Welcome To Dumpville

Gorgeous Young Lesbians

Dear Gorgeous Young Lesbians, 

I know this may come as a bit of a shock, but I just can’t keep living a lie. You’re great and all, and yes, I love to watch you and talk about you and wonder what it’s like to get to at least hold the camera. But lately, I’ve been feeling a bit…empty, I guess. It’s not that you’re gorgeous and young and lesbamian - it’s that you’re taking over the world, one pointless lick-fest at a time. I don’t even care that the above picture doesn’t accurately represent you, because like all publicity you get, it was just so guys could enjoy staring at you for a minute. 

Look, babe…there’s just not a whole lot I can offer you anymore. Now that you have your own TV shows and cloned-lesbian rock bands, there’s no need for me to be your conduit to the real world. You’re as official as pancakes now, baby. That’s probably a weird analogy, but it’s just because I always enjoy both my lesbians and my pancakes covered in butter and stacked on top of each other. Delicious and practical.

There’s really not much left to say, dude. It’s been pretty damn fun, aside from that night I took you to the strip club. I mean, come on - I thought dirty fat guys were the only people who didn’t think a lap-dance “counted” unless they had an orgasm. But whatever. You did pay for dinner that night, so I didn’t mind. 

I hope we can still be friends, because we actually do have tons in common, no matter what we think our differences are. We both still love miniskirts and boobs and sex with hot young chicks and stuff. Ok, I just saw it too: we pretty much just have pussy in common, huh? Oh well. 

Enjoy your tedious music and your painfully over-reaching and unfunny TV shows. I’ll be walking up and down the street trying to find a girl who loves to fix holes in socks while giving blow jobs. She’s out there; I can feel it. Ok, well I’ve got to get going. My penis just reminded me of its presence, and I feel like I should say hello after being with you for so long.

Later!! (licking between fingers motion, AKA: the “lesbian high five”)

xoxoL 

George Lucas

Dear George Lucas,

We’re so fucking done as hell, you squishy, meta-chinned, egotistical, dried-up, husk of a creative human being. How’s it going? Pretty good, I bet. Especially since you’re completely oblivious to all things besides your bank account and how to ruin the childhood memories of your most loyal fans. I have a feeling it’s not really your fault though, and here’s the [soon-to-be-controversial] reason why: You’re completely overrated as a filmmaker. American Graffiti? Never saw it. More American Graffiti? Oh, shut the fuck up.

Look, you’ve come up with some decent STORIES. The Star Wars universe is pretty deep (just ask this guy); Indiana Jones is a great character, but you let your Jew-master handle the real work. Also, you owe your greatest film to Lawrence Kasdan and Irvin Kershner, and nobody will even try to argue with me on that one, babe.

Sigh…you know, it almost makes me sad that breaking up with you after so many happy years isn’t really making me sad. I won’t be buying your fancy new Blu-Ray saga, because 1) I refuse to pay for something I’ve literally bought four times already, 2) I refuse to accept that a movie that came out when I WAS ONE YEAR OLD has to be “tweaked” because it’s…what, not good enough? And 3) I refuse to keep being a doormat in this relationship. It’s high-time I stood up for myself, George. Consider this letter the blinking-Ewok of our time together: a clear sign that this bitch has run off the rails and burst into flames.

Shove it, George - I don’t even want you to find someone else who will make you happy, because it will probably be someone I know, and I can’t have that on my conscience. And the next time you decide to alter work you did 35 years ago - work that is fucking sacred to some hardcore dweebs - maybe you should just smoke a bowl and get a new idea instead. If you do, let me know; I look forward to not seeing Also Even More American Graffiti.

xoxo

Seth MacFarlane

                                           

Dear Seth MacFarlane,

I hate to do this in a letter, but goddammit - you spend so much time polluting my TV that you’re never even around anymore. WHO NEEDS THAT MANY SHOWS!? I could understand your commitment to total market saturation if, say, maybe one of those shows had a different “voice”, but that’s not the case. Why you think you need 2,000 minutes of airtime a week is a mystery to everyone. Except for everyone in the above picture.

Look, Seth. I don’t hate you - you’ve brought me quite a bit of laughter in the past, but that’s just cosmetic. What you haven’t brought me is a new point of view or the type of comedic voice that can me deemed “special”. And I’m not talking about your golden-sweet, opera-trained voice. It’s pretty good, actually. But you’ve got to stop.

To wrap things up without more empty venting, we’re fucking done, Seth MacFarlane. You’re too busy to even notice you’ve become a tool of the corporate media machine - or maybe you’re just too rich to care. I mean, you did sign a deal w/Fox to keep your “Animation Domination” going through 2012, which may be the actual Apocalypse the Mayans foresaw. The last entry in the Mayan Calendar has a caption underneath it that roughly translates into, “White Man with funny baby and talking animals bring many deaths to Earth. No survivors in Malibu.”

Well, I’ve got to get going - my collector’s edition of The Simpsons: Season 5 just got here, and I’m anxious to see where all of your jokes come from!!

xoxo

Prescription Drugs

                       

Dear Prescription Drugs,

No reason to be coy about this: Holy shit, you’re killing me. KILLING me. Well, not just me - me and all my tough American brothers and sexy American sisters, too. Well..that came out wrong. Too late. I’m rage-typing!!! Quick question, ‘Scripts: What ever happened to actually fixing the things that are wrong with us? We’ve become accustomed to just letting you tell us what to do and how to feel, and it’s high time someone told you to fuck off. That someone is me, and that “fuck off” is right now.

Fuck off, Prescription Drugs. It’s starting to look like you do more harm than good. The numbers don’t lie: For every 1,000 legally-prescribed pills ingested by Americans, one upper-middle-class Caucasian teenager will date outside of his or her race. If that’s not the slap-to-the-dick you needed to see the err of your ways, then I don’t know what will do it.

Look, Drugs…I’m sorry. I think my anger may be doing most of the typing here (it must be, because I keep spelling “puppy” as “pupfuckyoudiediediepy”) - so maybe I should cut you some slack. Yes, you have your merits: Xanax and Flexeril seem to fix anything that doesn’t feel like the skin of a newborn velvet baby, but my brain chemistry is not for you to trifle with. When it comes to my brain, I keep it real, Drugs. Plants only.*

So this is goodbye, Prescription Drugs. I’m done with you, hopefully for good. And like the very last African slave to run screaming into the night from his plantation prison - tasting the exhilarating flavors of only freedom and light internal bleeding on his tongue - I’m only looking back to watch your house burn to the ground. The next time I hurt or need “pain medicine”, I’ll just do what my ancestors did: Take the root of an oak tree, the feathers of a sparrow, throw them in the trash and drink 1 liter of whiskey. Tried and true, bitch.

Sincerely fuck off,

xoxo

* - Unless, you know..it’s the weekend, or I’m at a party or something, and somebody has some ________ that makes the girls wanna ________ like ________s.

American Politics

                                                                        

Dear American Politics,

Wow. Can you believe we made it this long, babe? I can’t either. Especially since you were created with the sole purpose of dividing a national citizenry in hopes of pitting brother against brother, sister against sister, and so on. You and your buddy Religion have done an amazing job at that. So, kudos I guess.

So, let’s get to the meat of this pain sandwich. Look, Politics - I thought you were making some strides a few years ago. There was “hope” in the air and “change” was coming to town. Turns out that the “change” was just a different-colored puppet and the “hope” was more of a verb than an idealistic proper noun, as we’d all been led to believe. Nothing ever changes with you, Politics. You just keep eating your young, shitting out oppression, and keeping an entire populace confused and angry.

Here’s something people don’t seem to want to hear, but I’m going to tell you as a favor, babe: WE DON’T NEED POLITICAL PARTIES. All they do is divide us and cause in-fighting, which is what you seem to specialize in. If there were patents for wasting our money, time, energy, and faith, you’d be richer than Schroogel McDuckenberg, Scrooge McDuck’s Jewish uncle. Ok, that’s pretty dumb, but you get the point.

It’s time to stop treating me and my American bretheren like scraped-off shit, Politics. It’s time to stop underestimating our intellect - not that you don’t have good cause; you’ve been actively pursuing ways to dumb us down for decades. It looks like it’s starting to work.

We’re fucking done, Politics. Yes, I read too many books and use my brain for free-thinking and critical assessments, but that doesn’t make me wrong, and nothing can make what you do right. I hate to get ugly here, but Politics…you’re a real cunt. Have a nice life. Oh, and way to get Black people to finally come out and vote, just so you could trick them out of the only political excitement they’ve felt since 1863.

Leave.

xoxo

Hipster Kids

                                                       

Dear Hipster Kids,

Well, it looks like this may be the easiest breakup letter I’ve ever written. I mean, just look at your stupid little asses. You make me want to set kittens on fire, and Dr. Rosenberg promised me I would never have those feelings again!! Ok…keep it together, Chad.

Now I understand that you kids don’t always have a lot of say in these matters, but that’s not really cutting it anymore. This has to end. Now. The bottom line is, we’re simply too different: I’m just a regular guy with an itchy trigger finger and a deeply-rooted faith in the worship of my Dark Lord, and you’re the spawn of trendy pop culture by-products who wouldn’t know originality if it sat on their cleverly-mustached face at a conformists’ convention. Long story short, we’re through, Hipster Kids.

Look, you’ll find someone new. There’s always going to be shitty flyers for kids’ stores and movie roles playing the younger version of some douchey protagonist. Some people will like you if you’re in movies, probably. But other than that it’ll just be your parents who care. And since they’re possibly figments of our society’s collective imagination - like the economy or wealthy Latinos - they don’t actually have souls and aren’t capable of love. This is going to make your life difficult, Hipster Kids. But don’t worry - maybe your fancy-yet-ironically-simple shoes will love you.

xoxo

Karaoke

      

Dear Karaoke,

Listen, babe - we need to talk. So instead of talking, I decided to write you a letter. I mean come on, karaoke. Did you really think this would last? There are pretty good arguments for you being the worst thing in the world, and that’s no small feat in a world where onion soup and Oprah’s Book Club both exist. So there’s a little perspective for you.

I can’t believe what you do to people, karaoke. It sickens me. It’s like as soon as they’re around you, people forget that they have to see those same co-workers again on Monday, and it’s somehow okay for them to be up there staggering through “Don’t Stop Believing”, sloshing Red Bull & vodka all over the stage. You’re responsible for more workplace ostracizing than HIV and “believing in the Devil” combined! How do you live with yourself, karaoke?

Well, I sure can’t live with you anymore, so I’m leaving. Realizing how awful you are almost makes me glad that you said “No” when I popped the question. All this time I’d thought that you broke my heart that night in Tulsa, along with my nose after those guys kicked the shit out of me when I got off stage. I guess some people just don’t appreciate GG Allin songs during karaoke night at the local steakhouse. But it turns out you set me free.

I hope you find someone with a massive ego and terrible pitch so you can be happy. Though your ironic hilarity has surely worn off in America, they still seem to love you in Japan. But they also love buying used panties from vending machines on the street, so you know.  Work with what you’ve got, I guess.

Ok, I’ve gotta run - someone’s been stealing my blood recently, and I’m close to getting the name of an eyewitness! 

xoxo

Zooey Deschanel

                               

Dear Zooey Deschanel,

Sigh…ok, here goes. Look………FUCK this is hard! I can’t believe I’m actually doing this!! But I am. Zooey, Babe, Z-Luvv… we gotta talk. Look, you’re great and everything, but this just isn’t going to work out. Sure, you have an amazing voice, your cute-indie-pixie-girl cred has reached critical mass, and you have one of the few faces that’s in my mental dictionary under “Possible Causes for Marriage”, but you had to go and ruin it all. Our love just can’t endure your relationship with your husband, or your relationship with bad acting.

Z-Luvv, I love you - you know that. But I can’t sit idly by while you pretend that all the characters you’ve played in films are just the same girl, from different towns. And that’s what it’s starting to feel like. Mmm…but godDAMN that face of yours!! The pale, milky skin..the full, always-moist lips..the eyeballs of some color or other. You’re the total package, babe. Shit, you might even be out of my league, but it’s too late for all that now - I’ve already nailed you! HAHA. j/k…sorry.

Anyways, keep up the work. Especially the singing, but not so much the acting and being married to a guy who has been referred to - by lesser men, in fact - as “queerbait”. Definitely try to keep the face going though; that’s your moneymaker, since you won’t take off your fucking shirt. Ok, I gotta run. Time for my midget kickball league. I’m gonna kick that lousy midget so far..

xoxo

Movie Theater Popcorn

                                

Hey babe. Look, I know it’s shitty to do this in a letter, but well - pretty much everything about “us” was shitty. Like the part where you always just make me shit three hours after we hang out. What’s that all about? Even if I don’t get that butter-flavored poison put all over you, there I am sitting on the toilet, exactly one hour after struggling to sit through Season of the Witch. What the fuck is Nicolas Cage doing? I mean, it’s one thing to make a few bad movies, but it’s something else to only make bad movies. Remember when he was funny? Yeah, he used to be hysterical, actually. But then he got serious and everything went down the tubes. Maybe he can cry and plead and beg the Coen Brothers to write Raising Arizona II: H.I.’s Revenge. That could be pretty awesome.

OK, sorry to go off like that. I just hate seeing actors I grew up watching turn to total shit. Yes, you can go ahead and cut to the front of the line, Robin Williams. It’s cool. Hey, when Old Dogs 2 comes out, don’t let them investigate my suicide. It will only raise further questions.

Movie popcorn, we’re breaking up. I mean, look how angry I get just thinking about you. You’re hanging out with a bad crowd and you make my bowels act like a freshman on everclear. So it’s over. From now on I’ll be enjoying a delicious pretzel at the theater. Or I’ll just eat the rotisserie chicken that I always sneak in under my hat. 

xoxo

Condoms

Dear Condoms,

Sigh. I can’t believe we made it this long, babe. To be honest, we’re just way too different. See, I’m a person, and you’re a toxic little coffin that tries to strangle my penis while making it think it’s inside a shopping bag. And that’s not cool. To be honest, I really didn’t know how different we were until that night I forgot to bring you with me to Michelle’s house.

I naturally assumed that because you weren’t with me that no sex could happen, but man  was I wrong! Michelle was totally cool with it, and let me tell you something, condoms: if it weren’t for all the bumpy/oozy things you can prevent, you’d be less useful than a Kardashian - and they were just voted Armenia’s most needless export (they barely beat out “West Armenian scabies”).

OH WAIT - damn, I forgot about how you can prevent babies from shooting out of the ol’ beef bayonet. I sure as shit don’t want one of those. Wait - she can’t get pregnant in the face, can she? Let me check something.. [Googling sounds] Ok, yeah - we’re through, condoms. I know, I know - STDs or some shit. Look, I won’t have to worry about that if I just marry Michelle and never have sex with anyone else, right? Hey, wait a second…. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

xoxo