Dear Open Letter,
Well, lookatchoo! All open and shit. You’re such a smug jackass. What do you want from me? Overly dramatic indignation? Cheap humor? And for what? So other people can read it? Why not keep my stupid thoughts inside my head where they belong?
I’ll give you credit, you are versatile. Hell, I can write an open letter to just about anyone and anything.
Why is it every time I type your name the computer automatically sticks that funky dash above the E? It doesn’t do it when I type touche. Oh no, all I get then is an obnoxious red line underneath. Who the hell do you think you are? Supreme Queen Ruler of the Universe?
Yeah, you are, I admit it. Carry on.
Why do you lie to me? You never pop out of my toaster. You just get jammed in there, then I reach in and bits of you break off. I’m forced to bite into a charred piece of cardboard and get third degree burns on my tongue from your scalding lava frosting. I know I should like you, but halfway through eating you I have serious doubts if it’s worth it.
Dear Viral Videos on the Internet:
What the hell? Seriously? Really? You are popular because….? Is the key to be mildly entertaining while ridiculously obnoxious? Please, enlighten me. And tell me what to do so I can become pretend famous for five seconds then slide back into obscurity so I can eat my Pop-Tarts in peace.
Damn, Beardy, lately you’ve been getting around. You show up everywhere. It was with pure delight I watched you adorning the manly-man-chins of the entire Boston Red Sox team. I’m certain at one point the Cardinals’ pitcher wasn’t sure whether to strike you out or grab his sickle and go fishing for Jimmy Hoffa in that rat’s nest.
But it’s gone too far, ZZ Top. Us women don’t like kissing Brillo pads. I don’t think you guys really think the mountain man look is trendy so much as you’re just too freaking lazy to shave.
So in protest I’m going to grow out my own beard and stop shaving my legs until this beard trend stops. It’ll be my own personal quest to see which body part morphs into Robin William’s forearm first. You with me, ladies?
What the hell? Seriously? Really? You are a piece of work. Either I’m worrying about you in the future or bitching about you from the past. You think you’re all that and a bag of microwave Bacon-Flavored Pork Rinds. Well, you can’t break me, you sneaky sonofabitch. Screw you.
Whew! You know, that felt good, Open Letter! I’ve contributed absolutely nothing to society, but you’ve saved me tons of therapy! Thanks!
What open letter would you love to write? Feel free to unload your contempt in the comments so we all can get our panties in a bunch about it.