A Series Of Open Letters To Various Things Around My House
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.
Yours Always,
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
b) lips
c) assholes.
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.
Hungrily Yours,
Becky
—————-
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.
Love,
Mom
——————
Dear Thyroid,
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.
Always,
Becky
———————
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.
Anyway.
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!
Er.
Sorry you’re dead,
Aunt Becky
A few thoughts:
1: I cordially invite “Gmoney” to take a cue from the dog and eat fecal droppings, then follow the example set by your Nigerian relatives and pass on..
2: One of Uncle Grayhawk’s all time favorite breakfast meats is scrapple, which may, in fact, be one of the only meat products sold for human consumption that uses stuff they won’t put in hot dogs (or, as a friend, the son of a butcher, once put it “Bungs tongues and lungs). And like you, I don’t care. Fill my plate and bring me more every 20 minutes until someone passes out – then bring it every 10 minutes.
Have a lovely day,
WHOA. Weird. My nigerian relatives died too!! Was there some kind of natural disaster there?! I mean really, what are the odds!??
That was fucking *EPIC*, you should print it, frame it, and put it on your wall. But if you did that for every post I liked, you’d not only have them on your wall…you’d also have them on your ceiling. If you do get the ball pit, let me know… I’ll be coming over. 🙂
I will happily toast you with encased meats.
You should go to the “Banterist” blog and read what he did with the Nigerian relatives he had. It has like 4 parts. It’s epic funny.
Mmmmm… suffering unborn pigs smothered in ketchup, mustard and relish…. Now I need to go to the store for hot dogs!
Great… Now I want hot dogs for lunch… yummy, deliciousness in a bun, covered in mustard and sauerkraut (don’t judge me!).
I wonder if we’re related!?? My Nigerian relatives passed away recently, too… Though, I don’t really want to share my inheritance, if you get the ball pit I will consider it! Velcro on the walls; now I hadn’t thought of that, but it does sound fun. I was thinking of getting one of those indoor skydiving things put in my house somewhere…
As for Mr. Gmoney, “shut your whore mouth”!
i want a pimp cup
I was thinking I might reply to the Nigerians and ask them to send me some good faith money. You know, I heard they were scamming people, so how about they send me $300 of good faith money, to prove they’re real. And then laugh all the way to the bank with my $300. 😀
The bubbles thing cracked me up. Totally something my daughter would do.
Food coloring in frosting (or anything, for that matter). TECHNICOLOR POOP
Hahahahahahahahaha!! It is amazing the things you don’t even imagine are something you would have to say to your children that are in all reality (or unreal-ity at my house) entirely necessary! I actually had to say ” NO stabbing your sister with a pitchfork!” Really?!!!
P.S. my kids broke my Pimp cup.
Actually, According to this site:
http://www.coolquiz.com/trivia/explain/docs/worth.asp
You’re worth around $4.50
So… You’re worth more then you thought.
Dear Gnomey,
Off is the general direction in wish I would like you to fuck, thanks bunches you ginormous twat waffle.
Speaking of waffles of a completely different variety, I am thinking of the delicious, spherical delights called Eggos, which my dad thinks go splendily with scrapple, or his favorite delicacy, GOETTA. I find them both gross, but I do love me some ground up pig lips and ass, what Aunt Becky calls “hot dogs”…
I think scrapple and goetta and my dad’s other (horrid smelling) fave BRAUNSCHWIGER are mostly a midwestern thing…I’ve mentioned these wonderful food products in the company of my best pal who’s lived in CALI most of her life and I saw her internal dialog contemplating our continued friendship…but hey, she’s also a vegan, she’ll NEVER get it.
Many years ago a stray cat came to my house. I avoided feeding it hoping it would go away but alas, that wasn’t meant to be. I finally fed it. I called it “Not My Cat”. The next day Not My Cat went into heat and two months later deposited a litter of four kittens in the shed behind the house. Exactly six weeks after giving birth the whore cat left and I had four kittens to find homes for. I put a notice on the bulletin board at work “Free kittens to good home or for medical experiments. I don’t really care which.” After all, they were Not My Cat’s kittens, right? Dear God in heaven, I thought I wouldn’t survive the onslaught of people ranting and raving and threatening physical harm because I was going to give tiny cute kittens to medical experiments. Really folks? I worry about people.
I can’t decide which letter is my favorite. I’m leaning towards hot dogs. Mostly because I’m hungry and would really like an encased meat right about now. And just yesterday I was talking about boners and wondering which expression came first boner or bone her? What are your thoughts on this?