Dear Answers.com (or is it "WikiAnswers"? I don't really know),
Just the other day, I was finishing up my presentation to the National Board of Endangered Species Protection, and I needed to know how many camels were left in the world. The usual sources of information were of no help, so in desperation I turned to you:
And, as I expected, your reputation remained untarnished as you supplied me with the correct answer in record time:
Thanks, Answers.com! I'll let you know how the presentation goes!
Written from the center of the crosswalk, heading from the Best Buy parking lot to the store:
What's the rush? Hey, you see that sign there? The one with the pretty red paint and the white letters and the octagonal shape? Yeah, that's a stop sign. It means, "Take your stupid foot off your stupid gas pedal and put it on your stupid brake pedal." You ignorant hunchback. The more impatient you look, the slower I will walk. I might even decide I need to start crawling, or pull out a pen and paper and compose a letter while you sit there in your fancy pants automobile, listening to some sort of god awful music that sounds like the screams of a thousand innocent souls. Best Buy isn't going anywhere. Not today, anyway. Just chill, dude-mar. Just chill.
Written from my car while stopped, waiting for pedestrians to go from the parking lot into Best Buy and vice versa:
I mean, I know it would be physically possible for you to walk a little slower, but can't we test out the limits of your turtle-like progression at another time?? I just want to get to my parking space and get inside, you know? Oh, that's wonderful, more people are coming out of the store now and I'll have to wait for them as well! My car is starting to overheat! WHY ARE YOU SHUFFLING YOUR FEET?? Are you afraid you might step on a stingray? Pick up the pace, you ASSOSAURUS!
I never tried you before today. I was fearful of what you may do to my body and stuck closely by my trusty Cup O’Joe to give me the boost I needed to make it through my work day. But I had a horrible sleep last night and my coffee mug and energy levels were on low, so I decided to give you a shot. After all, my co-worker takes you all the time, so I thought, “What’s the worst that could happen? Cardiac arrest? Seizures?”
So throwing caution to the wind I guzzled down just half a bottle to play it on the safe side. And, boy oh boy, you didn’t disappoint, Energy! At first I felt no difference, but within minutes I could feel my heart racing and my head spinning. Dare I say I even felt a bit drunk. Is that your secret ingredient, Energy? Alcohol?
With my new found buzz, I was able to speed through the last remaining hours of my workday with all the hopped up jittery-ness of a crackhead who just got a big fix after weeks of withdrawal. Thanks, Energy! I am choosing to ignore the moments in my day when I felt like I was going to faint and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking… and the point were I crashed so hard I felt like a coma victim and wasn’t sure if I could drive home. The point is, you did perk me up and that’s all that matters!
You have to be the dumbest game ever put on this planet, and I include Monopoly in that number. God, you're so retarded, and anyone who plays you is equally retarded! I, for one, do not intend to ever play you again. And I mean that.
One more level, and I'm done.
All right, well, that one was easy, but after this next level, I am deleting you and you will be out of my life forever.
God, has anything on this earth ever been invented that is as useless as that green boomerang bird?? Oh, right. Egg shaped bird.
Ok, I'm done. Seriously. I'm not going to spend the next fifteen minutes trying to knock down that structure and kill those bitchly-ass pigs. It doesn't even make sense. The physics are terrible. Goodbye. Turning it off.
Good gravy, what in the world did you two eat? Are you even aware that your farts can penetrate Kevlar? The next time I need to sandblast something I'll just bottle some of your abominable flatulence. You have a permanent fog hovering around you like Pigpen from Peanuts. I no longer have any nose hair. Your farts can peel varnish and dissolve acid. True story, I once saw a pit bull fart make Chuck Norris cry. The smell is so bad my eyes are watering and my nose is running. And by "my nose is running" I mean, like, my nose literally jumped off my face and ran away in fear and revulsion. It went into the Witness Protection Program and now I'll never find it. The fallout is truly heinous. The blast radius is the width of a city block. I now have a new theory for what killed off the dinosaurs.
Nobody cares that your kid made the honor roll and absolutely no one cares that your kid beat up another honor roll student.
Nobody cares who you voted for in the last election and no one was going to blame you, anyway.
Nobody cares about your fish, or about your fish with legs.
Nobody gives a flying shitwaffle if you have a baby on board, or what the make-up of your family looks like, as created by stick figures.
Nobody cares if Jesus is your co-pilot, if you're "salt life", who you support in the NASCAR event, if you never learned anything else about Islam after 9/11, if your other car is a broomstick, if you'd rather be fishing, or WHAT YOU THINK CALVIN SHOULD BE PISSING ON!
In the past we have posted a handful of guest blogger letters, but here's the breaking news: we have officially decided to take submissions of your own Open Letters to post on this here blog! Can you even believe it? Click the badge on the sidebar if you've got something to say. An esteemed Board of Directors will make a decision on the letters that will make the final cut, and who knows? Maybe you'll see your name in lights one day! And by "name in lights" I mean "name on this blog".
It's been a pleasure and a delight to use your speech recognition software, freeing my hands to publish more important tacks such as: digging through the bag of Cheetos for those final crimes, messing about with my electronic cigarette, and handwriting ideas for future blog posts. It will only be a matter of time before I can dispense with my keyboard and mouse altogether, thus earning me the final merit badge in my quest to become the laziest man alive.
Many would shy away from writing a letter such as this for fear that it might be seen as an improper product indoors mint. Not I however, when a piece of software is capable as you are Dragon pirouette peer. I have no qualms about shouting it from the nearest rooftop. And make no mistake about it, I really am shouting. I have to, because this microphone is a piece of ship. new paragraph new parent graph new scratch hat god be jesus what the hell
So, you make a few mistakes and typos here and there. So what? If I can fully convince our readers to expect this level of grammatical correctness, I will soon be able to outsource my post to a Third World country for pennies on the dollar and retire to the coast of Mexico for a lifetime of good tequila and long siestas.
What the crap? Why are you exempt from Daylight Saving Time? That is so unfair, State of Arizona. I, for one, am not a happy camper. This business of springing forward, falling back, hopping sideways, and skipping in circles is getting a little frigging old. And I will be hating my alarm clock with that little bit of extra fervor come Sunday. But you, Arizona? You’ll be happy as a clam, secure in the knowledge that 8 AM is still 8 AM and all is right with the world. Except for the part of the world that is springing forward! Lame!
So this is how you’re going to play it, huh? Beautiful, sunny and 65 degrees one day, then frigid, snowing and 30 degrees the very next day. What the hell?! You’re such a little cocktease. Do I need to bust out my capris and sandals or stick to winter coats and boots?
I know you’re supposed to come in like a lion and out like a lamb, but starting off like a lamb and then flipping the script is NOT COOL. Not cool at all. Don’t make me start to hate you more than I already hate February because, trust me, you don’t want that kind of wrath coming down on you full-force.
All this back-and-forth with Mother Nature has got me in a very pissy mood. If you two could possibly reach a decision within the next couple of days to, ya know, maybe make the next few weeks sunny with moderate temps that would be just fabulous. I know everyone in Illinois would thank you from the bottom of our warmth-deprived hearts.
Waiting patiently for some nice weather, Brooke Amanda
For years, I regarded you as a bit of an ass. I thought that if Open Letters had existed in your day, surely our contributor Brooke would have taken you to task for what she would only have been able to term, "incorrigible douchery". After all, who signs their name that way? It smacked of the class clown in high school who had to find some insignificant way to draw attention to themselves.
It appears, however, I have an apology to make. I recently read Thomas Rogers' account of your stay in the Massachusetts House of Representatives, where he praises you for "blazing a whig of the first magnitude" in defiance of the British. Why have we never heard of this? We hear all about the Boston Tea Party and various boycotts, but never about this stunning display of bravery.
Something epic like this, I imagine
In any case, my truest apologies to you. I have now decided to make you one of my all time heroes, alongside such great patriots as Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and Rocky Balboa. Shine on, you crazy whig-burning diamond.
I know this might seem like it's completely out of the blue, but... well... how do I say this? To put it as gently as possible, I'm breaking up with you, you jackhole. I know, I know... I'm sorry. We've had some great times. We really have. Remember that shopping spree at Anthropologie? Remember when I got LASIK? Remember when Snuggles had to have unexpected surgery? Yeah... I'm still paying for those things. Not cool, you know? Your manipulative ways have held me captive in your unrelenting grasp for too long. I've come to realize I'm just another number in your little black book. Account No. XXXX XXXX XXXX 0231, actually.
And so, Credit Card, I'm cutting you off. I'm cutting you out of my life completely. And, well, I'm actually going to literally cut you up as well. And believe me when I say it will hurt me more than it will hurt you. Because I will actually have to start paying for things. And it's going to sting for a while. But in the end, it will turn out for the best. For both of us. Well... maybe not for you. But definitely for me. And hey, chin up; someday we'll look back on this and laugh.
It's not you. It's me. Well... actually, it is you. It's 100% you, and you suck.
Not so fondly,
Heather (your soon to be debt-free ex)
P.S. I've been seeing someone else. His name is Ca$h Money.