Nothing much to report so I'm going My Dear letters.
Good gracious we need to have a religion lesson. Granted, it was adorable when you informed us seriously that when people die, they go to Venus.
Dear Gordon Ramsay (from Hell’s Kitchen),
You scare me. And turn me on. Which is strange because normally I don’t like the bad boys. Maybe it’s because you wear a spiffy white chef coat? Or because I know you’re really not like that in real life? It’s simply a television persona that you’ve taken on. Apparently you’re a nice guy outside of that. Of course, if you met me and tried my cooking, you may get a little mean.
“Am-bah,” you might say, “This beef tastes like it came out of a box.”
“That’s because it did,” I’ll reply meekly. Then I’ll lift up the Hormel lid and give a cautious smile. “I think it rocks. You just stick it in the microwave for 4 minutes and wal-ah. Dinner!”
Then you’d probably stalk out and mutter something like, “Crazy Americans..”
But seriously. Hormel dinners are delicious.
Dear Simon Cowell (from American Idol),
You also turn me on. Plus, I’m intrigued by the fact that you always leave your shirt unbuttoned which leaves a tuft of your chest hair sticking out. It’s probably because I’m married to someone without chest hair so I’m not sure what it’s like. Would I get a rug burn during the—ahem—act? Or would it be soft? Maybe it would tickle me. I’m extremely ticklish.
You’d be appalled by my singing though. If we became friends you might ask me to sing a few lines “just because you were curious.” I’d explain that I was awful, god awful, but you’d insist. So I’d do it because I have this compulsion to please people and then you’ll immediately look horrified and say bluntly, “Was that an angry cat or your voice?”
Dear Lost Writers,
Still confused as ever. Need answers.
It must be nice to have a PIP (poop in peace.) I can’t even remember the last time I’ve had a PIP without a child gaping at me. Or talking to me as though I weren’t taking a crap less than a foot away from them. But you, you get to go into the bathroom, shut the door and leisurely do your business without an audience. It’s not fair.
Also, telling me that my area “down there” resembles a forest and that you’re worried an Ogre is going to jump out and say, “get thee away!” is not going to get you laid. Maybe if you offered to watch the children while I enjoyed a long hot bath then I could get “cleaned up.”