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

An Open Letter to the Jonas Brothers

I'll be honest with you, Jonas Brothers. Up until about two weeks ago, I had no idea who you were. You see, I stay very busy with my model trains and disappointingly-not-to-scale replicas of Ewok Village. Some quick research tells me you're a group (gang?) of charming, young virgins who got their start at the Disney Channel. Man, that sounds awfully familar. Where have I heard that before? Oh, that's right! That insane, drug-addled former pop music icon whose most recent brush with notoriety was predicated upon her inability to exit a motor vehicle without wagging her cavernous cooch at passers by. She looks pretty vestal flailing around on the ground after her umpteenth Grey Goose binge, right fellas?

So let's cut the shit, Jonas Brothers. Nobody's buying your act (many, many people are buying your act). We understand you got your start on Christian radio. We understand the majority of your audience is comprised of pre-teen girls and their sexually unfulfilled mothers. We know that, unless you're Jim Morrison, it is considered unacceptable to take the stage and announce, "I just did eight lines of pure, uncut cocaine off of the baby-soft stomach of a fourteen-year-old girl!" We get it. But seriously guys, promise rings?! What are you, twelve-year-old Mormon girls? (Wait, are you twelve-year-old Mormon girls? I honestly can not tell.) Just tell us that Nick had one too many (read: one) Miller Chills and accidentally finger-fucked a groupie, who he has given his heart to and now intends to make an honest woman of. Then, three weeks later, feel free to feed us some bullshit line about how the groupie decided she was better off cleaning the Cheez Whiz stains of the carpet of her mother's doublewide and Nick, though heartbroken, is going to do his damnedest to move on. That's all we're asking. You don't even have to be honest. Just be less dishonest.

Secondly, and more importantly, enjoy this while you can. Do you remember the Hansons, of "MMMBop" fame? Well, they've recently embarked on another ill-fated tour. Would you like to know what kind of venues they're playing, Jonases? Would you?! They're playing the children's play area of every McDonald's across the nation! Alright, that's not true at all. They're playing (and selling out) 1,000-seat theatres in every major city in America. But trust me when I tell you this will not be your fate. If you're lucky, you'll find yourselves busking in front of the Safeway in Sherwood, Oregon while some dead-eyed meth addict blows you for bus fare. That's the reality, gents. Be ready to face it.

For now, however, you should revel in the glory of your recent four-star review from Rolling Stone (an accolade which, at one point, was reserved for a landmark musical achievement but now seems to merely signify the fact that you are an artist who has succeeded in releasing and promoting an album with the help of a major and/or well-funded independent label). Live it up, guys. You're the biggest kids on the block right now, you might as well make the most of it. What would I suggest, you ask? Well, spend a week on the road with Motorhead, for starters. If Lemmy won't have you, I suggest a three-way ticklefight on top of a sweaty pile of money. Now, I know you're wondering, who on Glorious God's green earth would Nick involve in a three-way ticklefight? How about a couple of lovely ladies named "Joe" and "Kevin?" Sound familiar? Like maybe, somewhere in the depths of your homeschooled, repressed psyches, something you've been craving for years? I thought so. Confront it, young lads. Confront your incestual, homosexual urges. And then ask yourself one question: Where's your God now, Jonas Brothers?!

An Open Letter to Jose Saramago

Mr. Saramago:

Against my better judgment, I purchased your Nobel Prize-winning novel Blindness over the long holiday weekend. I expected to find the riveting story of a city facing an epidemic of contagious blindness. Instead I’m faced with page after page of unreadable blocks of text separated by nothing more than commas and periods. Where are the semicolons? The hyphens? The paragraphs, for God’s sake? Who do you think you are, James Joyce?

May I remind you, sir, this is 2008. Hour upon hour of “The Hills” reruns has left my brain so atrophied and frail it’s barely able to pass the electrical signals that allow my heart to continue beating. Mr. Saragmago, I demand a rewrite.

Now I don’t want to make this request of you without offering some assistance. That would be uncharitable. So in the collegial spirit of a fellow writer, I offer a selection from the original version of Blindness (New York: Harcourt, 1997) and my own suggestion for revision.

From the original:
“As he moved in the direction of the sitting room, despite the caution with which he advanced, running a hesitant hand along the wall and not anticipating any obstacles, he sent a vase of flowers crashing to the floor. He had forgotten about any such vase, or perhaps his wife had put it there when she left for work with the intention of later finding a more suitable place (Saramago, 6).”

I offer instead:
“He walked down the hall, carefully running his had along the wall. Suddenly he knocked over a vase. 'Funny,' he thought, 'I don’t remember that being there. Maybe my wife put it there before work.' "

You’ll notice that I said exactly the same thing as you in half the number of words. Drill down, Mr. Saramago. Drill down. You may also notice I stated exactly what the character was thinking instead of merely implying. It’s a subtle change that I think your audience will appreciate.

Now that I think about it, instead of going to the trouble of rewriting an entire book just so it’s accessible to the masses, why doesn’t someone make Blindness into a big-budget Hollywood movie starring Mark Ruffalo and Julianne Moore? That way I could watch the movie without having to concern myself with a challenging format or pesky subtext. Shoot, I could watch the movie and then tell all my friends I read the book and preferred it to the film. Nobody will ever know! Wait… What? Oh, excuse me. Blindness, a film by Fernando Meirelles, in theaters September 26th? I apologize, Mr Saramago. Please disregard the previous 250 words. Loved the book, by the way.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Barack Obama

Here at Hey Idiots!, we were greatly saddened by the passing of Walter "Killer" Kowalski. Saddened, first and foremost, because the world had lost the man who many credit with revolutionizing the "sport" of professional wrestling, but saddened also because we were reminded that, at one point in time, professional wrestling was, well, slightly less a farce than it is today.

We know that we'll never be able to trust the WWF (we'll be damned if we're ever going to refer to it as the WWE) to return professional wrestling to its glory days, but the Democratic National Convention filled us with hope - the hope that there is another alternative for those of us who still crave the thinly veiled epithets and pulsing veins that were the hallmarks of those halcyon days of wrestling yore. That hope lies in the face, the voice, and the candidacy of Barack Obama.

Senator Obama, in the speech you delivered at the DNC, you cut back ever-so-slightly on the platitudes and rhetoric and came out with a double-barreled blast of hypocrisy and tough-talk, two hallmarks of a possibly-not-catastrophic political campaign. We're not sure what our favorite implausible Obama Promise (to be referred to heretofore as an Obamise) was: that you will redirect funding and withdraw troops while strengthening the military (contradictory!), that, under your command, the United States will have eliminated its dependance on foreign oil within ten years (at maximum, your presidential term will be eight!), that you will implement a bevy of social programs while simultaneously lowering taxes (please elaborate!), or that you will be tough on terror while John McCain "wouldn't even follow Osama Bin Laden to the cave where he lives." (What. The. FUCK are you talking about, dude?!) Unfortunately, the man you're running against is a bloodthirsty, racist, warmongering lunatic. (Who, as you pointed out, is owed a debt of gratitude by each and every one of us due to his brave service at our country's defense.) You don't want to get into a badass contest with Johnny Mac, man. He will stomp a mudhole in you and walk it dry. He'll make you look like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

So here's what you've gotta do: you've gotta take it up a notch. No, you've got to take it up two hundred notches. You've got to take us back to those pre-match promos the WWF superstars used to cut with Mean Gene Okerlund, and the subsequent beatings we would gleefully witness moments later. You can start by losing the suit and tie. That's sissy bitch garb. And you, sir, are no sissy bitch. At your next event, we'd better see you in blue tights with "oBAMa" in big red letters on the ass. If you want to maybe wear some weird-ass ribbons like the Ultimate Warrior did, that's cool too, but don't overdo it. We can't have you looking like Steven Tyler's mic stand out there.

Next, punctuate each implausible vow by saying, "and THAT'S an Obamise!" and smashing your fist into the podium. (It might be beneficial to hire somebody to replace each wooden podium with one made of styrofoam or cardboard. The last thing you need is to try and hammer home a promise to provide each American family with their own magical moneytree by breaking your dainty hand on that hard oak.)

Also, we're not sure you really want to enter into a policy debate with Senator McPain because he does have an actual, y'know, platform, however misguided (read: fucking insane) it may be. Instead, show up unannounced at his next event and challenge him to an arm-wrestling contest. You'll be able to assert your own strength while simultaneously calling attention to the fact that McCain is, in fact, crippled and weak. It can't miss!

Finally, you've got to get yourself one of those sexy "managers." J-Mac already made a savvy play in this department by snatching up the foxy Sarah Palin to be the Elizabeth to his Macho Man so, clearly, Joseph Biden isn't going to cut it. Our suggestion: Eleanor Mondale.



Look at that! Sure, she's only vaguely, peripherally involved in politics but she makes Sarah Palin look like Janet Reno! Plus, she's probably a damn tiger in the sack, but that's just speculation on our behalf. (President Clinton, feel free to chime in on this one.)

Now, if you can manage all of that, plus raise the volume and intensity of your speaking voice by one thousand percent, you'll have this election in the bag and we'll have been treated to some good, old-fashioned entertainment.

(A quick word of warning: should you choose this approach, prepare yourself for the day you're blindsided by a steel chair while Jim Ross shouts, "MY GOD!! THAT'S HILLARY CLINTON! NO! NO! NO!")

Special XXIX Olympiad Edition: An Open Letter to China

Dear China:

Let’s face facts. Despite your preening, manipulation, and assurances to the contrary, you are in fact an oppressive Marxist regime. Some may choose to ignore the giant dump you’re taking on freedom (NBC and the IOC, I’m looking in your direction) and focus instead on marketing their products to your huge middle class. I assure you, China, I will not look the other way. I cannot be bought! (I can be bought…) Instead I intend to shine the patented Shawn Hannity “Bright Light of Freedom” on your shadowy underbelly and forever shame you and the 2008 Olympics you hold so dear. I now present my case:

Exhibit A: Your Creepy “Women’s” Gymnastics Team
I’m no dope. As a man who’s made it his life's work to spot the barely-legal set, I know an underage girl when I see one. And no fake passport is going to change my mind when you introduce your team of asexual fetuses to compete in the gymnastics all-around final. That is some messed up shit, China! Is winning a gold medal worth using a thirteen-year-old girl to cheat? I suppose with the problems you’ve had with your one-child policy I should count my blessings that you’re able to round up enough “women” to even field a team.

Exhibit B: Denying Joey Cheek a Visa
To be honest, I don’t care about Joey Cheek. He’s a winter Olympics athlete and I think we can all agree that the Winter Olympics are about as compelling as the WNBA Finals. But here’s the deal China, denying him a visa because he founded a charity supporting the people of Darfur only makes it appear as if you have something to hide. Oh wait, you do have something to hide! Your continued support of Sudan only enables the atrocities being committed there. Putting profit ahead of genocide is something bad countries do (see also the American Military Industrial Complex).

Exhibit C: Your 12-Hour Time Difference
What kind of godless country exists one entire day ahead of America? As I write this letter, it’s already tomorrow in China. You live in the future. Is this how you’ve gained your competitive edge? You see events before we do. How can we possibly compete?

Exhibit D: Your Ridiculous System of Government
Somehow you’ve managed to incorporate the worst parts of Capitalism and Communism and infuse them into one soul-crushing system of government that will ultimately be responsible for the end of life on planet earth. Okay, I may be overreaching, but my point stands. You have no problem with your citizens making money, but your giant, shuffling, bureaucratic government, the one who created a sanitized internet, can’t figure out a way to enact air quality standards. Instead, you resort to cloud seeding in the hopes that rain will wash away the smog and you can avoid the embarrassment of the Olympic marathon runners growing horns and prehensile tails around mile marker 16.

I could go on and on. These are just a few of the more egregious offenses you’ve committed in your brief moment in the sun. I’ve made it clear that all is not normal in your country. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop the act and go back to conducting yourself like you’re the subject of a George Orwell novel. That would be double-plus good in my book.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen

Special Olympics Edition: An Open Letter to the Spanish Olympic Men's Basketball Team

"Okay, everyone say 'Tibet!'"

Well, now that I'm reading that title line, it dawns on me that we should probably specify: this is a special Olympics edition, not a Special Olympics edition. Although, judging by the apparent sociological acumen of the Spanish Olympic Men's Basketball squad, maybe the latter isn't too far off, either.

Really, guys? Really? We're bringing back the slanty-eyes thing for a team photo? Short of getting Mickey Rooney to reprise his role from Breakfast at Tiffany's, I'm not sure you could have presented a more small-minded view of Chinese culture, nor a poorer representation of your own. Why not up the ante? How about taking the photo in front of some railroad tracks or a dry cleaning establishment? That would have really put those little Orientals in their place! Fuck them and their rugs, right? Who's with me!

My buddies and I were going to line up for a similar "team" photo, paying homage to Spain's rich history, but there's no way to simply and convincingly make oneself resemble a thieving, pillaging rapist who stumbled upon the wrong continent and called it good. So it's back to the drawing board, I guess.

And while we're on the subject of stereotypes, way to put to rest the prevailing "myth" that Spanish men are a bunch of swarthy, ignorant jagoffs whose primary interests in life are paella and pussy. You sure showed us, Spain. We'll think twice before characterizing your men's basketball team as a gang of shoot-first-think-later flop artists who wouldn't know a pick and roll if Penelope Cruz had the play diagrammed on her naked body.

So, rather than clowning around in front of the camera and creating an international fiasco, Spain, why don't you go back to doing what you do best: offering rich Americans an exotic locale in which to eat and fornicate.

See? That just sounded racist and ignorant, didn't it? Now, imagine if I'd found a way to communicate those sentiments visually.

Ole'!

An Open Letter to Google

Dear Google:

First things first, I owe you a kind word. You’ve made my life so much easier. It’s hard to think of a time before you existed. What did I do in 1994 when I wanted to find the lyrics to Queen’s "Fat Bottomed Girls" or search for naked pictures of Helen Mirren? Go to library? But now all I need to do is type a phrase into your handy search bar and the world is at my fingertips. Thank you.

But Google, lately you worry me. It started with Google Earth. The idea that I could type my address into a computer program and instantly see a satellite image of my home was unnerving. Then you unveiled Google Street View. As I write, Google camera vans are traversing our streets in an effort to photograph the “street view” of every address in America. As if that wasn’t enough, now I learn that you’re memorizing every search term you receive. Google, it appears you’re trying to collect the sum total of mankind’s information. That’s something a Bond villain would do.

Remember the profound words of Spiderman’s uncle, Uncle Ben: “With great power, comes great responsibility.” You have the opportunity to provide a service to the world. The free exchange of information can break down barriers and borders, transcend race and class, and topple tyrants. But I suspect that’s not your aim. Google, I suspect your true goal is global rule.

Here’s how I foresee the course of future events. Sometime soon you’ll suddenly disappear from the Internet. Citizens around the world will panic when they’re no longer able to search Google Images for “celebrity nipple slip.” When society seems on the verge of collapse, you’ll appear on transmissions worldwide demanding the combined nations of earth pay you a 500 trillion dollar-per-year ransom for access to the information you’ve hoarded. After the world’s inevitable capitulation, you’ll root out dissent by spying on gmail messages and quickly make arrests because you’ll have clear driving directions. Am I close, Google?!

I fear there’s nothing I can do to thwart your evil plans. But please remember, when you’re deploying your five-stories-high-laser-death-ray to finally root out the last rebel stronghold hidden in the Caucuses, please recall my kind words in the first paragraph and mind your aim.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to My Fellow Self-Check Users

For a brief moment, I was of the believe that the self-check line was the greatest technological advance to hit grocery stores since the debit card reader/pin pad. Those days are gone.

Like the pin pad, the self-check line has become yet another device that confounds the masses, leading to an even longer, more arduous payment process. That which was engineered specifically to expedite checkout has served only to stand as yet another obstacle to those of us self-sufficient enough to bag and pay for our own groceries. It could have been a utopian development; it stands as a disaster.

All is not lost. We can fix this. The keys to unlocking the magic and mystery of the self-check line lie below.

Rule #1: If You Can't Handle the Self-Check Line, Don't Use It
To the best of my knowledge, most, if not all, grocery chains continue to employ checkers (and baggers). If running an item's barcode over a reader and placing the item in a bag is a challenge for you, make use of these woefully underpaid individuals. Split your payment up into six different cards, a handful of coins, and a stack of coupons. Take all the time you need fishing around for exact change. Make small talk with the poor, haggard woman in the middle of a fourteen-hour day, who longs only for a bottle of Hood River vodka and death's sweet embrace. I'm sure she's dying to hear all about how your third-grader won his class spelling bee. You can do all of this and more simply by utilizing the conveniently located, run-by-actual-people checkstands near the entrance to the establishment. Check 'em out sometime.

Rule #2: Familiarize Yourself with Touchscreen Technology
See how the screen kind of looks like a keypad? And those colored icons resemble buttons? Have you ever wondered what might happen if you tried to "press" one? I'll clue you in: the odds of you being bludgeoned by me would decrease significantly.

Rule #3: Feel Free to Employ Common Courtesy
The self-check line is a microcosm of civilized society. At its best, it functions as a close-knit community of like-minded people working together towards a common goal. At worst, it is complete and utter chaos. We can avoid the worst-case scenario by simply being observant and considerate. Let's say two people are standing in line. (On line? It's immaterial.) One has a basketful of assorted goods, the other a pregnancy test. There is one self-check station open. By all reasonable rationale, the individual whose life hangs in the balance should be allowed immediate access to an expedited checkout process, right? And yet, I have seen this very situation unfold with the exact opposite outcome. The greedy, oblivious shopper neglected to exercise common courtesy, and pregnancy-test-holder was forced to endure an extra ten minutes of nerve-wracking torture, nearly suffering a coronary in the process. Perhaps this is indicative of a pervasive sense of apathy among Americans. Or perhaps the fuckhead with sixteen Hot Pockets ought to take a look around before he ambles up to the screen, just to stare blankly at it for the next five minutes. This is why people commit random acts of violence.

Rule #4: Do Not Talk to the Machine
I know that the self-check machine's animatronic voice asking you to "please place your item in the bag" seems human, but it is not. Screaming at it when you can't find the produce department does no one any good, and it makes you seem ill-prepared for today's fast-paced, technology-driven world. No matter how many times you shout, "WHERE ARE THE APPLES?!" the machine will not be able to answer your question. However, if you find yourself in line with me, and you reach a similar impasse, just turn to me and lean in very closely, then ask your question. I will smile politely. Then I will punch you square in your motherfucking face, you fucking idiot.

Rule #5: Move Swiftly
You know what's really fun about watching you complete your transaction and then stare at the screen, as if waiting for it to offer you financial advice or the secret to a rewarding sex life? Nothing. Not one thing. You scanned and bagged your groceries. You paid. Now please move along and let the rest of us reap the benefits of innovation and technology. We don't yet have flying cars or time-travel devices, so the self-check line is as close as most of us will get to the futuristic advances we were promised by the Back to the Future series. Gather your things and move along before I roll up my copy of US Weekly and start swatting you with it, you ill-mannered troglodyte.

Kisses.

An Open Letter to Potential Real World Cast Members

To Whom It May Concern:

I understand your desire to be famous. American culture glamorizes fame in a way only the British can appreciate and our bootstrap mentality makes wealth and notoriety feel like a debt that’s owed. So I won’t cast judgment when you send MTV that video of you riding a unicycle naked through your small Midwestern town. I know you just want to be on TV.

You’re a dreamer and many times dreamers see only what they want to see. So I’m writing this letter to tell you what you can expect when you finally become one of those seven strangers.

Your liver will grow to twice its normal size.
At some point during the last 20 years, Real World producers stopped casting kids with unique personalities and decided instead to focus their attention on burgeoning alcoholics. I suspect this shift came during the Hawaii season when Ruthie drove drunk and was sent to rehab. It gave the producers the unique opportunity to simultaneously condemn and rescue a cast member and then claim they were sending an important social message.

So get ready potential cast member. The worst parts of your personality will be uncovered, exploited and condemned in the name of advertising revenue. Enjoy that tenth Long Island Iced Tea. Wait, aren’t you underage?

You will have your ass kicked by townies at least once.
If there’s one thing we Americans hate more than Arabs, it’s people who are famous for no good reason. So when you hit the local watering hole with 20 crew members in tow, don’t be surprised when some drunk local, who’s own audition tape got returned unopened, decides to take a run at you. But please tough guy, take your beating like a man. Americans hate watching men cry.

You will have endless, banal conversations about race and love.
You’re not Martin Luther King. Not even close. So spare us your views on race relations. You may think you’re tolerant. Hell, you may even be tolerant. But it will all be undone when you spew racial epithets at your roommate after a Bacardi-fueled warpath through the bar district. Just remember, they don’t allow cell phones in rehab.

Ditto your views on relationships. We get that you’re terrible at being faithful, and we believe you might want to settle down, someday. Just don’t agonize over it. You’re never going to find your soul mate between the legs of the stripper you brought back to the house. She may look good in the hot tub, but you’ll never get that glitter off your camouflage sheets (sadly, that is not a metaphor).

You will not become rich and famous after the show ends.
The Real World will not be your first step to stardom. In fact, you’ll most likely be forgotten the minute the reunion episode is over. Let’s face it; in the end you’re just another reality show wannabe. So please, potential cast member, don’t talk about the “projects” you’ve got lined up, or the “contacts” you’ve made, or pretend that the drinking you do is “networking." You’re being used and you have zero leverage. You’ll end up back in Indiana, sort of going to school, definitely not working, constantly thinking about how for a brief, handsome moment you felt what it was like to be known. The sooner you realize this, the better the rest of your life will be. Quick test: name all the cast members from the Boston series without using Google. Now name all of the “Friends." I rest my case.

You can expect to put your life on hold forever, waiting for the producers to call for another “challenge."
Here’s some useful advice: once your season has ended, don’t bother getting a real job or shouldering any responsibilities. You’ll want to be able to drop everything when you’re asked to appear on the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Maybe, if you’re very lucky, you’ll “retire” from challenges with fanfare and adulation like Timmy (even though he’ll never be able to retire in the real real world). You’re more likely to be kicked off three consecutive shows for fighting and never asked back. Then every fall you’ll be forced to swallow your bile as you watch Brad from San Diego win another motorcycle that should’ve been yours. Make sure you don’t yell too loudly. Your dad has to get up early for work.

So heed my warning, potential Real World cast member. Fame is fickle, especially for basic cable reality show stars.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Harrison Ford's Earring

Just look at yourself. Take a good, long, honest look. What do you see? Do you see a sexy, rebellious accessory smack-dab in the middle of an A-List Hollywood superstar's awe-inspiring revitalization? Neither do I. I see a grotesque reminder of the Peter Pan Complex, protruding from the saggy earlobe of a 65-year-old man. You've had a good run but it's time to move on to greener pastures. It is a well-established fact that, along with sports cars and young women, you're the hallmark of the male midlife crisis. Well answer me this: how do you expect to signify anyone's midlife crisis when you're pinned to the ear of a man who stopped standing up to piss nearly a decade ago? Sixty-five! He's old enough to be John McCain's son, for God's sake! Don't you want more from your life?

I know, I know. We've had this discussion before. I remember it well. The question is, do you? Let me refresh your memory. Five years ago, I casually mentioned that you might consider reassessing your role in Ford's pathetic charade and find a new ear to cling to. My suggestion: Brad Pitt. You fumed, insisting that while Ford may well, at some point, be regarded as a has-been (even then, your delusion was severe, as old Harry had achieved has-been status some five years prior, with the release of Six Days, Seven Nights), Pitt would always be a never-was. I suppose the fact that Pitt was already the industry's most famous and bankable leading man had somehow eluded you, or maybe you and Harrison were too busy watching Matlock reruns and catching the Early Bird Special at Denny's to know much about who was who in Hollywood at the time.

Fast-forward five years:  Pitt has nearly achieved national treasure status while you and your beloved Indy are gallivanting around some ancient alien tomb in search of your lost relevance. Quick question for you: where would you rather be right now, nestled snugly amid Angelina Jolie's ample bosom or pressed firmly against one of Calista Flockhart's pallid, anorexic thighs? Exactly.

So, maybe this time around, you'll take my advice. I'm just going to throw a name out there for you to mull over: James McAvoy. Hear me out. He's 29, has just thrown his hat into the action hero ring with Wanted (co-starring none other than the lovely Ms. Jolie), and is slated to star as Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, which will surely catapult him to mega-stardom. It's the perfect storm. You'll catch him on the upswing and be there to comfort him as he slowly comes to grips with the fact that he peaked well before his 35th birthday. After that sobering realization sets in, there's no limit to the amount of embarrassingly transparent tomfoolery you and McAvoy might perpetrate in an ill-fated attempt to recapture his fleeting youth and fame. Maybe you'll bed a newly-divorced Scarlett Johansson (sorry, Ryan Reynolds, you knew it was coming)! Or drive a convertible Rolls Royce into a man-made lake of fire! Or cook up a solution of yak's blood and baking soda and inject it directly into your eyeball! Hey, midlife crises aren't always fun. That's the risk you run, my friend. But it's a risk worth taking.

Heed my words, you stubborn sonofabitch, or before you know it, you and Harrison will be enjoying the "good life" on the set of the network comedy My Incontinent Dad.

You've been warned. Again. Now get out while you still can.

An Open Letter to California Wildfires

Dear Sir (or Madam?):

As I write, you’re busy sweeping across Northern California leaving 125 square miles of charred land in your wake. You’ve destroyed 48 homes and currently threaten the entire town of Big Sur. An impressive outing, California Wildfires.

But this isn’t the first time we’ve heard from you. The McNally Fire in 2002, the Cedar Fire in 2003, the Canyon and Corral fires in 2007, and that’s just a partial list. We get it California Wildfires. In the land of American Disasters, you reign supreme.

Don’t mistake these words for a rebuke. That’s not my goal. I appreciate excellence in all things, and California Wildfires, your work is breathtaking. No, I write this letter as an open-handed gesture, a caution against doing your work too well, or too often.

Once upon a time, a young man burned his way through California much the same way you have. It seemed he couldn’t be stopped. 1972: Deliverence, 1974: The Longest Yard, 1977: Smokey and the Bandit, 1981: The Cannonball Run. An impressive streak to be sure. But our fair nation grew tired of the young man’s all-American good looks and aw-shucks attitude and, before you could say Stroker Ace, he became the punch line to a joke no one tells anymore.

I don’t want the same thing to happen to you, California Wildfires. If you keep burning up the state you love so much, pretty soon you won’t have anyplace left to hang your hat. And then what will you do? Move to Oregon? I think everyone knows that’s not an option. To be frank, California Wildfires, you come off as being needy.

I suggest you take a cue from your cousin the California Earthquake. He knows he doesn’t need to show up every year begging for attention. One magnificent showing every decade is enough to command the utmost respect from all the beautiful people.

I hope you’ve taken the time to read this, California Wildfires. You’re a beautiful, terrifying act of God that risks becoming almost commonplace. Please take these words to heart and check yourself before you wriggity-wreck yourself.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Brett Favre

From ESPN.com: 

WTMJ-TV in Milwaukee reported Monday that Favre sent a text message to Packers GM Ted Thompson on Saturday -- and that Thompson's reply was that he was on vacation and the two men will have to talk later.

Let's put aside the absurdity of the fact that ESPN is now reporting on a text message exchange between Favre and Thompson that amounts to, "now's not a good time." We'll get to that later. For now...

Dear Brett,

Imagine our collective lack of surprise upon learning last week that you were maybe kinda thinkin' that you might sorta wanna decide that maybe, just maybe, you didn't want to retire after all. Forget the tearful farewell press conference. Forget the last half-decade of speculation that this year may just be Brett Farve's last, and if not this year, then definitey next year... probably.  Forget the theatrics, cliches, platitudes and overwrought on-field celebrations/farewells. That was all well and good but, hey, tossin' that pigskin around is pretty damn fun. There are still asses to be kicked, names to be taken, and ill-advised hail-mary's to be thrown, right big fella?

Well, guess what? Nobody gives a shit anymore.

Sorry, let us revise that:  nobody outside of Wisconsin gives a shit anymore.

If we're being honest here, you should have retired after your cameo in There's Something About Mary. Talk about going out on top. Three NFL MVP's, a Super Bowl Championship, five All-Pro selections, and a delightfully lovable turn in a bawdy, comedic romp. That would have been your resume' had you hung 'em up in 1998, when, by all reasonable accounts, your career trajectory had reached its apex. That was ten years ago, Brett! To borrow from Paul Spericki in Grosse Point Blank, "TEN YEARS, MAN!!!"

Thanks to your durability (read: manically stubborn insistence upon remaining in the spotlight), we've now had to endure an extra decade of your ego-driven passing attack (the technical term for which is, "Fuck the Game Plan, I'm Brett Fucking Favre!"), offseason speculation, and countless hours of superlative-laden handjobs from network broadcast teams. If it's alright by you, big guy, we're going to go ahead and hold you personally responsible for the misappropriation of the words "courageous" and "heroic." (A quick aside:  saving a child from a burning building is both heroic and courageous. Taking a vicious hit from a middle linebacker and somehow, miraculously summoning the strength to get back up - no matter how many times you do it - is not. Is that too difficult to grasp, Joe Buck? Or did they not cover that in Smarmy Sportscasting and Nepotism for Dummies?)

The point, Brett, is we've all seen this movie before; we know how it ends. It ends with you further tarnishing a legacy that, for all intents and purposes, should have cemented your status as one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever play the game. You had it all, man. Grit, gumption, charisma, talent, the requisite personal demons (which, of course, you conquered), tragedy, trauma, a square jaw, a five-o'clock shadow and perfectly rumpled hair. You were America. You were football. The key word there, Brett, is were. 

"Hey, wait a damn minute," you'll say. "I was Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year last year! I had a damn good season!" We'll grant you both points. Sure, statistically speaking, you had a pretty good year. Hell, you nearly led the Pack Attack back to the Super Bowl before you got upended by Peyton Manning's charmingly retarded kid brother. Don't feel too bad about it, pal. Brady and Belichick didn't see it coming, either. Nobody did. Imagine, though, what could have been, Brett. Imagine the pomp and circumstance you would have been enveloped in had you been able to lead the Packers past the Giants, past the Patriots, and to the Promised Land once again.

But you didn't.

Instead, you played like, well, like Brett Favre has been playing for a decade now. You said, "to hell with it," and tossed up one reckless pass after another. Wouldn't ya know it, the Giants eventually capitalized. 

It seemed, as winter turned to spring and you made your soap-operatic retirement announcement, that you had finally seen the light at the end of the tunnel; that you had finally let go of the past, embraced the present, and turned your attention to the future. Residents of Green Bay were predictably grief-stricken, some despondent Packer fans consuming as many as six pounds of cheese that day, in addition to their usual allotment of eight. The rest of the country muttered, "'bout fuckin' time," and went back about our lives. At last, the Brett Favre story had an end. It wasn't especially fitting, but it was an end. 

And then, last week, the reports started surfacing. Brett Favre hadn't run out of courage and heroism just yet. Brett Favre had a little more gas in the ol' tank. Today's asinine ESPN headline solidified our worst fears. You were going to attempt a comeback before even having experienced retirement. Across the country, eyes rolled in apathy and disdain. In Wisconsin, men and women stopped drinking just long enough to jubilantly shout, "told ya so!" Joe Buck masturbated seventeen times before noon, disrupting his neighbors with repeated shouts of, "and I mean, nobody - NOBODY - does it better than Favre!" Somehow, some way, the world kept right on turning. 

Look, we know you're not the first. We've got Jordan, Clemens and Rocky Balboa to blame for this. And they'll get what's coming to them. We don't know why we thought you might, for once in your career, make the smart play. In retrospect, it was naive' and foolish, like that desperate shred of hope we cling to that one day, we'll wake up and Stephen Tyler will have simply vanished from everyone's collective consciousness without a trace. It's silly, but we can dream, right? Hell, we could have even brought ourselves to forgive you for that extra decade of egomaniacal incompetence if you'd just hung it up when you said you were done. But now, on top of every thing else that's going wrong in this godforsaken world, we've got Brett Favre to reckon with again. Thanks a lot, Brett. Thanks a whole fuckin' lot.

As for the aforementioned absurdity of ESPN's reportage, let's take a look at this situation from a different angle. Let's say Brett Favre wasn't a superfamous stud quarterback. Let's say he was just your douchebag buddy who'd broken up with his girlfriend in February. And here we are in July, and Brett's ex is dating this young, insecure guy, we'll call him Aaron. Now, you're just sitting down for coffee one day, minding your own business, when your gossipy bitch friend, who never quite manages to get her story 100% straight, sits down next to you with a terribly satisfied grin slapped across her face. The following exchange ensues:

ESPN:  So...

You:  So.

ESPN:  Heard a rumor about Brett and Green Bay yesterday.

You:  I thought they split up.

ESPN:  They did. BUT. I guess Brett's been hanging around her place lately. 

You:  Isn't she dating Aaron?

ESPN:  Yeah. BUT! I guess Brett sent her a text message today.

You:  Oh. 

ESPN:  MmmHmmmm. He was all like, "hey, we should talk," and she was all, "I can't talk now but maybe later."

You:  And? 

ESPN:  And what?! They, like, talked about maybe talking!

And then, just as you're about to engage in a semantic argument with ESPN about exactly what it may or may not mean that Brett and Green Bay might start talking again, you realize YOU DON'T GIVE A RUSTY FUCK. Are they back together yet? No! Are they talking about getting back together? No! So Brett's single and Green Bay might not want to marry Aaron just yet. Who. Fucking. Cares?! A long time ago, ESPN seemed to lose sight of the fact that their job is to report the news, not create it. Blame the twenty-four-hour news cycle, or the long and distinguished history of news organizations creating stories where they don't exist, the fact remains, it is idiotic - at best - to spend time hypothesizing about the exact importance and meaning of Brett Favre's text messages. Is there any chances we can cut this shit out? Any at all? (And while we're at it, ESPN, can you just shitcan Bill Simmons and get it over with? Talk about guys who've long since worn out their welcome. Did you know he's friends with Jimmy Kimmel! I know, right? So cool. Simmons is such a humble guy, he doesn't mention it often, so we thought we'd toot his horn for him. What a magnificent, flaming jerkoff that guy is. But that's another letter.)

The bottom line is this, Brett:  come back, don't come back. Nobody cares. You used to be a shining example of perseverance and the competitive spirit. Now you're just another washed-up punchline standing in the way of somebody else's dream. Thanks for the memories, asshole.

An Open Letter to Our Readers

Welcome. We would hope that this site needs little in the way of introduction or explanation. The title and content should be pretty self-explanatory. The first two installments of Open Letters - to California Wildfires and Brett Favre - will be posted sometime within the next few days, and subsequent letters will be posted at minimum of one per week. The comments section will be the our only mode of communication here. We exist on a plane that transcends email communication. That and we can't remember the password to our account. If anyone has a line on dirt-cheap erectile dysfunction remedies, magical weight loss formulas, or the whereabouts of a displaced Rwandan prince longing to share his $75,000,000 fortune, let us know. Without access to email, we have no way of capitalizing on these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

Thank you for your time.

Two Concerned Citizens