

You were a good fish. Mom loved you and named you and sang you little songs about being a fish; I hope you liked hearing them. I’m sorry you died this weekend.

Beedoo

* * *
Dear Barnes:

I’m sorry you couldn’t live without Noble. Your broken heart made everyone cry.

Say ‘hi’ to Willy for me,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Car:

Why wouldn’t you start this morning? Is this something we need to talk about? I know I’ve been putting off the oil change, but only for like, a week, and it wasn’t even all that cold this morning so… what gives? If you really need help, I’m here for you, but if you’re just being tetchy, get over it. Spring is coming with a glacial certainty (and, unfortunately, speed), but you’re not the only one seething with anticipation; I’ve had skirts on standby for weeks. Quit freakin’ me out, enjoy the extra sunlight, and maybe I’ll consider something tastier than mid-grade.

Missing my bike,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Thomasville:

Really? I really have to sell my organs to buy your shit? And the dresser I want, in particular—that made from ancient Malaysian rainforest bark, or what? You know who owns your stuff? Porn kings. Drug traffickers. Hope you’re happy. I may have a rickety bed frame, but at least I can sleep on it at night.*

See you in Chapter 11,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Kate Winslet:

It’s totally been fun, but I’d like my life back now.

BFF 4-Life,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Victoria’s Secret:

I’m sorry I impugned your panties. The mistake was entirely mine, as I hadn’t realized you’d expanded your line to include both boy short and hiphugger varieties, and was blindly still wearing the bikinis that (alas, even with the new design) bunch all to hell in the back. Thanks to the new hiphuggers, I no longer have to decide between Parachute Ass and Saggy-Ball Safety Net, with the bonus that they stay in place regardless of movement. So thank you.

However, you may want to rethink those commercials where the models speak. When you’re panning various body parts during their vapid monologue… well, it’s actually less demeaning to show them in lace swatches making porn scowls on the runway.

Panties rock, butt is fierce,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear IRS:

Thank you for the large return. I promise I’ll use it to pay off my credit cards and not use it to go shopping for frivolous clothing items PROVIDED I EVER SEE THE DAMN CHECKS.

A picture of patience,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Meijer “Starbucks”:

Thank you, thank you, thank you for having one lone remaining bag of Christmas Blend; you have fueled my addiction nicely. However, spoiled as I am as an actual Starbucks employee, I’m a little pissed that I couldn’t use my discount to purchase said whole bean goodness. Please rectify. Then call the Target Fauxbucks and have them follow suit.

Baristas United,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Office Thermostat:

If there’s any merit to the research that people live longer in a cooler environment, it’s only because they were too cold to be bothered to get off the floor of their igloo and end their own misery. A billion dollars says you can’t go a whole day without forcing me to sit on my hands.

Praying for an EMP,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Tiny Asian Girls Who Insist on Walking Side-by-Side on the Three Lane Track (While Wearing Hats, Full Makeup and Jewelry):

Please contract something with an itchy, burning sensation.

Split a sandwich,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Martha:

Please stop your brain trust from cranking out new versions of Living. As much as I love and indefensibly devour them all (Weddings? hello?), I have neither the disposable income nor free time to warrant a subscription of every one. Also, smoldering envy.

Love you like a disinherited little sister,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Brain:

The fact that we finally got around to seeing Stranger than Fiction does not warrant a dream cruise with Will Ferrell aboard the SS Inappropriate. I’m sure he’s an attractive man, but… I have to respect myself in the morning. At the very least, I have to live—and I would prefer to do so without putting out my mind’s eye.

I'll take Steve Carell avec beard,
Beedoo

* * *
Dear Jen:

I thought about blaming the brain for the dreams about babysitting my adorable niece and nephew, but I think we all know whose fault that is. Don’t we.

Bring dem babies back, now, y’hear?
(Aunt) Beedoo

* If you feel impelled to ease your conscience, I have a donation system all worked out. Email me.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Dear Beedoo,

I love you. Move to Colorado. Even my dog misses you.

Love,
Me