(Insert Catchy, Applicable Title Here)

It’s a lazy Friday for me, so I can think of no better time than to fire out a few of my letters to various people, places, and things.  This is good for two reasons.  First, my brain is the consistency of a snickerdoodle milkshake right now, and I’m having trouble holding on to a thought for longer than 20 seconds.  Second, I’m fairly sure that if I think too hard today, I am going to pass out and die.  Just a suspicion, but why risk it?  Onward with the letters.

Dear ESPN,

Here is a short list of things no one cares about, and therefore it would be quite acceptable for you to cease and desist from further covering them: Brett Favre, Manny Ramirez (sorry, Hammen), Michael Phelps’ return to the pool, Brett Favre, A-Rod, anyone else allegedly on steroids, Brett Favre, Brett Favre, Brett Favre, and Brett Favre.  I’d rather watch highlights of an underwater chess match than turn on SportsCenter only to have the first half hour tainted with the likes of the aforementioned topics. If you have the audacity to call yourself the “worldwide leader in sports,” then you should start acting like it.

Dear Mother Nature,

Okay, we get it, you don’t like us.  We’re in mid May and the last few days have been nothing short of miserable.  Wednesday it was in the 30s with rain and wind, no fun for anyone.  This being said, if you could find it in your heart to shape things up around here, it would not go overlooked.  I’ve got golf on the brain but the game just isn’t as fun when I have to wear a sweatshirt and a jacket.  Please find a way to remind us what the sun looks like and get us back to normal temperatures.  And almost as if it were on cue … it just started raining.  I see this is going to be an epic struggle between you and I huh?  Well bitch, bring it on and see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

Dear Sheriff Who Pulled Me Over On My Way To Work Today,

Thanks for not giving me a ticket for rolling through that stop sign. A written warning was much more appropriate if you ask me.  I mean, why is there a stop sign at that intersection anyway?  Pretty useless if you ask me.  Anyway, thanks for not giving me my third ticket in the past six weeks.  Turns out I’m not the best at parking legally overnight or following the speed limit on the highway, so this was a nice change, and my wallet thanks you.  On the other hand, why, when you first approached me, did you ask where I was going?  I’ve always wondered why police do that.  If I had looked you dead in the eyes and said, “I’m on my way to cook up some crack with a couple of hookers and a few Portuguese friends of mine who, by the way, are not legal citizens of this country,” would that have changed things?   Just curious, because the next time you pull me over, I might not be on my way to work, I might, in fact, be on my way to do exactly that.

Dear Select Group of Co-Workers,

Please stop talking me into going to Buffalo Wild Wings after work on Thursdays for 60 cent boneless wings.  That place, although tasty, is like getting kicked in the nuts, for your stomach.  I also liken the experience to that of paying for sex.  Seems like a good idea at the outset, but afterwards you’re filled with high amounts of regret and shame.  Not that I’ve ever paid for sex …

Dear Landlord,

Since you decided to raise my rent almost 15% starting in July, please kindly kiss my ass.  I’ll make you a deal, I’ll pay the rent in full every month on time  … as soon as the maintenance guy comes and fixes the shit in my apartment I’ve called three times about.  This would include the closet door, the carpet by the bathroom, and the floaty-ball-thingie in the back of the toilet.  If you send out a memo that says that tenants are not allowed to tinker with things when they break, then tell the maintenance crew to get off their asses, put down last month’s Jugs magazine, and get to work.

Dear BlackBerry Messenger,

You are an absolute Godsend.  Just when I thought texting was the greatest thing since pants with pockets, you come along and one-up it.  The only problem is now I’m up all night talking to people because it’s so easy and convenient.  It probably doesn’t help that the people I’m talking to are the bomb-diggity, but I can’t hold that against them.  I’m just going to have to alter my life a little bit to adjust.  I am no longer Mike, I am Mike + BB Messenger.  The union thus far is a match made in heaven.  A new paradigm has been born.

Dear Southgate Bar,

Please prepare yourself, as the day grows closer when Hammen comes back to town, and that can mean only one thing: you will be taken over.  Tell your blackjack dealers, bartenders, drink runners, even the guy who stocks the bar before we get there (actually, be SURE he gets this message) that we’re coming.  I’m not gonna insist you rope off a blackjack table just for our group, but it wouldn’t hurt.  That way when Hammen orders a Margarita again this time, it’s only us there to mock and judge him.  I have a feeling that someone that night is going to be so drunk, one of us gets a voicemail like this: “Hey, you guys have to come pick me up.  I’m trapped in a cul de sac because the road disappeared.  Which street is it that has the bushes that whisper sweet nothings into your ear and has the wobbling purple Pokemon?  Please come get me, I’m scared.”

And on that note, I’m gonna call it a weekend.

One love,

10

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