Dear Adam Lambert,

There are a lot of reasons to hate American Idol (even while watching it religiously). This year, my number one reason is you, you musical theater acting, fake falsetto screaming, odd for the sake of being odd, cross dressing, eyeliner abusing, hair raising, drama queen douchebag. In a show chock full of attention whores, you are the attention-whoreist. You’re even worse than the guy who wants to be Justin Timberlake, and that’s saying something.

I also hate you for managing to corrupt my Simon! The only reason I watch the show is to see that snobby British bastard tell it how it really is (and to try to guess how many prescription drugs Paula Abdul is taking, but I digress). When he gave you a standing ovation last week it made me begin to question his sanity. I’m sticking with the theory that he’s just fucking with us and that at the end of the season he will admit that he just wanted to prove that Americans are sheeple who will vote however the judges tell them to. God, please let this theory be correct.

Finally, stop pulling faces when you sing! It isn’t remotely attractive. In fact, looking at your crazy snarling hyena face makes me want to puke. Don’t believe me? See the following examples:

Ugly face, #1

Ugly face, #2

And

Ugly face, #3

::shudder::

Adam, I wouldn’t even vote for you if Vote for the Worst told me to. You can’t get off my TV screen fast enough.

Can it, douchbag,

Project Openletter

Dear Bengals,

Thank you for fucking my fantasy football team by benching Ocho Cinco last night.  Granted, he’s been utterly useless this year, but a measly point or two would be better than a big, fat, goose egg.

Project Openletter

Dear Poodle Owner,

Unlike other dog owners, you seem to have mastered the leash law, so you aren’t a complete idiot.  However, this letter is to inform you that it is no longer acceptable to allow Mr. Doodles to shit at the base of my mail box.  The Smith’s would also like him to stop crapping in their bushes and the Johnson’s would very much appreciate it if their walk was no longer besmirched.

We see you tottering around behind Mr. Doodles, looking to see if anyone is watching.  That plastic bag you carry fools no one.  Leaving a pile of rotting dung for your neighbors to deal with is ridiculous, to say the very least.  Thanks to you, the neighborhood is already planning a special “Doodles” provision for the homeowners association constitution.  Congratulations, I’m sure that’s quite an honor.  I’m looking forward to your face at the meeting.  Maybe your nose will crinkle like mine does when I pick up Mr. Doodles poo. 

In closing, may you step in dog shit and track it through YOUR house.

Neighborly,

Project Openletter

Dear Husband,

You are fundamentally a good man.  A great man, actually.  You’re loving, kind, funny and honest.  I consider you to be an intelligent person of good judgment.  That’s why I just don’t fucking get it.

Why are you a Republican?  Why?  How can we agree on so much, be so good for each other and get along so well when I should hate your fucking guts?  I don’t understand how you can agree with those dirty, evil, prejudiced, money grubbing, lying, cheating, swindling, arrogant, misogynic bastards.  You are thirty years old.  Quit parroting your old man. 

The irony of our marriage is astounding.  I hope you realize that.  I know you know that I was a Political Science major who interned for a Democratic Senator.  You know I founded the fucking young Democrats club at my university and that I campaigned for Al Gore.  I just think you either don’t or can’t possibly realize how important these things are to me.  How much I want this country to pull out of the enormous hole Bush and the other criminals in his administration have dug.  I don’t understand how the fuck can I live with a man that still thinks George W. Bush actually won the election, that we were right to invade Iraq and that there is no glass ceiling?  Gah.  It fucking makes my head hurt. 

I know that we’ve long since agreed to disagree and never, ever, ever discuss politics, but I just can’t take it anymore.  The longer I repress my thoughts, the more I want to jump up on the coffee table (I don’t own a soap box) and scream truth at you until you are forced to understand.  I want to shake you so hard that you either get it or your head pops off your body and rolls into the dining room.  I am simply ready to explode.  I fear that I will bite my tounge in half between now and November trying to keep my trap shut.

Granted, you’ve made progress in the last few years.  You’ve got to know my best friend and her partner and you’ve accepted and supported gay marriage.  Owing to how much you love the great outdoors, you’ve had no problem trying to be a bit greener.  I cherish these small victories and I intend to build upon them.  If it is the very last thing that I do, I will someday get you to see the light and join the right side.  The side that sees the good in people.  The side that wants peace.  The side that thinks society can and should do better.  This, in addition to “I do” is my vow.  I realize it may take years.  God willing, we’ll have them.

In the interim, let’s try not to get divorced in election years.  Coexist, indeed. 

Sigh,

Your loving wife (Project Openletter)

Dear China (the government, not the people),

With the word’s eyes on you for two weeks now you have waged a PR campaign that just may have worked in the decades before the internet and satellite TV.  Oh, you have tried valiantly.  Sadly you have achieved nothing short of complete and epic failure.  Too bad for you!

We don’t buy it.  The smog is smog, not a lovely enchanting mist.  A beautiful child’s voice may have echoed from a beautiful child’s face, but that was unfortunately nothing short of a Milli Vanilli.  Blame it on the Rain, indeed. 

Then there’s the blatant and despicable cheating.  No one buys that the infants you trotted out in ladies artistic gymnastics are 16 years old.  Whether the IOC pulls its head out of its ass and calls you on it remains to be seen.  Nevertheless, you have tarnished your own games forever. 

I shall say nothing of the horrendous human rights violations that occur daily.  The world knows these heinous acts well and better pens than mine have described them.  Why your country ever received the honor of hosting these games is completely beyond me.  Then again, the IOC did once give that honor to Hitler.  So I suppose you, China, are not the worst host country ever.  You’ll have to settle for the silver on that one.  I’m sorry. 

In closing, please stop being a giant dick.

Project Openletter

P.s.  Is it possible that in the next Olympics you could at least make sure your fucking gold medal divers point their toes?  That’s been on my very last nerve.  Thanks in advance.

Reader Submission #11

Milwaukee, aside from being “Algonquian for the good land” is also known as the City of Festivals.  Every weekend of the summer we have a different festival, many of which are ethnic themed.  Next to our famed Summerfest, two festivals are especially beer laden.  Germanfest and Irish Fest.  (Go figure, right?  And I’m both German and Irish, so shuttie).

This open letter was submitted to an Irish Fest faithful.  Let all ye be warned.  Do not attempt to pry a beer from the hand of a Milwaukee Irish lassie.

Dear Irish Fest,

Have the planners lost their minds?  Why did you take away the only GOOD cheap beer? How could you do that to us?  We are there every day of the festival, each and every year, and therefore are already spending a butt load on beer.  Did you really have do away with the one beer with actual FLAVOR that did not require five tickets!?!

Our hearts are broken, our pockets are empty and we aren’t nearly as drunk as we should be.

~ McSorley’s Mourners

Dear Ted Thompson,

Consider this a call for your resignation.  Or, your head on a motherfucking pike.  I’m not picky.  You, your arrogance and your big fucking mouth have lost us our chance at a Superbowl.  I hope you’re fucking satisfied when you’re packing your bags at the end of the season having been fired for our 2-14 record.

Even if Aaron Rogers ends up being the second coming of Jesus Christ with a football, you still deserve a swift kick to the dick for this fucking month long travesty.  For future reference, a fucking 3 time MVP, Hall of Fame bound player fresh off a fantastic year should be accepted back with open arms, regardless of the fact he’s a fucking drama queen.

Yours righteously angered,

Project Openletter

Dear Aunt Flo,

You are the reason that I am convinced God is male.  After all, only a man could decide that it would just be fucking awesome to make women bleed from their hoo-hah’s.  I have completely had it with you Flo.  My stomach feels as though it’s being wrung out like a wet towel, my head pounds worse than if I had spent a day watching FOX news and I can just feel myself bordering on bitch.

I cannot understand for the life of me why, with all the advances of modern medicine, it isn’t possible to stop you completely without any adverse side effects.  Sure, we can throw a shit ton of money at erectile dysfunction, but the best scientists can do for us poor menstruating women is the pill or a shot?  I don’t want to bleed but I don’t want to gain 25 fucking pounds of water weight either.  Why can’t women win this battle?

Maybe someday I’ll thank the Lord for my baby maker, but that day has yet to come.  Therefore Flo, you remain on the very top of my shit list.

Leave me the fuck alone,

Project Openletter

P.s.  I know you think it’s probably indecent of me to turn you into blog fodder Flo, but too much information or not, it’s my blog and I’ll bitch if I want to.

Dear Brett Favre,

I’ve been in love with you since I was 12 and that love has never wavered. I have forsaken other crushes throughout the years, said “Goodbye” to Donnie Wahlberg, ditched Luke Perry, cast aside Eddie Vedder and shunned poor George Clooney. After all this Angelina business I even have lost a little something for Brad Pitt. Though all that Brett, there you were. Your smiling face, crinkled eyes, tight ass and adorable southern voice so were always so reliable. So there. Every.single.Sunday.

I’ve rooted for you good times and bad. Cried when I though you were injured, when you won us the Superbowl and when your father passed away. Felt the sick, knotted feeling in my stomach when you retired. I wanted to hold you and wipe away those crocodile tears, clutch my big hunk of broad shouldered football man-boy and make it all better. Hell, my husband may even have let me do it. That’s just how much you mean to us Packer fans.

To tell you the truth Brett, I had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. In the last several months I’ve made peace with the idea that I wouldn’t watch #4 come running out of the tunnel ever again. I’ve mourned and begun to accept. Then I saw the shit on ESPN over the last week and have had things like this crammed down my throat.

For crying out loud, do you want to kill us all? Start riots? Get booed when you return to Lambeau? Pull a Michael fucking Jordan? Asking the Packers for a release? Have you lost your damn mind?

I thought we meant more to you Brett. I really did. Please stop ripping our hearts out.

Love,

Project Openletter

P.s. I still want you back. Just be a good boy and sit the bench a week or two. Someone will break Aaron Rogers in half toot sweet. He’s proven that he tends to be a bit fragile.

Dear Alumni of my High School,

I did know our 10-year reunion was approaching!  Go figure, I can count!  After all, they don’t just let any old schmo into the National Honor Society, do they?  10 years is 10 years.

It’s amazing how many of you bastards are coming out of the woodwork now… sending friend requests on MySpace and Facebook is to be expected, I guess.  I have to hand it to the crazy bitch who called my parent’s house though.  That was ballsy.  Thank God my mother had the sense to listen to my instructions.  See, we’re not really estranged and she does have my phone number and address, but the reunion planning committee doesn’t need to know that.

After 10 years good reflection, I’ve realized that anyone who says High School was the best years of his or her life is either A) lying or B) peaked too early.  I feel sorry for them in either case.  High School is a hellhole that must be lived though, no more, no less.  College is really where it’s at, mmmkay?

Bottom line fellow alums?  I still talk to those of you who do not deserve my scorn and pity.  All two of you.  As for the rest of you?  Have fun reliving the “Glory Days.”  I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a blunt knife.

Effffff you,

Project Openletter