Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Open letters 2
I tried writing an open letter to the religious zealot Mel Gibson in light of him falling off the catholic wagon but with too many demands from my children had to file it for another day.
Many moons ago I did an entry on open letters from these guys and recently paid them back a visit.
Here are a few examples and if you cant be entertained by post secret then this is the sight for you
TO THE SQUIRREL
TRYING TO CHEW ITS WAY
THROUGH MY ROOF.
September 28, 2005
Winter is coming. I understand that you need a place to stay. But please find an alternative to my house. Yes, it is warm and cozy. No, you may not come in. Enough with the chewing.
I thought this was clearly established last year. Remember when you woke me up every morning with the scratching and chittering? I was not impressed by your tenacity. Frankly, that's why actions were taken.
You pushed. I responded.
I apologize for the trap. It was overly dramatic. In my defense, it was a "live trap" and its packaging displayed a drawing of a squirrel and a heart, which pretty clearly signals my feelings on the matter.
I acknowledge that as an arboreal creature you have easy access to my patio. But the bits of bagel and pizza crust strewn about are simply disrespectful. How you managed to balance a loaf-sized hunk of bread on the narrow porch railing is beyond me. It seems like a deliberate taunt. You may stop now. Message received. No more traps.
The torrent of peanut shells is tolerable. My dogs sneak them up to the bedroom, and last week I awoke to find a shell fragment stuck to my face. But this is clearly not your fault; the dogs are poorly trained. It is a nuisance, yes, but all in all I'd say that the whole shell business falls into the realm of typical squirrel behavior, and thus I would not think of asking you to stop. Consider this an olive branch.
I simply ask that you relinquish my home. There were faults with the old roof that proved too tempting for even the best-intentioned rodent, I understand. So you'll notice that as of Friday the ruckus that has kept you away from the structure has ceased, and upon your return you will no doubt realize that extensive changes have been made. This was not inexpensive and I would appreciate it if you could respect the all-too-clear message of so much new wood and flashing.
You know what they say: Good fences make good neighbors. If you give me a chance I think you'll see that's exactly what I am. I hope that soon I may say the same of you.
AN OPEN LETTER
TO THE GENTLEMAN
AT THE BAR WHO ASKED
IF I WOULD LIKE
A PIECE OF HIM.
March 3, 2005
I apologize for only now getting back to you. When first asked if I did, in fact, want a piece of you, I could muster no reply. Frankly, I was taken aback by your surprising offer. Never have I witnessed such an act of selfless generosity.
Alas, my soul does not possess the same depth of compassion for my fellow man as does yours. While I do not always think of myself first, my welfare often holds a position among the front-runners. I treasure my pieces too deeply. I am, therefore, flattered and intrigued by your proposal.
Are you truly willing to give me—someone who only met you moments before, when you bumped into me and my drink on your way to the table shared by you and your acquaintances—a piece of yourself? The tone of your voice and your posture at the time indicated your sincerity regarding the issue, but please, you must be sure. This is not something to be taken lightly and, I assure you, I regard it in all seriousness.
Now, before I return to you my answer, I must ask if there is any piece in particular you wish to give. Surely, when you asked if I wanted a piece of you, you had specific parts in mind. I ask because I do not wish to take something that was not truly offered. Neither do I really wish to receive a piece that I may already possess. The portion that regulates your alcohol intake, for example, is similar to a part that already exists within me (though mine is certainly not nearly as worn from use). You do have some pieces that I do not. The multiple veins that pulsed and expanded throughout your neck are an example. The embarrassed girlfriend would be another.
Additional details that I would like to work out involve location. When you suggested we take it outside, what was your intent? Would this facilitate my receiving your piece? I would appreciate some feedback on this issue, as well as on any other issues you feel have not been addressed. Your recommendation that I get some, as you insisted, depends on your prompt reply.
AN OPEN LETTER TO
November 11, 2004
How did we get here? When I looked at you in the mirror a few minutes ago in the men's room, I barely recognized you, your untamed strands pointing in every direction but the proper one. Have I ignored you so long that you felt you needed to give me some sort of wake-up call? Has my treatment of you been so shabby that you felt the only way to get back at me was to be so unruly, so out of line, so ... blond? I mean, I haven't been blond in, like, 15 years. The rest of the hair has moved on from blond, to that sandy brownish color, and now, slowly but steadily, to gray. Not you. Not only have you steadfastly refused to follow along with the graying process (for which I'm somewhat grateful, I suppose), but you've carried it to an extreme, don't you think?
Look, I know you're jealous of the beard. It came in red, and there's nothing I can do about that. I know it hurts your feelings when people call me a redhead, because you and I both know that they're only looking at the beard. But this is getting ridiculous, you growing in all different directions, refusing to stay straightened out, and lightening into what looks like bad-home-dye-job blond. Is that what you want? Do you want people to think that I've dyed my hair this nondescript blondish reddish brown and that you're telling my secret? Or is it worse than that? Do you actually believe that people will think I've dyed you and not the hair?
Since I cannot divine your motives, I'm writing now to ask a favor. I will respect your decision with regard to color, whatever it is. Should you decide to hop on the gray bandwagon, I will support and accept you. But please, please, allow yourself to be straightened out and stay that way. We're only 37 years old; we can't have that bushy Andy Rooney look just yet. I promise that once we get older, and my (sorry, our) career is more stable, you can go whatever direction you choose. But for now, I'm afraid this is the way it has to be. I don't want it to come this, but I found the #3 guide for the hair trimmer, and if I have to use it before my job interview next week, I will.
AN OPEN LETTER TO
THE INTESTINAL PARASITES
I MANAGED TO PICK UP
IN WEST AFRICA
August 7, 2007
Greetings, Soil-Transmitted Helminths!
Welcome to my digestive system! I hope you're making yourselves comfy. Judging by the generalized gastrointestinal discomfort I've been experiencing lately, I can assume that you are. But I'm really fine, don't worry about it. Luckily for me, the mental images associated with having hook-mouthed, bloodsucking parasitic worms feasting on my intestinal lining are far worse than any actual physical manifestations of such a condition. So far, anyway. But look who I'm talking to. You guys certainly know better than anyone what's going on down there. You have front-row seats to Ailea's Colon Show, by golly! Must be grand.
Anyhoo, just wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings over your unwanted breach of my lower tract. Aside from the occasional cold and a sinus infection once in high school, I've never actually had a real disease before, and I think this counts. Well done. This way, at cocktail parties for the rest of my life (or at least until something better comes along), I'll be able to nonchalantly mention that bout of hookworms I had in West Africa once. People will be intrigued by the suggestion of exotic adventures in my past. They'll think I'm very interesting and want to be my friends. It might go something like this:
STRANGER AT A COCKTAIL PARTY: These shrimp croquettes are a little overcooked, don't you think?
ME: Obviously you've never dealt with a case of intestinal parasites in post-conflict West Africa!
STRANGER: You're fascinating.
So, really, you guys are doing me a favor, see? Besides, if we're honest, it was pretty inevitable that we were going to end up like this, if you think about it. I had a hunch you might be in my future when I learned that people here don't necessarily use soap to wash dishes, and that human fecal matter often finds its way onto crops as fertilizer, and that most families live without a toilet per se. Who knows? Maybe you crawled in through my foot when I stepped in a puddle on accident, and made the journey to my abdomen by way of my lungs. If so, I admire your ingenuity and persistence, worms, as much as it horrifies me. But all that's in the past now.
So you don't hear it from anyone else first, I also wanted to tell you that I'm in the process of looking around for some form of benzimidazole right now. Once I find some, I'm afraid you'll all be faced with an eviction notice. Sorry to have to break it to you. But if I know nematodes, you guys have been busily doing it in my bowels and whipping up gobs of eggs, probably about 30,000 a day each, I've read. So have no fear—your progeny will live on in the puddles and soil of your beautiful nation, and I have every confidence that they will go on infesting the guts of unsuspecting visitors like me for generations. Thanks for all the good times, and goddamn you all and your freaky sci-fi existences.
Your unwitting host,