Dear Mr. “Gmoney,”
I think I’d respond to you much more favorably if you’d included an “ESQ” behind your name. I feel the addition of ESQ to your name would give your name a true punch, it would go the proverbial distance, and ask, nay, DEMAND respect. Gmoney, ESQ sounds a lot more powerful than the pedestrian “Gmoney” you used to sign your comment.
I wanted to apologize for suggesting that I might, “sell my dog, Auggie, for animal testing” after he successfully ate – then vomited up – the fecal matter of my other dog under the table on the white carpet my dining room while I was large, pregnant, and queasy. You’re very right – I am both a shitty human being and was blaming my dog for my own failings.
Would it appease you if I, instead of suggesting I’d sell him for product testing, I suggested I might, as an alternative, make a pair of moccasins out of his hide? I feel that is a more fruitful, comfortable and appropriate idea.
Do let me know. I’ll be anxiously checking my spam filter.
Your Aunt Becky
Dear Packs of Hot Dogs in my Fridge,
I share the semi-unpopular opinion that, there are no finer words in the English language than, “encased meats,” my friends. Except, perhaps, “Hooray Beer.” Or boner. But that’s only one word.
I’ve been warned, a time or two, that I am, in fact eating:
a) bits of fetal pig
I’m not entirely sure if the latter two are actually supposed to be bits of pig lips and/or assholes – I should probably ask for clarification about that.
It’s irrelevant, I suppose, as I will happily nosh upon crushed bits of tiny unborn pigs. We all know that suffering tastes like awesome.
Dear My Son,
I know that I, in a moment of sheer stupidity, said, “woah, these colored bubbles will make your poo turn colors!” I hadn’t been addressing you, and was not, in fact, suggesting that you should take it upon yourself to drink aforementioned bubbles. While I understand that I hadn’t made it clear that “one should not drink colored bubbles, even if one’s poo may turn technicolor,” I would have hoped you’d have not assumed that my words were a green-light for drinking bubbles.
But since I was not more clear, I sincerely hope that you enjoy your colorful poo.
Next time, try Crunch Berries. They may make your mouth feel as though you’ve been chewing glass, but they taste like heaven.
I understand that you’ve been upset with me lately and for that I do apologize. I’d like to point out that, at no time, did I:
a) threaten to sell you to the gypsies
b) threaten to send you to Lady Gaga to become her newest hairpiece
c) threaten to plaster you with ads for Viagra.
Which makes me concerned that you’ve misunderstood the arrangement we’ve got – you function, and I continue to let you be groped by the pretty lady doctor every four to six months. I thought we had a deal.
Unless the “thing” growing on you is a tumor full of hair and teeth, I’m not happy with your behavior. Not. Happy. Thyroid.
Don’t make me send you to live with Marilyn Manson.
Dear My Nigerian Relatives,
Words cannot express how happy I am to learn that you, of all people, have died and left me a substantial fortune. I’d always dreamed that blogging would be the reason I’d procure a yacht, and here you are, practically handing me millions of pounds, if only I return your email with my bank account number, my social security code, my mother’s maiden name, and my favorite sleeping position.
Since I have gotten no less than 30 of these emails in the last two weeks, I’ve begun to purchase luxury items on credit – like a snow-cone maker and a blinged-out Pimp Cup. As my creditors have been calling, demanding I pay for my “Meat on a Stick” machine, I sincerely hope that you are already on your way to transfer that money into my account. I’m pretty sure that my pony on roller-skates will soon grow weary of living in my (rather small) backyard. Or maybe she’s just mad that I spray-painted her pink.
Not to be rude, but thanks for dying – I’m finally going to realize my dream of turning my basement into a ball pit after I Velcro my bedroom wall so that I can stick to it. That, my dear Nigerian Family Member, is worth, in my biased opinion, more than life. Unless it’s mine. Because I’m worth about $3.28. So thanks for being dead!
Sorry you’re dead,