An Open Letter To March

Dear March,

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

An Open Letter To The Shirt I Just Bought That Says "Not Machine Washable, Dry Clean Only"

Dear Shirt,

You're never going to get cleaned. I just thought you should know that.

Thanks,
Shawn

An Open Letter To My Pretentious Neighbor

Dear Pretentious Neighbor,

Well hello there, how are you? Every time I see you in the parking lot, which is often as our cars are parked next to each other, I smile and say “hi.” I feel it’s the neighborly thing to do. I don’t want to be your friend, I’m not going to invite you over for dinner and I’m sure as shit not going to knock on your door to borrow a cup of sugar. But a little civility between individuals who inhabit the same building is nice. Isn’t that what separates man from beast?

Apparently, you do not feel the same way. You’ve consistently ignored me for a year. Even if you’re on the phone, which you always are because I guess you’re just soooo important, a head nod would be nice. Ya know, act like you’re acknowledging my presence on this earth.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you are such a snob. We pay the same amount of rent for Christ’s sake! It’s not like you’re whooping it up in the penthouse and I’m some lowly basement dweller. In fact, I live above you, bitch! Is it because you drive an expensive sports car? Um, nope. Don’t get me wrong, your BEIGE Diamante is awesome and all, but my Neon could kick it’s ass. BEIGE is quite an interesting choice for a single guy. I saw you washing it by hand the other day for THREE HOURS and that made perfect sense seeing as how there’s a goddamn car wash right across the street from us. And… you didn’t wash any of the BEIGE off.

I’ve also noticed that you like to grill out. You do look like a stud with your mini grill and bag chair. Oh, and when you had people over the other night and all six of you stopped talking when I got out of my car and walked to the door, well, that didn’t make me feel awkward at all. You and your friends suck. They looked like Abercrombie-wearing, former frat boy, date-raping, micro-brew drinking pieces of shit. Just like you.

Oh, and one more thing. Since you’ve lived here for a year, could you please get your out-of-state license plates changed already! Oh, what? Too good to live in Illinois?! Fuck you.

I hope you get drunk and burn your eyebrows off with your mini grill,

Brooke Amanda

An Open Letter To Tostitos Scoops

Dear Tostitos Scoops,

I apologize for the tardiness of my letter, as I realize you’ve been on the market for the last few years. But as I’m sitting here tonight, enjoying my friend’s homemade salsa, I’m wondering how the hell anyone ever ate salsa (or any dips) before you came along?

I know that flat tortilla chips are still made, but I shudder to think what kind of child-molesting cretin would even bother with those flat bitches? Flatties don’t hold a candle to your voluptuous curves that envelope a dip like an old lover in a tender embrace. You not only hold my salsa with confidence, but you ensure that every last bit of it makes it to my mouth and not my shirt. Your shape reminds me of the cradle used to hold the blessed baby Jesus. And when food resembles a religious figure, you know it’s going to be delicious. God bless the person who created you! There’s a special place in heaven for this tortilla chip saint.

Keep On Scooping,
Brooke Amanda

An Open Letter to My Friend Janie

Dear Janie,

Look, I understand. We've all let ourselves go at some point in our lives. We stop watching every little thing we eat and it winds up catching up with us. Perfectly normal.

That said, I feel like I have to intervene. Sweetie, you're getting really fat. I started noticing it a few months ago, probably before anyone else did. Just a very slight hump where there used to be a flat belly. Not a big deal, but I was concerned. But then it just continued to grow, like a mutant watermelon. I've even noticed that you've started wearing looser clothes to compensate. Sad, really. But what's sadder is the way you've seemingly embraced your newfound obesity. You almost seem proud of it!

Normally, I wouldn't say anything. You're my friend whether you're as skinny as a runway model or as big as a house. But it's not healthy to blow up as quickly as you have. The others won't tell you the truth. They seem amused by it, running up to feel your belly like you're the second coming of Buddha. They're enablers, but I can't stand idly by.

The thing is, you know I'm right. I noticed that you've even packed a "hospital bag". Clearly you're aware of the impact your quick weight gain has had on your heart and have simply resigned yourself to your upcoming coronary. I urge you to reconsider, Janie. It's not too late to get on a diet plan and return to your former glory.

With concern,
Shawn

P.S. What does your husband Jeff have to say about this? And why did I see him buying cigars the other day? Are you both trying to ruin your health as quickly as possible??

An Open Letter to the Dudes in the House

An Open Letter to the Dudes in the House

Dear Fellas:

What is the deal with the hitting on me when I'm at my worst thing? I can be a sweaty, dirty, unwashed mess in a sloppy t-shirt and baggy yoga pants and you pick this time to flirt with me? I run to the Home Depot in the middle of a home improvement project or I schlep into PetSmart covered in dog fur to get Snuggles' nails ground down and apparently my ungroomed appearance translates to "Please check me out." I just don't get it. Why not when I'm all dolled up in a dress and red lipstick and all that crap? I have polled some male friends to figure out this phenomenon and I still don't understand. Don't get me wrong. It's flattering and all but it's just that..., seriously what the crap?

Please. Enlighten me.

Thanks,

Heather

cc: All mah grrrrrrrrls in the house... does this happen to you, too???

An Open Letter To The Boogeyman In My Closet

Dear Boogeyman,

While you're in there, would you mind separating my button down shirts from my tees? At some point, they got all mixed together and it's become quite the hassle trying to get dressed in the morning.

Thanks so much,
Shawn

An Open Letter to the Unmarried Peoples of the World

This is an open letter to anyone planning on getting married. Ever.

(Please excuse the all-caps. I am not yelling, I am just typing loudly.)

Dear unmarried peoples of the world:

CAMO IS NOT AN OPTION FOR YOUR WEDDING FINERY. AT LEAST, IT SHOULDN'T BE. IT IS INAPPROPRIATE. INAPPROPRIATE, I TELL YOU, UNLESS YOU PLAN ON HUNTING DOWN AND KILLING YOUR SPOUSE AT THE RECEPTION AND YOU DON'T WANT THEM TO SEE YOUR GARTER BELT COMING. IN WHICH CASE, YOU SHOULD ALSO CONSIDER RUBBING YOURSELF DOWN WITH THEIR URINE FIRST, WHICH WILL, I'M TOLD, MASK YOUR OWN ODOR LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU TO BE ABLE TO GET RIGHT UP BEHIND THEM SO YOU CAN GET A CLEAR SHOT. THAT IS THE ONLY SITUATION IN WHICH CAMOUFLAGE WEDDING ACCESSORIES ARE IN ANY WAY ACCEPTABLE. DO YOU KNOW WHY? BECAUSE THEY ARE HIDEOUS.

DESPITE WHATEVER THIS SITE MAY HAVE YOU BELIEVE.

Thanks for listening. It needed to be said.

Love always,
JuliaD

p.s.: shit-coloured roses probably aren't the best idea either, just so you know.

An Open Letter to Inspector No. 84

An Open Letter to Inspector No. 84

Dear Inspector No. 84:

I found your little inspection sticker on my underpants. I just wanted to say, thank you for inspecting my underpants. That was really nice of you. Also, I was just curious… do you have a badge or a license or something? Because I bet you could get a lot of girls that way. Telling them you’re an Official Underpants Inspector. Girls love classy stuff like that.

Thanks again,

Heather

An Open Letter to the Moth That Got Into My Closet

An Open Letter to the Moth That Got Into My Closet and Chewed Itty-Bitty Holes into My Favorite Pair of Pants


Dear Moth:

Not cool, dude. Not. Cool.

Yours truly,

Owner of Pants


P.S. What other things do you hate? Cuz I’m certainly not using those stinky moth balls to get rid of you so you can forget that. I refuse to let my clothes smell like those of an octogenarian. Shall I toss a Nickelback CD in there at you? Just kidding. I would never buy a Nickelback CD.

An Open Letter To Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley,

Why the fuck are you EVERYWHERE? How do I even know who you are? I thought I was done with your hillbilly family after your dad's incredibly annoying "Achy Breaky Heart" finally faded away. But no, he had an ace in his pocket (or should I say his sperm) when you were born. I first remember hearing about you because my nephew had a crush on your ass a few years ago. That's when you were better known as "Hannah Montana" and hadn't yet blossomed into the full-blown whore you are now.

At first, I thought, "What a cute kid. She's funny and she can sing, too." Then, almost overnight, you turned into this big-lipped 16 year old slut who's fucking a 20 year old. Hmm, do you still wear your purity ring? I'm thinking that's a big "hell no" since the last pics I saw of you were not so pure. You had on a wet, white t-shirt with a bikini top underneath and you were helping your fuck buddy "wash" his car. I'm just curious, aren't you a millionare? Couldn't you PAY someone to wash the damn car? Or did you just want to get some wet t-shirt pics into all the tabloids?


I can't wait until five years from now when you will either be a complete washed up has been ala your daddy or just another strung out drug addicted child star ala Lindsey Lohan. You better get knocked up soon so you too can have a dynamic kid just like yourself and ride their coat tails when you're forty... and the tale of the Cyrus family saga continues.

P.S.- I hope you and your loser best friend read this and then make fun of it on your super cool YouTube broadcasts. They are not dumb, lame, or mindnumbing to watch whatsoever.

Hope this makes you cry,
Brooke Amanda