by Bob Wire
March 21, 2011 in Open Letters, Politics, republicans
Dear Newt-
You know, I really hope that you at least make it to New Hampshire in the upcoming 2012 GOP primary race. That is, if you can ever untangle the byzantine snarl of seedy, overlapping financial gimmes you’ve got going and actually declare yourself as a candidate. Read the rest of this entry →
June 9, 2010 in Open Letters
Hey, it was really good to see you last weekend. I’d been thinking about you earlier that morning, knowing we were going to be in Manhattan later in the day, and that a quick stop to your place would be the perfect ending to a hot, hectic afternoon of errands.
Listen, you know how I feel about you. You do something for me that nothing else can (outside the Easter holiday). Whatever else is planned for the day, I save you for last. I like to linger with you, to hold your cool festively-designed paper cup lovingly in my warm, capable hand. Sometimes I like to lean into you and lick a small piece of you into my hot mouth, pulling you into me with my tongue. Other times I like to simply spoon you in, bite by exquisite bite. Either way, my very soul shudders with an explosion of sensation when you enter me. Read the rest of this entry →
March 17, 2010 in Love, Open Letters
To say I love you is to downplay all the heavy, heady feelings your unique goodness stirs inside of me. To say you are merely a treat, a candy, a whim, is to ignore the sensory explosion a mere taste of you awakens within me. Cadbury Creme Egg, your thick hard milk chocolate shell breaks under the gentle pressure of my teeth to yield the soft creamy fondant hidden inside. When I first taste the pleasure that is your pearly gooey goodness, my taste buds blossom as they drink in your rich flavor.
I think you know, Cadbury Creme Egg, that I am addicted to you. Read the rest of this entry →
by KissTheBoys
November 16, 2009 in Facebook Ethics, Open Letters
As much as I love you, I can’t help you.
I can’t help you locate lost sheep, or help you farm. If I wanted to farm, I would move back to North Dakota.
I can’t help you find loot, or put out a hit on someone you don’t like. It goes against my morals.
November 5, 2009 in Open Letters, Things Very Necessary
I’m sorry it took me so long to come around. Forgive me, okay? I didn’t know. When I first heard about that other PM, I didn’t buy it. It was your old nemesis Tylenol and it had managed to lure not just my mother, but my aunt and both my grandparents into its relaxing embrace. When they talked in that loud, know-it-all way they had about its unusually effective ability to guide them to Sleepytown, I wasn’t impressed. It’s just Tylenol, I said to my mother. What a rip.
by Anna
October 9, 2009 in Facebook Ethics, Open Letters
Why should I give you access to my life? You are obviously not a friend anymore. We were tight in high school and remained super close when we went away to college, but now you don’t seem to think I exist. I was part of your crowd. I was a bridesmaid at your wedding. I spoke at your fucking wedding. I know that I hurt you when I was sick. But we have talked, I have made amends to you.
September 16, 2009 in Open Letters
To whom it may concern:
The world is a very complex, involved place. While you do not feel the need to report on the endless conflict in Sri Lanka, the fact that Joe Wilson (R-Douchebag) inadvertently raised $800k for his opponent, and the “public health care option” is a mindless concession to bureaucrats who already have terrific insurance, you insist on publishing a daily piece chastising fat women. Today’s special, “Once Bullied, Token Fat Girl Sheds 110 lbs”, really spoke to me, MSNBC.
September 9, 2009 in Open Letters
Dear Mr. Carter a.k.a. “Lil Wayne” a.k.a. “Weezy”,
When Gene Siskel prematurely departed this mortal coil ten years ago, the responsibility of determining the aesthetic criteria for the success of any mainstream movie fell solely on Roger Ebert’s corpulent lap. For a few years thereafter, the Siskel void found itself filled with a weird cavalcade of b-team celebrities and critics until Richard Roeper, Chicago Sun Times fellow and poor Siskel facsimile, took up residence in its lanky, becardiganed shadow.
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