letters to the editor, pt. 3
or "Dear Yahweh, It's me Lab Rat"
Dear god,
It's me again, that guy who asks you for things. I've got an easy one. I don't ever want to see the game "Civilization II" again. It's old, antiquated even. I need you to break its hold over me. I've been fine without it these last five years, and I can finally say I've made progress with real life even. I now know that the world was not ready for a Communist Egypt with nuclear capabilities in the year 1655. I'm okay with that. I also know that I don't want to have any further "Civilization II" arguments with my girlfriend that rival or surpass our actual arguments on religion or politics in both intensity and ferocity. Strike it from her hardrive and remove it from my sight. Change it in my mind to "Escape From Monkey Island" or somesuch lamity so as not to tempt me further. The next time I'm up until six in the morning, there better be at least the promise of some tits and degradation involved, even (and especially) if I am just sitting in front of the computer.
sincerely,
Eric
speaking of tits and degradation...
Dear American Apparel,
I get it. This hot chick has a pimple on her ass. This hot chick has bushy eyebrows. This kinda chubby hot chick is in the throes of orgasm. I want to fuck them. I do not, however, want to buy the tube socks they carelessly forgot to remove whilst pretending to get off for your photographers. That skinny guy with the bad moustache in the 80s workout shorts, you can totally see his package. Good for him. You guys are obviously as progressive as your anti-sweatshop, pro-union policies would imply. There. Now can I have my magazines back? All of them. I'm hiding. All I've got left is Soldier of Fortune, Trucker News Monthly, and American Kitten. You're making me miss the forgotten ads of yesterdyear, where cigarettes were promises of family fun and a can of beer meant a party was on the way. "The glory days," I'll call them, as I close one of my grandchildren's Goldenbooks to see the bleached and puckered asshole of a woman wearing one of your 100 per cent cotton headwarmers on the back cover. You're ruining the future.
Thanks in advance,
Eric
speaking of the end of the world
Dear Pakistan,
Don't you have nukes? We just bombed your ass and we aren't even at war with you. "The war on terrror has no boundaries." Are you gonna fall for that? We can just go and say that there's an Al Quada cell operating out of your ass, and stick some MIGS up there. Toughen up, grow some balls, and fight our ass so we can overthrow Bush already. You're neighbors'll love it. You and India can finally bond over something. Most of the people you'd be killing can't tell the difference between you guys anyway. Are you mad yet? Good.
Git er done,
Eric
speaking of spineless losers fat on British currency and their own inflated sense of accomplishment...
Dear Bloc Party,
You're totally last years' TV on the Radio.
Just thought you should know,
Eric
p.s. TV on the Radio were wayyy better than you guys by the way, and have more well-dressed black guys, to boot. Maybe there's a correlation. Try firing the honkies and get back to me.
speaking of don't believe the hype...
Dear Lady Sovereign,
You are probably going to be this year's M.I.A. She was namechecking revolutionaries for, what, five months and now she's doing car commercials? What the fuck? Be strong, LS. You can probably do better than Diplo, anyway.
My girlfriend won't mind,
Eric
speaking of settling down with a nice girl who can bust a mean flow...
Dear Mom,
Thank you for not crying when you saw my tattoo this time. There will probably be many more in the future, and I have no plans on relenting any time soon. The chances are slim that I will suffer blood poisoning or get beaten to death by skinheads or Palestinians. The next time I go into the Arab world, or to a White Pride show, I will be sure to wear a scarf. I'll even try not to lose the scarf this time.
love,
Eric
p.s. Don't buy the scarf. The ones you pick out are too faggy. Besides, I need to do this for myself.
p.s. Everytime I come over, I steal salmon or imitation crab meat. Thanks for being a good Jewish Mom with a fridge full of salmon and imitation crab meat.
p.p.s. I'm sorry that my blogs make you cry sometimes, and that the ones that don't are all about sex, and that anything else still has bad words. You taught me better than that.
Dear god,
It's me again, that guy who asks you for things. I've got an easy one. I don't ever want to see the game "Civilization II" again. It's old, antiquated even. I need you to break its hold over me. I've been fine without it these last five years, and I can finally say I've made progress with real life even. I now know that the world was not ready for a Communist Egypt with nuclear capabilities in the year 1655. I'm okay with that. I also know that I don't want to have any further "Civilization II" arguments with my girlfriend that rival or surpass our actual arguments on religion or politics in both intensity and ferocity. Strike it from her hardrive and remove it from my sight. Change it in my mind to "Escape From Monkey Island" or somesuch lamity so as not to tempt me further. The next time I'm up until six in the morning, there better be at least the promise of some tits and degradation involved, even (and especially) if I am just sitting in front of the computer.
sincerely,
Eric
speaking of tits and degradation...
Dear American Apparel,
I get it. This hot chick has a pimple on her ass. This hot chick has bushy eyebrows. This kinda chubby hot chick is in the throes of orgasm. I want to fuck them. I do not, however, want to buy the tube socks they carelessly forgot to remove whilst pretending to get off for your photographers. That skinny guy with the bad moustache in the 80s workout shorts, you can totally see his package. Good for him. You guys are obviously as progressive as your anti-sweatshop, pro-union policies would imply. There. Now can I have my magazines back? All of them. I'm hiding. All I've got left is Soldier of Fortune, Trucker News Monthly, and American Kitten. You're making me miss the forgotten ads of yesterdyear, where cigarettes were promises of family fun and a can of beer meant a party was on the way. "The glory days," I'll call them, as I close one of my grandchildren's Goldenbooks to see the bleached and puckered asshole of a woman wearing one of your 100 per cent cotton headwarmers on the back cover. You're ruining the future.
Thanks in advance,
Eric
speaking of the end of the world
Dear Pakistan,
Don't you have nukes? We just bombed your ass and we aren't even at war with you. "The war on terrror has no boundaries." Are you gonna fall for that? We can just go and say that there's an Al Quada cell operating out of your ass, and stick some MIGS up there. Toughen up, grow some balls, and fight our ass so we can overthrow Bush already. You're neighbors'll love it. You and India can finally bond over something. Most of the people you'd be killing can't tell the difference between you guys anyway. Are you mad yet? Good.
Git er done,
Eric
speaking of spineless losers fat on British currency and their own inflated sense of accomplishment...
Dear Bloc Party,
You're totally last years' TV on the Radio.
Just thought you should know,
Eric
p.s. TV on the Radio were wayyy better than you guys by the way, and have more well-dressed black guys, to boot. Maybe there's a correlation. Try firing the honkies and get back to me.
speaking of don't believe the hype...
Dear Lady Sovereign,
You are probably going to be this year's M.I.A. She was namechecking revolutionaries for, what, five months and now she's doing car commercials? What the fuck? Be strong, LS. You can probably do better than Diplo, anyway.
My girlfriend won't mind,
Eric
speaking of settling down with a nice girl who can bust a mean flow...
Dear Mom,
Thank you for not crying when you saw my tattoo this time. There will probably be many more in the future, and I have no plans on relenting any time soon. The chances are slim that I will suffer blood poisoning or get beaten to death by skinheads or Palestinians. The next time I go into the Arab world, or to a White Pride show, I will be sure to wear a scarf. I'll even try not to lose the scarf this time.
love,
Eric
p.s. Don't buy the scarf. The ones you pick out are too faggy. Besides, I need to do this for myself.
p.s. Everytime I come over, I steal salmon or imitation crab meat. Thanks for being a good Jewish Mom with a fridge full of salmon and imitation crab meat.
p.p.s. I'm sorry that my blogs make you cry sometimes, and that the ones that don't are all about sex, and that anything else still has bad words. You taught me better than that.
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