Sunday, December 12, 2010

Open Letters: Kiss-my-Holly-Jolly-Butt-Edition!

Dear dude in the Ford Ranger in front of me all the freaking way down Oak Ridge Highway on Friday afternoon,

Sir, whilst I admire you for your attempts at...I don't know, not breaking the law or whatever it was you were trying to accomplish? You are really lucky I didn't get out of my car at the stoplight and beat your bitch ass.

I know things like operating a motor vehicle are very confusing for rednecks such as yourself, but I can promise you that operating a motor vehicle in no way involves you carrying on such a heated/boring conversation with your fourteen year-old passenger that you are completely unable to a) keep your car on the road and b) go the speed limit with any consistency.

Also? Dude. The hell? You're like twenty. Have you seen 16 and Pregnant? As a parent of two preteens, let me promise you that youths of that age are not the best conversationalists, even for a man of obviously limited intelligence such as yourself. There's only one reason you're riding around playing tonsil hockey at every stoplight with a middle-schooler. That's probably not a road you want to travel down, as sweet as the prospect of all that MTV fame might be.

In short? Get yourself together. And until you do? Stay off the road.

Kisses!
Stephanie





Dear lady I met at church today,

I promise you I'm not a huge freak. I only put my hands in my pockets while talking to you because your hair was so amazingly epic that it took everything in my power to not touch it.

Seriously, you had to have been awake for what...like at least four hours at that point? And your hair was as perfect and spiky and identically pointy that if I wasn't absolutely positive you aren't, I would have sworn you were were the Statue of Liberty. Or something.

I don't know how you did that but...well done. Seriously. I'd never, ever, EVER have that kind of hairstyle but you? Oh girl. You rocked it.

Hugs!
Stephanie





Dear Jackwagon,

I don't like you.

There. I said it. I admit it.

I'm supposed to like you. We're supposed to be friends. Once a year or so you try to pretend that we're a big freaking Hallmark card.

But we're not. You are mean to me. Cruel. You don't like me and you make it painfully obvious everytime I see you.

And you know what? I don't like you. I don't like you at all.

So. You're free. You don't have to pretend to like me anymore. I won't pretend to like you. We can totally avoid each other if you'd like and that would be just fine with me. I really hate fake people...I'm not going to be one anymore.

-Steph





Dear vacation,

WHERE ARE YOU?!!? I need you really freaking bad.

Love,
Stephanie

PS: BAD. I SAID BAD.

4 comments:

Mitch Herndon said...

#1, +1 for using the term "Jackwagon".

#2, right there with you on the Vacation thing. Right?

Karen Cupcake said...

My Vacation is hanging out with YOUR vacation having drinks somewhere. We need to find them, and drag their asses to the table now! ;o)

Great post!!!

MadameQueen said...

OMG, I saw a woman with that EXACT same hairstyle on Friday (or I'm assuming it's the same based on your description). The odd thing was that my mom really liked it and I was like "really? really?" It was like I didn't even know who she was anymore.

Patience said...

Jackwagon.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!