Dear Carl Peterson:

It's about time, you SOB!!!!

Thrilled -
me ( and the rest of KC)

Dear Beyonce/Sasha Fierce:

If he liked it, then he probably WOULD'VE put a ring on it. Did you ever think about that?

So very tired of your song in my head-
me

Dear Kansas City Chiefs' Cheerleaders:

If it's cold enough to wear your big puffy down coats, perhaps you ahouls also be wearing some pants instead of your bikini bottoms. Just sayin'.

Sincerely -
One of the few Chiefs' fans left.

Dear tasteless truck-drivers,

(As suggested by Cygnus...)

Come, come, now. Let's be reasonable. You are a tool.

The earth will experience more than one ice age before I roll down my window on the highway and give my phone number to you, despite your waving and nodding, and the fact that you've been driving adjacent to me for the past mile and a half. Why? Because you are a tool. How do I know this? Easy.
1. You have a sticker on your window that says "My other toy has tits."
2. You have empty boxes of Natural Light in your truck bed.
3. You have bull testicles hanging from your hitch. Which, of course, means that your balls are showing. And no matter the situation, all other things being equal, if I can say to you "Excuse me, but your balls are showing." I've gained the upper hand. Indefinitely.

Sincerely (singing),

Nevagonnagetitnevagonnagetit

Dear FAFSA

I hate you. I wish I could understand your cruel, cold-hearted ways. How you give me the run-around for days with your hundreds of forms and ugly fill-in-the-blanks. You stare blankly back at me when I yell at you. And then, after all we've been through together, you tell me that you expect me to contribute 44% of my annual income to my education. What are you, a sub-prime mortgage!?

Bastard.

Sincerely,

Future MPA, no thanks to you.

Dear Walgreens:

I think that every year we have this conversation. It seems that you don't listen to me Walgreens. I know you enjoy Halloween, and that you try to get a big push in sales this year, but the depths you're going to - well - let's just say that you're getting desperate, Walgreens. And no one likes a needy drug store.

The flying ghouls, the severed heads, the creppy sound effects in every corner, the fake cobwebs covering food and make-up items, the spider rings, the tombstones, the pumpkins. It's only the beginning. Why do you feel like you have to try so hard? You know that you are the only drug store for me, but when fall comes around, well, you're just a bit clingy. I know that if I need Halloween candy you're right down the street. I know that you carry an assortment of Halloween decorations, you don't have to fly them at me, or put them in every aisle to make sure I have enough life-like tombstones with real sound effects for my yard.

I don't need your black and orange Christmas lights for my house, I won't need a black cat pillow for my couch, and I certainly do not need a 12 foot ringwraith flying in my yard. Thanks, but no thanks, Walgreens, on your holiday to nowhere.

-Blech.
-Me.

Dear Mr. Creeper,

No, thank you for the compliment. No, thank you to the offer. No, I do not want to give you a nickname. What was that you just ordered? You want me to put honey in your coffee? Do you just like to hear me say 'honey'? Ass. Stop touching my hand. Stop talking to me. Take your drink and go. You should know, that from now on, I will do my best to see to it that we never speak face-to-face again.

And no, thank you, I don't want to come over and watch your kid.

Hold my hand again, you'll lose it-

Me

Dear John McCain:

What exactly are you trying to say when you say you are the 'Original Maverick'? If by saying that, you hope to evoke images of you and Mel Gibson gambling and sleeping your way all over the Wild West with James Garner and Jodi Foster, then congratulations, that's exactly what comes to mind every time I hear your commercials.

Sincerely -
Confused American Citizen.

Dear Panera Bread,

Why do you always give me the butt-end of the baguette? For once, I would like to taste the warm, sweet delight of the middle.

kiss my crusty butt(end-of-the-baguette),

me

Dear 27 year old Actor playing the lead in Disney's 'High School Musical' at the Local Theatre, reprising a role first done by Zac Efron:

I'm sorry, dude.

Embarrassed for you-
me

Dear Big A** Fans

Dear BigA**Fans,

Thank you for your entertaining billboard on I-35 to make me giggle on my homeward commute every day. However, you should know that while I appreciate your comedic boldness, I will not be buying a fan from a company that has a donkey's caboose as it's logo. Sorry.

Joke's on you,

Cool enough already

Dear Guy in the Blue Pick-Up Truck

As I pulled up next to your truck last evening on the way home from work, I have to admit, I was already a bit cranky. I was sick, I was tired, and had a headache the size of a small continent. I really didn't take too much notice of you at all, until you did something that I almost choke thinking about : You spit. Out the window. ON. MY. CAR.

You may not have noticed. I mean, heck, I have trouble seeing large car-sized objects all the time, especially when they are right next to me. How were you to know that other cars would actually drive on the road at the same time as you and you should LOOK before you decide to make the side of the road (or anywhere for that matter) your personal spitoon.

I can't imagine what a poor germophobe would've done with your loogie on their car. I'm bad enough about spit, I can't type the word loogie without wanting to throw up, let alone look at such a thing. I can't even share a spoon with my husband most of the time because I hate spit that much. So imagine what a stranger's spit must do to me. I can't even type anymore, because I'm fighting my gag reflex too hard. (seriously, my eyes are watering).

So let's just say that on top of everything else that yesterday threw at me, your spit in the wind was just not called for.

Not Charmed,
Me

Dear Whoopi Goldberg:

The Tony Awards were not your best work.

Sincerely,
Probably not the only person who didn't laugh once at your ridiculous schtick.

Dear Tom Cruise:

Your attempt to make me like you by appearing on the MTV movie awards on Sunday night did not even come close to that goal. In fact, it was perhaps one of the more awkward things I've seen you do (and I saw parts of Eyes Wide Shut, thankyouverymuch.) I don't believe for a second you are actually friends with Adam Sandler, nor do I believe that Adam Sandler was flatterd that you showed up and introduced him anyway. To me, you will always remain the creepier, arrogant half of an already whacked out couple. Even though I liked you in The Firm, a Few Good Men, Top Gun, and even Samuri, I will never like you personally. That thing with Oprah? That didn't help either, because I'm not particularly a fan of Oprah, either.

Also, I would like to know what is up with the see-through grey sweater you were rocking at the awards on Sunday. Did you know you could see through it to your man-boobs? Was that a deliberate desicion or a really bad stylist sanfu? Inquiring minds would like to know.

Sincerely not yours,
(ever),
Me

Dear Sales Guy from Pictage:

First of all, I am not your girlfriend, you don't have to call me everyday.
Secondly, I am not your mother, and consequently don't need an update about your kids.
Third, I am not a friend, and don't need to chit-chat about the weather when you call.
Fourth, and this is the most important, I am not an interested customer, as I believe I said to you in our first conversation.

Please delete my number from your base of clients, and delete me from your life. Thank You.

Bothered to the point of being creeped out,
Me.

Dear Simon Cowell:

I completely agree with your assessment of Fantasia's performance last night on American Idol. The only thing that saved it in my opinion was this face:

which was caught gleefully on camera for about two whole seconds. Thank you for bringing me just a tad bit of joy during that hot mess of a train wreck.

Still laughing -

Me

P.S. button your shirt, you tool!

Dear Heart:

Sorry about the Burger King last week. Twice.

Regretfully yours,
me

Dear Swell Season:

Thank you. Just. . . thank you.

blissed out and yours -
me

Dear lady behind me yesterday on Metcalf:

Trying to light a cigarette, replace your phone battery, and see over the dog on your lap does not a good driving situation make.

Pull over.

Sincerely,
The lady you gave the middle finger to when you were too distracted to see I was there, and almost careened into the back of me. (Clearly my fault, I deserved that middle finger.)

Dear Slim-Fast Optima Peanut Butter Crunch 120 calorie snack bars:

I though you were going to be lame. I admit, I did not hold much hope for you, especially after trying some of the other products in your line.

(I mean really, have you tasted whet your people call a meal bar? )

But oh, sweet, dear, lovely, delicious snack bar.....you are the answer to my midday drudgery, my post-mail stupor, you are the deliciousness that quenches my hunger.....and all because you my love, tatse exactly like a Butterfinger bar....

Thank you.

-Peanut butter-ally satisfied,
Me.