End Of The Year Letters

End Of The Year Letters

Merry Christmas everyone!! I still haven't sent our Christmas cards out, but as long as they're postmarked in 2006 it's okay right. Everyone else seems to be lagging too, I received about 20 cards the day before Christmas.

One of my New Year's resolutions is to be a nicer person. So I also have some letters to send out, before the year ends. This may take a few posts, if I have to get it all out of my system by December 31st.

Dear Neighborhoodlums,

I'm sorry I threw the Krazy Glue tube you were feeding to my dogs at you. I'm sorry it wasn't a large rock and that the wind threw off my aim.

Dear VW,

Geo and I will be boycotting your cars, forever. All this is despite your very clever advertising campaigns. The guy running and launching himself into the shopping cart before it hits his car is priceless. Your "My Fast" commercials are also funny and have sent me to Ebay more than once to check out prices on my own personal little fast. Even your more somber commercials with the car accidents are good. So why are we boycotting you, do you ask. Did you molest your Boy Scout troop? Drown a sackful of kittens? Rip a hole in the Ozone layer that's larger than Greenland? No, WORSE. You refused to give permission for the VW bug to be used in the Transformers movie coming out next summer, and now Bumblebee will be a Camaro. A fucking Camaro. Bumblebee can't be a goddamn Camaro. Next you'll be saying that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will be twin pintos. I hate you. I hate you and I hope you die.

Dear Johnny Black,

I am boycotting you too, but more for reasons having to do with me taking off my pants in public than anything else. The drunken thought process is so ridiculously simplistic. "I'm hot. Let me just take off my pants on this random street in Newark."

Dear Dewars,

Same goes for you. Good Lord. Also, you taste like ass in the summer.

Dear everyone I ever come into contact with,

Just so you know. Disclaimer courtesy of Mike J.

Dear People at Geo's Work,

Don't listen to him when he tells you that I wear his clothes to sleep, just to mark my territory with my scent. That is a big lie. I would never be so subtle. Instead, I pee on him while he sleeps. Sorry about the asparagus.

Dear T.O.,

I think you need a few more of those pills. Guess what, when your quarterback throws a perfect pitch and it falls right between your hands and you drop it... that's YOUR fault. That's not his fault for not throwing it to you sooner. That's YOUR fault for completely and utterly failing at what you are paid jillions of dollars to do, and that is catch the ball during a three-hour time slot on Sundays. Or the occasional Monday. Or Saturday. Sometimes a Thursday.

Dear People Who've Been Saying That Tony Romo is The Second Coming Of Joe Montana, Dan Marino, John Elway, Brett Favre, Whatever,

I sure did laugh a lot on Christmas day, picturing your angst. Oh come on, you know it's funny.

Dear Christmas shoppers,

What is it about the holiday season that frazzles you so much? Sure there's extra stress for everyone but do you REALLY have to bump into me, then walk away without so much as an "Excuse me?" Must you pull out of parking spaces without looking? Is it really necessary to push your shopping cart into me, sending me into a display of "Dress-Up Dora" dolls and one misplaced "Elmo Knows Your Name?"

Fake Interviews, Counting Goats and More Letters

Fake Interviews, Counting Goats and More Letters

1. I haven't sent any of my imaginary reporters out to do an interview since the 2004 Olympics. Figured it was about time.

Reporter: How have the injuries your team has sustained affected your chances at making the playoffs?
Tom Coughlin: They haven't, we are confident that we will make it all the way.
Reporter: Is that your water boy and towel boy over there in uniform?
Tom Coughlin: We actually refer to them now as "strong side linebacker" and "defensive end."
Reporter: O-kay. Um, is that Andrea Kremer over there, suiting up as well?
Tom Coughlin: She had a little trouble learning to tuck the ball, but the little lady sure can catch.
Reporter: What's that bloody thing in your hand?
Tom Coughlin: Oh nothing, just a rabbit's foot. Wrapped in a horseshoe charm. Dipped in holy water. Blessed by a priest, a rabbi, a Navajo shaman and a Muslim cleric.
Reporter: Is that a four-leaf-clover drawn on the rabbit's foot?
Tom Coughlin: Yeah, those suckers are really hard to find.
Reporter: Back to you Riss.

2. There's a comedian who has a shtick about how counting sheep never works for him because the sheep would start doing weird things. People laughed politely but I was in hysterics because the same crap happens to me. Except my sheep actually turn into other things. Once it turned into Conan O'Brien. Last night, I was counting sheep and the first few were actual sheep, but as I was patting myself on the back for having superior mind control powers, my sheep turned into goats. Followed by a llama, the hoochie shepherdess from Toy Story and a turtle which floated by holding a pink umbrella that was open but inverted.

3. I found some more letters in my inbox that I forgot to send out:

Dear PSE&G,

I feel compelled to inform you that this coming winter I will be heating up one small home in Jersey City, not the state of Minnesota during a blizzard. Please adjust my bills accordingly to reflect this. Thank you.

Dear Global Warming,

Per my letter to PSE&G expressing my concern over our gas bills, please make this another "warm winter." Also, please stop melting the polar ice caps, thinning the ozone layer, heating the oceans, killing off species, wearing fur, testing on animals, encouraging Paris Hilton to make "music", encouraging celebrities to use babies as accessories, promoting terrorism and injuring the New York Giants. Also, please bring back McDonald's fried apple pies. Thank you.

Dear the person who found my blog by typing in "Are some men really sociopaths or just asses?"

If men are sociopaths based on their dating behavior then women are psychopaths. Though I joke about "deez nuts" I could never be a man, because women give me a headache. Yes, I sometimes give myself a headache. The things we do, the things we care about, the things we can't just let go. Sometimes when Geo and I argue, I'll know we're talking about two different things but I'm like a dog with a bone.

More Letters

More Letters

Though I haven't even sent these out yet. Or these.

Dear Skittles,

You're going a bit overboard with the different flavors. Yesterday I tried your "Limited Edition Ice Cream" flavors. I figured why not, the Smoothie Mix ones are pretty good. Big mistake. They tasted like bite-sized pieces of candy-coated vomit. The vanilla in particular, brought back memories of the time I misguidedly decided to drink a bottle of Stoli Vanil, jungle juice and some Blackhaus. Tasting the rainbow of fruit flavors isn't always a good thing.

Dear PSE&G "public service" workers,

Are you TRYING to get yourself killed??? I already despise the utility you allegedly represent. What would possess your idiot self to think that ringing my doorbell at 8 in the morning over and over again is a smart idea? Here's a suggestion if you don't want me to answer the door next time with a bat. Ring the doorbell once, maybe twice. Then wait for 30 seconds. Ring the doorbell twice again. Then wait some more. Do NOT, under any circumstances that don't include burning buildings, ring the doorbell 23 FUCKING TIMES. Yes, I counted. What are you, stupid? Do you think people hang out by the door, waiting for the doorbell? If you must harass me, at least give me time to get to the fucking door to tell you to fucking leave.

P.S. - All the years of "getting the meter read" has done nothing for me. My energy bills are still higher than our car payment. So you're about as much of a "public service" as genital warts.

Dear Rockstar: Supernova,

I can imagine Dana fronting a band with Tommy Lee, Jason Newstead and that "Guns N' Roses guitarist who isn't Izzy Stradlin or Slash" the way I can imagine Paris Hilton with her legs closed. I try really hard but the image just won't appear.

Dear Indian Food,

I miss you.

Dear Birthday Gods,

Last year, one of my daughters spent her 2nd birthday in the hospital with a fever of 105, while her sister spent her 2nd birthday at home wondering where Mommy was. THIS year, it's supposed to thunderstorm all day. Did someone spit in your Cheerios on July 22nd? If you agree to keep it nice and sunny tomorrow, I'll send one of their godmothers up there to blow you. Or godfathers, if that's what you prefer. To each their own. (Hey godparents, suck it up. Family first!!)

Dear Emily,

I saw your billboard outside of the GW bridge on Monday and laughed my ass off while trying to figure out if it was real. Then just now, someone posted your blog link on a message board. Even if it's a hoax or some elaborate marketing gimmick (hey guys the video looks too produced), thanks for the giggles. You're kind of crazy though. Pushing him off a cliff would take far less effort. Or you could just copy Brad's letter to Elizabeth and send it to everyone you know, like he did.

Dear meat,

You rock. Never stop tasting good with fried onions and gravy. And garlic mashed potatoes. And dinner rolls slathered with butter. And corn on the cob. I must go now, I'm hungry.

Dear flip-flops,

You are not supposed to be worn with:

a) Business suits
b) Party dresses or evening gowns
c) Slacks

No matter how fashionable people think it looks, it really doesn't. Next time your owner tries to put you on while wearing one of the above outfits, please scream and writhe off their feet. Now THAT'S a public service.

Love,
Riss

Yet More Letters

Yet More Letters

I am too lazy to send out any letters (again). So I will just write them here (again).

Dear Houlihan's,

Thank you so much for having the three dollar Creme Brulee on your dessert menu. It tasted sublime. Experiencing delicious creme brulee at Houlihan's of all places was like getting the best sex of your life from a crackhead with no teeth, but I appreciate it.

Dear Jersey City Meter Maid,

Thank you for telling our neighbor "If I have to work on a Saturday then they are getting this ticket." You are a shining example of what a cop should be. You make people feel safe and happy. By the way, while you are working Saturdays, your husband is banging your best friend. Because she's not as much of a bitch as you.

Dear Starbursts,

You suck as a candy.

Dear Steve,

I had a sex dream about you a few nights ago. But as with all my sex dreams, the sex was just implied, versus actually engaged in. We ran around my aunt's mansion (which was green and straight out of a Roald Dahl book) then finally ran across the train tracks in her backyard to an old church. There, in a confessional with a plush, puke green carpet, I assume we did it. Afterwards, I looked up over your shoulder and there was a woman hanging by her neck from the rafters. So we ran like hell and then the ghosts of a bunch of Revolutionary War-era people who had been lynched started chasing us, like the ghosts in The Sixth Sense. Yes, I'm a freak and my sex dreams are awful.

And on a real life note, I'm sorry you walked in on me standing in your kitchen in my underwear, at 4 in the morning, shoveling White Castle french fries into my mouth like they were manna from heaven, while everyone else was passed out in the living room. You were very blase. I walked in on one of my friends once while he was in the shower, and stood there frozen for awhile, until I finally said "Um, I thought the shower door was more opaque than that" then left.

Dear Eric,

Sorry about that by the way.

Dear Antonio Banderas,

I was wandering through Target the other day and...

Really? Is this part of the fallout from And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself?

Dear PSE&G,

I still hate you but no longer hope you die. That would be too easy. Instead, I hope you're given a hundred thousand paper cuts, then covered in sea salt, then bathed in vinegar, then set on fire. And after you stopped, dropped and rolled, I hope you're set on fire again. Also, I hate you and hope you die.

Dear Rich People,

Can I have some of your money? I really need it. Thanks.

Dear Blogger,

Soon I will be leaving you. And you will miss me, like they all do. While we're together they think "God, she's such a fucking bitch. If she talks smack to me one more time I will knock her upside her smarmy little head." And then after I'm gone, they realize that sanity often comes for the price of boredom and they miss me. That will be you Blogger. I have been faithful to you for four-and-a-half years, not counting that tiny indiscretion when I flirted for a minute with Livejournal. In return for my love, passion and fidelity, you've rewarded me with increased server outages and an inability to categorize my posts. One day you will look back and think... "She was a bitch, but she was MY bitch and oh how I miss her."

Dear Neighborhood Kids Who Curse Me and Throw Bottles At My Dogs,

If I could get away with it, I would pick you up and punt you into that yard with the two Dobermans.

More Letters I Haven't Sent Out Yet

More Letters I Haven't Sent Out Yet
(But I will. Even though I haven't even sent these letters out yet, from 4 years ago.)

Dear International Olympic Committee,

Can you please explain to me why ice dancing is considered an Olympic sport? It's like the "rhythmic gymnastics" of the winter games. And how did the phenomenon referred to as "curling" come about? Because it seems as if it was thought up by three crackheads sitting on a dirty pond in Norway. By the way, good job on the "men's double luge" event. It should tide me over until Brokeback Mountain comes out on DVD.

Dear Kentucky Fried Chicken,

You have some fucking nerve, charging me $16 for EIGHT pieces of extra crispy chicken, one large order of mashed potatoes, one large coleslaw and four biscuits. First of all, those two wings should only count as one piece. Even with all the genetic engineering you do on your painfully tasty "chickens." Second of all, for SIXTEEN DOLLARS this meal should not only satisfy my hunger, it should also vacuum my living room, scrub my toilet, water my plants, grow me a penis, get on its knees and blow me. Also, bring back "Chicken Littles" for 49 cents because those tiny little sandwiches rocked.

Dear PSE&G,

Despite the fact that I've kept my house temperature at 58 degrees and wrapped everyone in it in fleece, my monthly energy bill is still high enough to qualify as rent for a one-bedroom apartment in Newark. My point is, I fucking hate you. I hate you and I hope you die.

Dear Chinese people,

Please stop with the myth that CHICKEN FEET SOUP helps sick people heal. Because my Chinese grandmother just sent me to the store for some and I literally gagged in the poultry section. I stood there, gazing at the packaged chicken feet in silent horror and thanked God that I hadn't eaten anything in the last few hours. At the very least, could you at least remove the fricken claws?? When I put them in the freezer, one touched me. It was not pleasant.

Nasty. I guess it cures you by making you vomit up
everything in your body, good and bad.

Dear Academy of Television Arts and Sciences,

Isn't it about time you gave Kiefer Sutherland an Emmy for his role as Jack Bauer? I don't know what drug you're all collectively smoking, but put the pipe down and back slowly away from it. Then walk over to your fucking ballots and check the vote box next to his name. It's as if you people haven't watched a minute of television in the last few years. James Spader deserved to win over him about as much as President Bush deserves a Nobel Peace Prize. Good job on Tony Shalhoub though. So you're not complete fuck-ups.

Dear chick at my sister's friend's party,

My sister wasn't hitting on you, she's just a friendly drunk. Get over yourself. You ain't even that cute.

Dear McDonald's,

Thank you so much for the existence of the McGriddle. You had me at the "two griddle cakes with the taste of maple syrup baked right in." The hash browns, eggs, cheese and bacon are like unexpected Christmas presents from unknown relatives. Please don't listen to those weird granola people, keep making food like this. P.S. - This letter is from me, as in my brain and taste buds, not me as in my arteries and waist.

Dear the Black Eyed Peas,

"My Humps" is a horrible, horrible song. When I hear it, it's like someone's burying me alive in rodent fecal matter.

Dear Mayor of Jersey City,

Thank you for letting the potholes in our city stay so big. Every so often I fill one up with water and bathe in it. Other times, me and all my friends will hide out in one, cover it up with cardboard and pretend it's a fort. Also, considering the crime in Jersey City, why are so many of our cops overweight? Because it seems to me that if they were to physically chase down all our many car thieves and drug dealers then the aerobic workout resulting from the chase would... oh. Never mind, just figured it out.

Mail Call

Mail Call

All of my friends know I am supremely bad at responding to e-mails. I have every intention of e-mailing them back, but if I can't do it right that moment, eventually the inclination seeps away. So I'll just respond here:

From someone who made a point of saying "Don't quote me": "I know you read that article about the Florida kid who tried to vacation in Iraq by himself and thought 'What a fucking idiot.'"

Actually, this is not true. I thought "What a fucking dildo." No one can defend this guy to me. He's a dildo. A used one. One that was used by someone diseased, who dislikes bathing.

From Kwame: "I'm convinced your people are insane" and a link to a live recreation of the game Punch-Out.

We ARE insane. You should have known already from this.

Also from Kwame, "Women are such haters" and a link to an article about the American Decency Association's problem with the Detroit Pistons' dance team swimsuit calendar.

Not all women. I for one, am all about people taking off their clothes for charity. And I'm assuming, using my astounding business acumen, that calendars with half-naked attractive women sell better than calendars with half-naked unattractive ones.

From Paul, re-scheduling our plans to cause a drunken ruckus in the city this weekend: "I spent last night heaving a foot-long cheesesteak and guacamole into the toilet. I feel like crap."

Which is probably a good thing. The last time we went out together we drank dinner and got plastered. I angered some Mexican guys who were fighting over some girl (liquor = no inner monologue), then Paul drunk stole the cue ball from the bar.

From Nadia: "I got you on my main Myspace page... So now stalkers can find my girlfriends too."

I'm not certain anyone's going to be camped out in my bushes, on the off chance that Nadia has come by for a sporadic visit. You never know though, there are some crazies out there.

From my aunt, a forward of helpful household cleaning tips that included this gem: "Blood stains on clothes? Not to worry. Just pour a little hydrogen peroxide on a cloth and proceed to wipe off every drop of blood. Works every time! Now, where to put the body..."

Another helpful tip, don't use a Fed Ex letter envelope to mail blood. It expressly prohibits it on the envelope.

From Mike J: "I actually said out loud "WOO HOO" when I read the title of an article on oil prices dropping. Being an adult sure sneaks up on ya and comes in unexpected places. I think we need another spitting contest."

Tony kicked our asses so hard I don't ever want to have another spitting contest again. I'm not too shabby but he's got the distance. He can actually hit cars in the street from my front door. Not that he does, but he could.

From my girl C on her first day of work: "Got to work and my boss and I checked all the condos, 40 blocks or so. I didn't wanna walk anymore but I couldn't complain. Lunch time came and he took me to a restaurant to eat. He suggested that I get a salad coz it's the best salad lunch he ever had in his life. So now there's nothing I can do but get it. In my head I'm like salad? WTF?"

I feel this. The only salads I can eat are the ones that inexplicably come with fried pieces of chicken or meat. The same thing happened to me once. A new boss took me out to lunch and told me I should get the salad. So I got the damn salad. After we got back to the office I snuck out and bought a cheeseburger, which I ate standing up by the trash can.

Also from C: "Got to the city at 9:30 so I grabbed breakfast. While eating, I saw this guy drinking a Corona already (see that's an ALKI and I thought I was bad.)

That guy doesn't sound like an alcoholic, he sounds like a college student. Many a morning in college was I kicked awake by someone holding 40s or a six-pack. Or if it was my friend Mike J (Filipino Mike J not white guy Mike J), holding a bottle of Absolut.

From Cara, currently taking courses in South Africa: "A lot of South African cuisine is derived from their Dutch and British colonizers (not exactly known as pillars of culinary wisdom) which means the food must include mayonnaise and be deep fried. Apparently sushi is no exception. Okay, maybe not deep fried but each sushi roll had a generous dollop of mayo. Also, they're somehow able to heat their food to ridiculous temperatures and my soup arrived at the temperature of the sun, rendering it inedible for at least half an hour."

Everything is deep fried and covered with mayo?? I should move to South Africa!! Woot!

At The Movies

At The Movies

Geo got out of work early, because he had to drop someone off at the airport. Naturally, I pounced on the opportunity to go to a matinee showing of Harry Potter 4, because I'm cheap and think theatres have balls the size of New Jersey to be charging $9.50 per ticket.

For people who are dorks and watched the movie on opening day too (cough cough) click here for my list of initial thoughts. At least I can say I'm in the upper bracket of the lower echelon of cool. I attended an afternoon show, not the 12:05 a.m. showing. Though I'm a poser because I would have gone, but Geo vetoed the idea. Something about "having work the next day." Whatever that is. For the normal people, carry on. I think it's leftover angst from spending half an hour in line at the grocery, but I'm in the mood to be a hater. So I'll take a page from Nolff's book and write some open letters.

Open Letter to Heavy Perfume Chick Two Seats Away:

Dear Stinky,
I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you that you are not following the instructions located on the box your perfume came in. The instructions are as follows, "Squirt once into air and walk through hazy aura of perfume." Or, that's what the instructions would say were most people abusing the product the way you do. Perfume is concentrated for a reason. It is not necessary to marinate yourself in it when one or two squirts will suffice. Or spray yourself over and over again, like it's insect repellent and you just walked into a swarm of hungry mosquitos. I assume your intention was to smell nice. You failed. And ruined my previews, until my nose eventually became numb and therefore immune to your stench.

Open Letter to Stupid Cell Phone Chick Two Seats Away:
(Who is also, coincidentally, the same fricken person)

Dear Chatty,
Forgetting to turn your cell phone off was a forgivable breach of etiquette. Nobody's perfect. Actually taking the call and chit-chatting for a few minutes, was not. It obviously wasn't important, because you stayed to watch the rest of the movie. At 3 p.m. on a weekday.

Open Letter to Bad Body Odor Guy:

Dear Stinky Version 2.0,
There are few things in life that can actually be achieved by all who wish to accomplish it. Bathing is one of them. Seize those blessed opportunities and rejoice in the fact that we in America have running water!! In public facilities even! If you can afford to watch a movie in a theatre you can afford soap. Not to mention that your lack of proper hygiene carries over to others. If you don't smell good, they don't smell good.

Open Letter to the Movie Theatre Industry:

Dear Greedy Ass Slimeballs,
Commercials at movie theatres SUCK. I paid 9 fricken dollars and 50 cents for this fricken movie ticket. I shouldn't have to sit through these. It's not like network television, which is free, so they rely on advertisers to make money. Or even basic cable channels, which don't get that premium fee profit HBO gets. You're a movie theatre industry, didn't you watch Seven? No good can come of such blatant greed. Other than of course, the money you must be making off the damn things.

Open Letter to the Guy Who Won The Coca-Cola Film Award:

Dear Person Whose Film Must Have Been The Only Entry In The Competition,
Your "short film" sucked so bad I would have hurled my can of Coke at the screen, if it hadn't cost me ten dollars.

Open Letter to Our Car:

Dear Glad-You-Don't-Have-Honda-Parts,
Thank you so much for not getting stolen, even though we left you alone for 3 hours, with Jersey City (the chop shop capital of the world) and Newark (the stripped car dumping capital of the world) only a few miles away. In return, we promise to wash you more frequently than every five months. Or at least try for once a season.

Mail Call

Mail Call

I'm too lazy to sit and think of an actual post topic so I thought I'd just answer a few e-mails that have been sitting in my inbox for the past few days.

Why did you yell at a priest?

It was 1999 and I was in the limo with my bridesmaids prior to my (first) wedding. My father had gotten lost on the way to the ceremony (he's from California and the church was in Long Island, NY) and the priest didn't want to wait too long. He came over 15 minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start and wanked off about some confessions he had to hear a few hours later. I asked him to wait awhile longer, he could skip our half-hour wedding mass to save time if he wanted. 5 minutes later he came back and said "Pick someone to walk you down the aisle instead of your father" and I just lost it. After my tirade he said "We'll wait as long as we have to" and went back into the church. Luckily my dad drove up just then with my freaked out mom. Naturally, I apologized to the priest later on. You know, to avoid that whole eternal damnation thing.

I read your post on the hurricane... Why do people play the blame game over natural disasters?

I posed this very same question the day after the flooding, to a message board largely comprised of liberals calling for Bush's head on a silver platter. The resounding answer was something to the effect of "so we can figure out how to prevent this type of thing in the future." So that's the answer I'll give. But, that's probably the case for only some of the people pointing fingers. The ones closely affected, the ones who have lost loved ones or every possession they own or both. Or the ones who genuinely feel pain when seeing other people suffer. For the rest, the ones with a political agenda, disasters are a prime time to sling mud and make the other party look bad. And EVERYONE likes to sling a little mud, Democrats, Republicans, whoever. Sometimes the mud is well deserved and sometimes it's not. But a disaster of any sort turns over rocks and that's when the insects come crawling out.

Are you really a conservative?

Yes, though I'm towards the middle on many issues. But sometimes I wish I could forcibly gag half the people in my party. We as a whole were apparently in the bathroom when God handed out Public Relations Skills. I mean let's be completely honest here. Don't you think some people somewhere thought to themselves "Well a few of those evacuees were living in crackhouses or hooking out of Motel Six during Mardi Gras in one of the most derelict cities in the nation. Now they're going to have government-funded housing and a crapload of federal aid in Houston, Texas." But no one is actually stupid enough to say it out loud. Except Barbara Bush. Like anyone is really willing to go through a category five hurricane in a city below sea level to live in a better neighborhood. If I were the Bush family's PR person I would slip her a sedative before every press outing. Yeah right. If I were the Bush family PR person that would never have happened. Because after her first slip-up (and there have been quite a few) I would have backhanded her into next week. "Remember this next time you open your mouth and think about what you're going to say." See if it happens again.

Did you sign the Blogger Code of Ethics?

No, I didn't. Because it seemed like it may result in action that would hinder my ability to talk smack with impunity. I mean if I signed it, would I then have to refrain from saying things like "Jennifer Lopez is married to the ugliest man on the planet?" (Which would be okay I guess, if he had a "nice personality" but he doesn't seem to have that either.) How does one go from Ben Affleck to Mark Anthony? I don't think Affleck is all that but it's kind of like going from Linus to Pig Pen.

I assume that's the kind of crap I wouldn't be able to spew anymore. Because it would be difficult to actually prove that Mark Anthony had no personality and was THE ugliest man on the planet. He might be the second ugliest, or the third ugliest or the eighth ugliest. Decisions decisions. Just kidding, I'm not signing that thing. It shouldn't pertain to blogs like mine, it should pertain to the blogs that are actually trying to disseminate important information. Remember my mission statement? "This blog does not seek to educate, only to destroy." I'm exempt from that petition.

I thought you were going back to work and Geo was going to stay with the kids?

Financially that would make more sense but I'm selfish and like having the kids all to myself all day. So we agreed that I would go back to work after our NEXT child turned one and then he could stay home and be Mr. Mom.

What happened to that whole writing-a-book thing?

I haven't written anything for it in months. I have about 50 pages in Word single-spaced. But they are random chapters. And there is no outline yet. But those pages took me less than a week to write, so I figure all I need to do is save up money to hire a babysitter then lock myself in a room for a month. I giggle a lot while writing it. Don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Probably the latter.

You and your husband seem to have a great relationship. What's your secret?

This.

Dear Riss: Part Two

Dear Riss: Part Two

My last Dear Riss post received questions in the comments section so I feel it incumbent upon me to help my fellow man and woman. Okay no, it was just really fun the last time. My advice is about as helpful as a condom in lamaze class.

Dear Riss,
My wife watches the Lifetime network. It drives me crazy. I was considering using the parental lock so she can't access the channel, is this wrong?

Dear Hatin' On Lifetime,

This is a tricky situation, because Lifetime Television is a deplorable but popular adversary. We would all benefit from a D.A.R.E.-type program to keep women off Lifetime, yet the current political administration has yet to answer my numerous written requests for a Lifetime Czar.
I'm not certain you want to use the parental lock, she might use it back on you and there goes Sportscenter or the Food Network.

Try the most logical approach. Tell your wife that in all fairness, if she gets to watch Lifetime then you should receive an equal amount of time to watch lesbian p0rn. It's a win-win situation I think. Either you don't have to watch that godforsaken channel anymore OR you get to watch chicks make out as a consolation prize. If that doesn't work you can try sitting next to her and jerking off or bursting into tears every time she watches it. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Dear Riss,
I have a friend who can't stop saying things like "fo shizzle" and "wat's the dilly yo". He's white. What should I do? Should I slap him harder next time?

Dear Friend of Malibu's Most Wanted,

If he's someone you really like (Vanilla Ice moments, notwithstanding) then well... you're going to have to make a big sacrifice for your friend. No, I'm not suggesting you tear your ears off though that may be a consequence of my advice. I suggest you pile yourselves into his Jetta, drive down to Camden or even Newark will do, park in front of a club that just let out and let him talk himself into an ass whooping. I guarantee the phrase "fo shizzle mah nizzle" will never again leave his lips. Of course, you probably won't escape the brawl unscathed but that's the price of good friendship.

Dear Riss,
Why are (some) guys cold & emotionless? How can a guy see you for over a year and not get attached to you emotionally?

Dear Frozen Out,

You want to know what he's thinking? Get him drunk then fire away. Sloshed. Wasted. Plastered. Smashed. Beer is like a truth serum on tap.

Okay I'm kidding. Are you sure he feels NOTHING? Some men tend to be more nonverbal, relying instead on their actions to show that they love a person versus flowery words. In all honesty, I don't think very many guys could stay in an actual relationship for over a year and remain completely cold and emotionless. Either he's really good at keeping things inside or he's a sociopath. The first one can be overcome, the second not so much. Unless you're one of those crazy murder groupies.

If you absolutely need to know where you stand, tell him you just need to know at least this once. In the end, it all comes down to how much effort you're willing to exert and whether or not you feel he's worth it. Being with someone who tends to keep his feelings in is not easy. Every argument you have is going to be like pulling teeth. Sometimes, you actually have to pull teeth. I have stopped arguing with Geo, choosing instead to bang my head against the wall until my unanswered questions go away. Okay that's not true, but I have learned to choose my battles.

Dear Riss,

I like big butts and I cannot lie.

Just kidding. But damn that song is so catchy.

Dear Riss

Dear Riss

It would be kind of fun to have an advice column. I mean, I would never actually want one because it's too much responsibility. I can just picture someone throwing himself off a cliff because he didn't recognize sarcasm. But in comedic theory it sounds like it could be fun.

So I tapped into some e-mails (new and old) and decided to have my very own advice column for a day. Or rather, the 15 minutes it takes me to write this.

Courtesy of Kwam, via a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend:

Dear Riss,

"What's your opinion on this scenario?"
A friend of mine called me today disgusted and told me that she was at the house of a guy she hooks up with. This morning she noticed that her toothbrush was in the wrong place. When she inquired about it, the guy said very casually "I used it." She lost it. He was upset and said he didn't see anything wrong with it especially since he rinsed it off after he finished using it. He said he only used it twice, because he wanted to try it since "it was a new kind."

I read this out loud to Geo right now and couldn't fucking stop laughing over it. I kept picturing the girl so disgusted and the guy really having no clue why she was so pissed.

The answer is just one of those weird things. Have you swapped saliva with this guy? Yes. Tasted his sperm? Sure. Kissed him after he's gone down on you? Right on. Is it okay for him to use your toothbrush? NO!!!!!!!!!!!!! NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Tell him to put the toothbrush down then back slooooooowly away from the toothbrush. Jesus H. Christ this is just one of those things that shouldn't have to be told. You wipe your ass after you take a dump, you don't blow-dry your hair while taking a bubble bath, you don't eat rotten dairy products and you never, ever, ever ever ever use someone else's toothbrush when your own is readily available to you, or will be available to you some time in the next week.

I said "next week" because in all honesty, if we were stranded on a desert island I wouldn't mind if Geo needed to use my toothbrush. Who wants to make out with someone who hasn't brushed his teeth in three months. Don't forget to be tested for TTDs like gingivitis and gum disease.

Dear Riss,

My wife caught me checking out some girl at the mall. Now she's really angry and hurt. What do I do?

Dear Peeping Tom,

Tell your wife that since she's already hurt, you might as well confess that you cheated on her with her best friend. Give her about 8 seconds or so to absorb the news, while remaining out of striking distance. Then say "Okay that wasn't true but didn't that hurt? THAT'S real pain, not this I-caught-him-looking-at-a-cute-girl-at-the-mall bullshit. Remember that next time and suck it up." Then run really fast.

Dear Riss,

My father-in-law keeps coming over with random lawn ornaments. I'd like to cut it off before he thinks of pink flamingos. What do I do?

Dear Lawn Ornamented,

Round up all the lawn ornaments at around 3am then throw them into your truck. Share the wealth with people in other towns, whether they want it or not. Then tell your father-in-law that "hooligans" stole your lawn ornaments and that you're disappointed, but there's no point in giving you any more because "You just can't own anything nice these days."

Dear Riss,

My girlfriend doesn't like going down on me. She says it's gross. What do I do?

Dear Orally Deprived,

Run!!!!!! Unless she thinks it's gross because your penis is covered with green bumps and smells like cheese. Then RUN, but to the doctor. You might want to have that looked at.

Dear Riss,

I'm really stressed all the time. What's a good stress reliever?

Dear Panties Bunched,

You know what I do when I'm really stressed? I walk over to my dog, pick him up and just fucking shake him for like ten minutes. Okay just kidding, but the image was funny in my head. The best stress reliever is sex. Go get laid, twice, and call me in the morning. If your man isn't readily available then use a different one. Just kidding. If your man isn't readily available then make a date with your hand. Probably easier anyway, it won't ask you to make it a sandwich afterwards.

Dude that was fun. I could really go for this advice column thing.

Honesty

Honesty

You know, I get a lot of flack for being "too honest" or "too blunt" but you know, I think I deserve a little credit. I'm not half as blunt or "honest" as I'd like to be when addressing some things that annoy me. I sometimes let things like the need to avoid drama, family obligations, other peoples' feelings and crap like that get in the way. Except of course, when I'm pushed. I'm not good at being pushed. For the most part however, I tend to have a filter of some sort in place.

But if I were as blunt and honest as everyone thinks, when sorting through my e-mail the responses would look like this:

E-mail: Where are those files you promised to send me?
Response: You haven't received them yet because I don't give a fuck about them. When I do, you'll get them.

E-mail: Here is a chain letter.
Response: Here is my fucking foot. Please shove it into your head so at least SOMETHING'S in there.

E-mail: Here is an invitation to my kid's birthday party this weekend.
Response: You haven't deigned to show up to a single party for MY kids and yet you want me to drop everything and show up to yours? Fuck you. Your kid is a little dirtball anyway. Why don't you try bathing him every so often.

E-mail: Just to let you know...
Response: Just to let YOU know, I really don't care, otherwise I would have asked.

E-mail: I haven't heard from her in weeks.
Response: That's because she doesn't need anything from you, moron.

E-mail: Can you tell George that...
Response: You wanna hear something really fucking interesting? George has a phone AND an e-mail address. Isn't that fucking interesting?

My point is, I've just realized this whole post is a lie and I'm always saying what I think regardless of whether or not it's a good idea. So never mind.

Friday Back and Forth E-mails

Back and Forth E-mails

So Mike sends me and Tony this article about Prague's Beer for Blood campaign. It set off a chain of e-mails that makes me glad Yahoo increased the memory of our accounts.

Tony: "The Czechs are the world's largest per-capita consumers of beer, knocking back 162 litres per person last year." Hmmm... anyone up for a trip?
Mike: That's 42.8 gallons of beer. Which is 342.4 pints of beer. Which is 5478.4 ounces of beer. One can of beer is 12 ounces so that's 456.54 cans of beer per year! Which is $22.88 cents in deposit money. (Editor's Note: Once again, Mike is paid a shitload of money to do very little at work)
Me: I've always wanted to go to Prague!
Mike: Hey Tony, lots of white women and beer!
Tony: I'm there! And let's drop by Hungary. Wow... now i'm excited. I'm actually going to Amsterdam next year too. After Spain.
Mike: I've been to Spain... My first experience where it's normal for women
to go topless. I wanna go back.
Me: I've already been to Amsterdam. Not that interested in banging hookers (who are clean because they're unionized) but I'll help you guys pick some out from the window.
Mike: Do they have a drive-up?
Tony: Hahaha drive-through hooking. I'm going to Spain for the running of the bulls.
Me: Oh my God you really are crossing over. Only white people do that kind of stuff. When you see the replays it's all white people running through the streets being chased by bulls.
Mike: You're crazy. And that's coming from a guy who eagerly runs into burning buildings while everyone else is running out.
Me: More importantly, that's coming from a white guy.
Tony: Oh no, I'M not running it. Eric is. I'm just videotaping it.
Mike: Ok that's even CRAZIER. A) You NEED to be where he is in order to film it so guess what Tony, you are running. And B) You're not even going to be paying attention to the bulls but to a video camera. Please leave me the names and numbers of all your hot Asian girls before you leave.
Me: And add me to your life insurance policy. Thanks.
Tony: I'm just gonna be in one spot and tape. He just wants footage that he did actually do it. I ain't stupid enough to go chasing behind him!
Me: Yeah right. You're going to be standing there with the camera all drunk and shit and all of a sudden it's "Fuck it, let's DO THIS!!!!"
Mike: Yeah some white chick with a D chest in a bikini top that you're standing next to is gonna jump in and start running.. And then there goes Tony.
Me: More power to him as long as my name is on that policy.

By the way, I'm not just being sterotypical here. Do a Google image search on "Pamplona" and see who runs "with" the bulls. That always cracks me up, running "with" the bulls. It implies some sort of naturistic bonding, outside of being gored in the ass with a horn. In reality though you are all technically running, they are running AT you and you are running FROM them.

Elizabeth's Letter

Just Ignore the date!

Forwarded Message, Elizabeth To Brad

Original Message-----
From: [mailto:********]
Sent: Monday, October 24, 2005 9:50 AM
To: ******
Subject: ugh

Brad,

It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people In the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all for anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY Too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something.

The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn't crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can't listen to, and I just Feel beyond crushed. I don't know if you meant everything you said to me, and I Am hoping that you didn't. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a Significant role in my life, I can't imagine my days without you. It is totally Strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn't Reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I Hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, Because I am not.

I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about The worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of The ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world To rewind and fix it.

I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that You won't. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can't even focus or work today, I can't eat, I seriously feel like it was An ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don't cut me off, I really don't think I can handle that.

I am so sorry.

Elizabeth

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about". You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "Stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.

To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't Fuck him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight.

The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she's seeing someone else in New Jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the
taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand job in the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.

By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.

PS. I BCC'd about 100 people on this email.

Talk to you never,

Brad


(Editor's Note: Just ignore the date of the post, it was the only way I could create a separate page for this.)