My Dearest Bradley,
I bet you didn’t remember what today is, even though I mentioned it bluntly to your face two weeks ago so you could prepare and write me something real nice. Of course, since your male ape brain can’t comprehend the importance of anniversaries, here I am, alone, without you by my desk or even in the same place. Luckily, you can use Hurricane Sandy as your excuse, but just this once! I’m expecting something more fantastical next year – if we can even last until then.
Can you believe it’s already been a year since you wrote me your first letter? In some ways, it feels like time has flown by, much like one of your cropdusted farts. At the same time, writing you has been a total drag, especially as of late when it seems we’ve run out of things to talk about – I can only openly admire your chiseled good looks so often.
If we could just take a moment to reflect about what has happened in the past year. A year ago, we were two different people brought together by an intense desire to be creative. Boy, have we failed! Sometimes I use exclamation marks to make up for my lack of personality. Did it work?
As we’ve drifted apart over the last six months or so, I’ve been thinking about new ways to spice up our lettership. Maybe if I wear this new, more revealing hoodie, Brad will write me a letter. Perhaps he’ll write me a letter if I adorn him with gifts, I’ve thought many a time. What if, for “Halloween,” I sneak into his apartment wearing a mask of his girlfriend’s face? That should warrant a letter, right?
Answer me this: what have YOU done lately to get yourself a letter?
As we “celebrate” this important milestone I hope we also take some time to think about what we can do for ourselves, for the future, and for the letters.
Yours in prose,
Tags: anniversary·Halloween·hoodie·Hurricane Sandy
My sincerest apologies for taking my sweet ass time in responding.
Let’s see, what can I discuss with you that’s new in my life other than the fact a lady fancies me. Yes and she doesn’t have a mustache. She’s actually quite lovely.
Outside of that joy in my world, I have been watching some sports (Football, Baseball, Golf to be exact) lately. I visualize you are snoring right now when I speak of sports.
We also have the impending election, which I’m guessing you haven’t been interested in for a while after both Newt Gingrich and Rick Santorum got knocked out.
Hmm, let’s go with an old school Grace story.
I remember the note that went out to our office about you. It had people cracking up around the office, but you were stone faced after politely handing the same note out to every member of our office. Of course you were, you scripted it with your own quill pen. Why you still send notes interoffice with a quill baffles me.
“Dear New Workers (get it, I switched the “W” with a “Y”),
It is I, Grace. I’m fond of muffin tops, specifically my own. Teeheehee. I am overtly flatulent when nervous. The only thing that will relieve my nerves is Aaron Neville and a Tab. My friends describe me as a cross between Rosie O’Donnell and Fran Drescher.
I look forward to being CEO very soon.
What could have gone wrong with such an awe-inspiring first Full Company handwritten note?
Tags: CEO·flatulent·Fran Drescher·muffin tops·Rosie O'Donnell
It’s a daunting thought, but assuming you haven’t already, one of these days you’re going to be responsible for creating another life form. Do you know how horrifying it is to think about you becoming a dad? It’d be like watching a man-child raise a baby.
I’m going to assume you’ll have a son because your face on a girl wouldn’t work out well – I’ve seen pictures of Mark Zuckerberg’s sisters.
Should you and your baby mama decide to go through with becoming parents, here are the bare minimum traits I hope your future son inherits to give him a decent shot at life:
- Her hair
- Her face
- Her sense of style
- An even distribution of torso hair
If we get to the point where we can genetically modify children, we could cherry pick some of your better qualities so you could be something more than a sperm donor and second income. The problem is, what would we choose when pickings are so slim?
- You’re tall-ish. May he get that.
- You fart a lot. I’m sure it’d make you proud if he did too.
- Your appetite. Because being the husky kid in school will build his character, like it did for you. Sort of.
- Your laugh. The high-pitched giggle will bring joy to many.
Until technology figures it out, please get your tubes tied. The world would be so much prettier.
Tags: babies·man-child·mark zuckerberg·sperm donor
We all know how resilient you are. That time where you had to go through surgery to get your tail removed. That other time when in a steroid-filled rage you punched a wall and shattered your left paw. Your most recent injury (which I promised you I wouldn’t broach) had you relegated to a left foot boot. Ok, I’ll broach. One of your sausage-like cankles got caught between the platform and the train as you were trying to impress the folks in the station by moonwalking into the subway car.
Your innate ability to fight through such traumatic injuries has to be applauded and so I will do so in a poem.
As a young buck, you didn’t give a f*ck.
You would play around and create a ruckus,
most of the time falling on your tuckus.
Then you made it to a teen,
where you had to get a new spleen.
Finally you achieved adulthood,
and everyone thought finally you’d be “good.”
Still everyone repressed their fear,
and then sure enough you became obsessed with Van Gogh and ended up without a left ear.
We’re proud of you for forging on, I guess.
You’re a true
dolt clutz warrior,
After an entire month of making up excuses for why you couldn’t write, you had the nerve to demand a letter from me and on top of that, request a poem. Well, here you have it:
When you were at the ripe ol’ age of five,
a stroller served as your most cherished ride.
As other boys were learning how to dive,
you rolled contently by your mother’s side.
Instead of walking on your own you sat
despite the fact that you were way too old.
Combined with breast milk you got really fat
and broke your pushing mother’s back I’m told.
Where did you learn your bratty, lazy ways?
It seems that nothing’s really ever changed.
We truly hoped that it was just a phase.
Your wish for me to push you is deranged.
If you just used your feet then you would see
it’s not okay to sit in your own pee.
I hope you are happy with this Shakespearean sonnet. And seriously, your poor mom. I’m surprised she didn’t keep pushing you in your stroller until she reached the edge of a cliff.
Hearts and slugs,
Tags: fake iambic pentameter·I majored in Engrish·lazyass·poetry·sonnet·stroller