An Open Letter to Jimmy Fallon

Dear Mr. Fallon,

Your crimes against comedy are well documented. We all watched you laugh your way through one mediocre sketch after another on “Saturday Night Live” and when you left the show to start your movie career, we thought we were finally rid of you. Unfortunately the pain had only just begun. For reasons known only to Lorne Michaels and the alien parasite currently residing in his parietal lobe, he chose you to take over “Late Night” from Conan O’Brian in the summer of 2009.

With the transition rapidly approaching, I came across an alarming article in the Philadelphia Daily News claiming hip-hop assassins The Roots would be retiring from touring to work as your house band. Now I would have held my tongue and let you suck your way to oblivion Mr. Fallon, but you seem intent on taking the things I love with you. THIS WILL NOT STAND!

What’s next? Will you hire Michael Chabon to write you monologue every day? If you do, have the courtesy not to laugh at the jokes before you finish telling them. What about filming your show in the Smithsonian? You could take a dump in Abraham Lincoln’s hat while you’re there.

For a few moments, Mr. Fallon, I thought congratulations were in order. Your surprising show of good taste combined with the stones to make such a request of the world’s greatest hip-hop band seemed almost visionary. But I’ve come to my senses. Please Mr. Fallon, I beg you. This is not a time for lesser men. We need the great ones to stay great. Keep your mediocrity to yourself.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

So... look. We gotta talk.

You've had a nice little run - 82 years, to be precise. But i think it's time you took a good, long look in the mirror and asked yourself a few hard questions.

Why am I still doing this?

What drives me to grasp so desperately at affection, adulation, and acceptance from a shivering throng of frostbitten, angry New Yorkers?

What's in it for me?

Can you honestly say you know the answer to any of those questions, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade? Can you? I certainly can't.

This morning, 3.5 million people flooded the streets of Manhattan for a chance to see a giant, inflatable smurf drift past them while children and/or vagrants blew snot at one another. Does that sound festive to you? How many people in attendance even knew what a smurf was?! A SMURF, Macy's?! Are you kidding me? You've got to give these families something to work with if they're going to brave the elements to join the huddled mass of humanity in transmitting airborne diseases to one another while your overblown Shrek careens around Times Square. These poor kids wouldn't know a smurf if it showed up on their doorstep with a shopping cart full of video games and hard-core pornography, which, if my information (read: assumption) is correct, is what the kids are into these days. Try and keep your finger somewhere near the pulse, Macy's. I shouldn't have to spell it out for you.

And hey, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're smack-dab in the middle of a nationally crippling financial shitstorm here. Just out of curiosity, what's the overhead on your little operation? I can't imagine hundreds of alcoholic clowns, ten marching bands, and every member of Cirque de Soleil and the Blue Man Group come cheap. And 28 floats? Really? You couldn't trim the fat just a bit? We needed Papa Smurf and Buzz Lightyear?

Miley Cyrus made an appearance; that's good. The kids seem to enjoy her and any opportunity to trot out old footage of her father's award-winning mullet and painted-on denim one-piece is a bonus in my book.

Of course, Santa Clause made his way down the parade route. This is also good, or so it would seem, until one realizes jolly old St. Nick was sitting atop the most hideously terrifying monster anyone has ever laid eyes upon. Behold:



Don't turn around, Santa! It's right behind you! Just stay still! Its cloudy eyes see nothing, but it can sense motion and fear!

Look at that fucking thing! What IS that, Macy's?! The demonic survivor of the world's first and only attempted turkey abortion? That motherfucker will haunt my dreams and visions for years to come, Macy's. Years! I can't imagine the psychological trauma endured by the countless children who bore witness to the central figure in their holiday season (sorry, Jesus, you'll continue to take the back seat until you get flying reindeer and a big ol' bag o' gifts; them's the breaks) perched mere feet away from the salivating, bloodthirsty maw of what looks for all the world to be one of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal. (See below)



Are you trying to delight these children or sentence them to a lifetime of fitful, sleepless nights, the result of which will most certainly be an epidemic of sedative addiction and sexual deviance? You disgust me, Macy's. Just a few quick suggestions for next year: ten floats, three marching bands, AND NO FUCKING SKEKSIS!

You're a time-honored holiday tradition, Macy's, but guess what? So is my uncle, who shows up an hour late for dinner every Thanksgiving with a box of wine and a plate of half-eaten nachos. Within an hour, the drunkle has worn out his welcome and everyone's silently hoping he'll just pass out and choke to death on his own gravyvomit. That could be you, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Time is running out and our patience is wearing thin. Get your shit together.

An Open Letter to the Couple Kissing in Front of My Apartment Building

Dear Young Couple:

I understand it’s been a while since you’ve seen each other, and I’m sure it’s been excruciating. I bet at first you talked on the phone every night before you went to bed, and that you were the first person the other talked to when they woke up in the morning. And I bet you sent each other ridiculous, flirty text-messages every two minutes, and I’m sure there was a dirty cell phone picture or two thrown in the mix, and I’m sure you had to switch to the unlimited messaging plan from Cingular after you got your first cell phone bill.

I know you promised you’d only be apart for a few weeks, that this was a great opportunity that couldn’t be passed up, and that your relationship was strong enough to survive long-distance. And we all understand how things happen, and weeks turn into months, and months into years, but you saw each at least once a month and on holidays, and that it was tough but you were both making it work.

And I know you promised not to take your relationship for granted, but hey you’re both young and life’s short and we could all die any day so I understand how you might have stuck your hand down that girls pants at the club that one night last October. And I get that you only kissed that guy from the payroll department because you had one too many strawberry daiquiris at Chili’s celebrating Celeste’s promotion, and that daiquiris remind you of your first date at Chili’s, and I know how lonely that must have made you feel. But things happen, right? That’s life.

And I’m sure you both felt terrible about keeping secrets from the person you claimed to love. I get that the conversations were awkward, and were happening less and less and that neither of you were ready to tell the other why.

And I know after weeks of stilted telephone conversations you finally screwed up the courage to talk about what happened, and things got ugly and you decided it might be best if you didn’t talk to each other for a while so you could both sort out your feelings. And I know you both tried to date other people, but every time you did you couldn’t help but think about how the other person was doing, and that just wasn’t fair to anyone so you didn’t date at all for a long time.

And I know the whole thing started back up again after he sent that letter to you apologizing about the way he’d acted, and he said some really sweet things about how you’d changed him into a better person and how he felt like he couldn’t give that up over a stupid mistake. And I know how after watching Say Anything for the twentieth time you decided to emulate Ione Skye and “take a chance on England” even though the outcome was far from certain so you quit your job and told him you were coming home.

And I bet you’d been looking forward to this reunion for years. Imagining what it would be like to see each other in person after such a long time apart, and what it would feel like to finally hold each other again, and I’m sure that first kiss after so many missed kisses was especially sweet. But for my benefit, COULD YOU PLEASE NOT KISS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD!?!?!

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Women Who Breast-Feed in Public

He sat silently in the dimly lit diner, contemplating the nature of his own aimless, transient existence, as well as the consistency of the tepid omelette that lie before him, listless and without any discernible shape or color. It was a metaphor, no doubt. For years he had wandered his way through failed relationships and endeavors, like a lonely hobo hopping one runaway train after the other. His fork would pierce the thin, filmy skin of the embryonic pile of slop that sat, a shuddering mound of disappointment, on his plate; he would first conquer the omelette, then his own failures. He would - wait! What was this? In his periphery he spied a dark and mysterious beauty unveiling her heaving breasts, in what appeared to be an ancient, tribal mating ritual. The dance began. He fixed his gaze upon her as she bore her voluptuous bosom..."

Sexy, right? Steamy as a Polish bath house. I know what you're asking yourself. "What happened next, for God's sake?! What! Happened! Next!" Well, my friends, let me tell you what happened next. The dark, mysterious beauty unleashed her heaving tit and... and... and... crammed it into the tiny mouth of her unsuspecting child, nearly smothering the helpless infant and thoroughly disgusting everyone who had the gross misfortune of looking directly at the fleshy feedbag the woman was so shamelessly flaunting. Not so sexy anymore, is it? IS IT?

I know, I know. I'm a colossal, misogynist windbag from a bygone era, clinging desperately to antiquated notions of societal conventions and an appropriate code of public conduct. Here's what I have to say to that: go fuck yourself. Seriously. Go and have sex with yourself. In the privacy of your own home. The exact same place, in fact, WHERE YOU SHOULD BE BREAST-FEEDING YOUR CHILD. I can hear your condescending rebuttals already.

"It's perfectly natural."
You got me there, doctor. Breast-feeding is a perfectly natural and healthy act. Hey, guess what else is perfectly natural and healthy? A 100% cotton blanket which could easily be draped over yourself and your child during chowtime. I suppose those might be hard to come by, though, what with cotton being in such short supply and all.

"You're just a closed-minded sexist."
Probably true, but that's immaterial. If you want to argue the merits of public breast-feeding, I'm all ears. In no way am I suggesting you deprive your child of much-needed nourishment. Quite the contrary. You feed that whiny little shitfactory to your heart's content. But maybe, just maybe, you ought to consider a little discretion? Don't paint me as some sort of neanderthal because I'd prefer not to be subjected to the sights and sounds of Suppertime in Tit City.

"And you call yourself liberal..."
This might be my favorite. Newsflash gals, if you want to play "Freak Out the Square," you're going to come up with something a little bit better than whipping out your lactose taps and telling junior to belly up to the bar. In fact, odds are you're going to have to reach pretty far to your left to slap me for being such an ignorant Neo-Neo-Con. Breast-feeding is not a matter of public policy or civil rights. Let me repeat that: breast-feeding is not a matter of public policy or civil rights. Nobody is denying you the right to feed your child. But, by doing so brazenly and without any regard for your fellow citizens, you're infringing on my right to a delicious breakfast.

"You're not a mother, you can't possibly understand."
Again, true. I am not a mother. Barring some sort of unforeseen change in genetic makeup, I will never be a mother. So, let's put the shoe on the other foot - or mouth on the other tit, as it were. Let's say I adopt a child. Furthermore, let's say this adorable child has endured such trauma in its brief and tumultuous life that the only way it can bring itself to eat a hearty meal is to do so directly from my belly button. So there you are, enjoying a delicious breakfast of free-range, farm-fresh, organically-grown eggs (with a little tofu and brewer's yeast on the side, of course), when all of a sudden you see and hear my little rugrat, we'll call him Thor Jr., slurping chocolate pudding out of my umbilicus. How's that sound? Pretty damn delightful, right? I FUCKING THOUGHT NOT!

If, after reading through the airtight case I've just presented, you find yourself unconvinced, I have a little experiment for your further consideration. The next time your li'l guy gets a hankerin' for some of mom's famous colostrum smoothie, take him on down to your nearest fratboy hangout (R.P. Billygan's? McGillicutty's? McFadden's? Just find a bar with a subversively bigoted, faux-Irish name and you're in business.) and turn that bad boy loose. You are guaranteed to be met with a bevy of leers, insults, and borderline assaults. Now ask yourself this, if you're whipping out a tit in the middle of a room full of douchebags and not being ogled and groped, you're probably doing something wrong, right? Right.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to fill my belly button with sardines. Little Thor Jr. has a salt craving.

Hey Idiots! Endorses

Contrary to the whisper campaigns being conducted by fringe-elements of competing open-letter blogs, the staff at Hey Idiots! is aware a presidential campaign is taking place, and we are legally allowed to participate (those nasty witness-tampering charges have yet to make it to trial)(we will prevail, God willing…). To put any vicious slander about our collective civic awareness to rest, Hey Idiots offers a thoughtful, well-reasoned endorsement for the upcoming presidential election.

So without further ado, Hey Idiots! endorses James K. Polk for the Office of the Presidency.

American’s don’t agree on much these days, but current polling suggests a whopping 95% of Americans do not want to die in a terrorist fireball. And with terrorists peering around every corner, it’s vital our next president have legitimate foreign policy experience (and for the record Sarah Palin, being blessed with the sense of sight doesn’t count). Mr. Polk earned his Commander-in-Chief merit badge by successfully leading this country through the challenge of the Mexican-American War. And as if simply winning wasn’t enough, by signing the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, Mr. Polk ripped Texas, California, and the Southwest out of the hands of the Mexicans. This should prove attractive to the immigration enforcement wing of the right.

Terrorism and issues of foreign policy have been overshadowed in recent weeks by volatility in world markets. Americans have lost trillions of dollars in the faltering stock market, home values are plummeting, and the shaky economy has many worried over how they’ll make ends meet. Mr. Polk’s efforts to reduce tariffs will make foreign goods less expensive and put more money in the pockets of hard-working Americans and the reintroduction of the Federal Treasury will serve as a welcome redoubt for investors seeking stability in these troubling economic times.

While his roster of accomplishments is impressive, Mr Polk is not free of concern. Critics claim his expansionist efforts are nothing more than a crass ploy to expand the institution of slavery. Hey Idiots! is not prepared to say that thousands of brave American soldiers died merely to maintain the tenuous balance between slave-holding and non slave-holding states, but the failure to properly address the issue of slavery in this country, and the resulting so-called “compromise of 1850” could lead to much greater problems in, say, 14 or 15 years. We suggest Mr. Polk make this issue the centerpiece of his second term.

In these trying times, it’s clear to Hey Idiots! that James K Polk is the best choice to move America forward. So on November 4th, do your civic duty and mark your ballots accordingly.

God bless America!

- A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Douchebags

Hey guys,

I know we've had a longstanding agreement: we look the other way on your obnoxious repetition of played-out catch phrases, your unwarranted, unjustifiable arrogance, your "my job is so sick I can afford to dress like an eight-year-old on his way to church camp" fashion sense, your ceaseless misogyny, and your penchant for failing so miserably in your business endeavors that, eventually, the entire economy is impacted massively by the arrogance and irresponsibility of you and your cadre of asshat frat brothers. In exchange, you treat women so poorly that, eventually, even the bumbling ineptitude of the everyman seems somehow quaint and charming by comparison. Anything's better than Tucker Max, right ladies?

Well, I hate to break it to you fellas, but it's getting harder and harder to look the other way. We've been holding up our end of the bargain, piecing back together the broken lives of the women you've humiliated, but your behavior has grown exponentially worse as, inexplicably, you continue to land great jobs and date gorgeous women. The appeal of the Douchebag is perhaps the most mystifying development of the 21st century. But I digress.

If we're going to keep cleaning up your mess, some things are going to have to change.

Flip-Flops in the Fall
We get it. They're less complicated than shoes that require lacing and tying, and wearing flip-flops in a public, non-beach, non-communal-dorm-shower situation says, "hey man, I'm just a guy who likes to chill. The fuck. Out!" That's fine. If you want to dress those bad boys up with a pair of fashionably worn ("Hand-frayed by real Chinese children!") jeans and an almost-but-not-quite-ironic pink shirt, go bananas. But, once the temperature drops from 75 to 45, would you mind joining the rest of us in employing footwear that protects our feet from the elements? I'm not saying you've got to wear something as mind-boggling as a pair of boots. God no. Throw on your yellow topsiders and call it a day. Just, for the love of all that is holy, stop displaying your dirt-encrusted feet while the rest of us are preparing for Thanksgiving. There's a time and a place for everything, boys. Learn it.

Uncomfortable Public Displays of Homophobia and/or Homoeroticism
By now, we understand that anyone who doesn't want to take "Tough Man Tequila Shots" with you and your boys is a flaming homo and, of course, should be ridiculed mercilessly, and in public. Here's the thing though, guys: the only thing more gay than an actual gay is a man who is too insecure to admit he's gay and instead relegates himself to moronic epithets, followed almost immediately by a game of Texas Grab-ass with a few of his fellow bigots. That shit is soooo gay.

The Catch Phrase Corollary
A committed Douchebag will stick with a catch phrase for up to seven years after its cultural shelf life has expired. This is not an estimation, this is a mathematically proven fact. The equation is as follows: DB = CP-7, with DB and CP representing Douchebag and catch phrase, respectively. So, I'm just going to cut it to you straight, fellas. You're not Rick James, bitch. Nobody is anymore. Hell, even Rick James isn't Rick James these days. He's Rick James' corpse. David Chappelle's television show was hilarious, groundbreaking, and intelligent. Your repeated beating of a very, very dead horse is none of the above. If you really want to dig deep into the annals of played-out cultural phenomena, start screaming "WWHAAAZZZZSSZZUUUPPPP!!!" at your bros every time you enter a room. At least then you won't be desecrating the memory of something that was, at one point, legitimately entertaining.

Goatees
I've got to wrap this up, as I've got a very important sandwich to make, but before I go I'd like to make a simple statement about goatees. Goatees work (and I'm using "work" in the most generous sense of the word) on the following individuals: minor league baseball players, Anton Chekhov, Ming the Merciless. That's it. That's the list. So next time you're trimming your tickler, ask yourself, are you currently a member of the San Diego Padres farm system, the greatest short fiction writer in the history of literature, or a diabolical intergalactic warlord? If not, go ahead and run that Mach Three all along your adorable little face and step outside into a new world; a world where you're slightly less an abomination to everything decent and honorable about manhood.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled viewing of How I Met Your Mother.

An Open Letter to My Future

Dear My Future,

We’ve never met, so allow me to tell you a bit about myself. Before I was a concerned citizen, I was a wide-eyed citizen. Unconcerned with (possibly ignorant of) the inherent hazards of this existence, my eyes blurred as I gazed into the bright light of my own potential. I was certain the world would open herself to me with all the modesty of a drunken sorority sister. I would do no less than change the world. But as I’ve aged my perspective has evolved and frankly, I’m concerned.

As evidence, please consider the preceding decade. The rise of Islamic terrorism, the fall of American hegemony, the warming of the planet, the destruction of American cities, the catastrophic near-fall of our financial system, calamitous wars of choice, and the nagging suspicion that our government would like to tag and track us all like we’re a herd of migrating buffalo lead me to the conclusion that things might not turn out my way. I’d appreciate a heads-up on your part, just so I can plan the rest of my life.

If I’m being paranoid and things turn out well, give me a sign. It should be something I can’t miss like a pair of diamond loafers mysteriously appearing in my mailbox or hundred-dollar bills falling from the sky. That way I can start shopping for top hats and canes and developing a taste for caviar. But if instead you see me wandering the vast wastelands of America battling zombies and scouring the debris of wrecked cities for scraps of food and the remaining drops of gasoline, do nothing. I’ve read The Road, I’ll figure things out.

You’re a cagey bastard. Many claim to understand you, but I suspect few truly do. That kind of special sight is reserved for gods and greater men, I am neither. But I implore you to consider my request in due course. I’m sure we’ll meet eventually. Until then I remain yours…

A Concerned Citizen