When I saw you out of the corner of my eye scampering across the parking lot, I didn’t expect you to restore my faith in the universe. You seemed like just another squirrel, narrowly dodging cars, going about your squirrel business, but then I noticed something strange in your little squirrel paws.
“What is that squirrel holding?” my boyfriend asked, but before he could even finish the sentence, we both realized the answer was more glorious than we ever could have imagined.
“That squirrel,” I gasped, “is holding a mini corndog.” Keep reading »
Dear Fleece Leggings,
I wasn’t planning to buy you when I walked into a cute little boutique in East Nashville. In fact, I wasn’t planning to buy anything for myself. I was Christmas shopping for a few friends and had sworn on my rapidly dwindling bank account that I wasn’t going to buy myself any gifts in the process. (I have this terrible habit of buying myself 2 things for every 1 thing I buy someone else. Oops.)
But then, as I browsed the racks, earnestly looking for gifts for friends and family members, my hand brushed up against your waistband. Scandalous, right? You were so soft that I must have audibly gasped, because the store clerk looked up from the counter and said, “Those are fleece-lined leggings. Just wait until you feel the inside!”
So I felt your inside (double scandalous!) and immediately started moaning and groaning like an Herbal Essences commercial. Keep reading »
Dear People Who Go Balls Out On Halloween,
I’m not referring to people who choose Halloween costumes that expose their testicles. If you are one of those people, you’ll probably want to close this page and move on to a different open letter that deals more specifically with your definition of “balls out.”
If you’re someone who goes balls out in a metaphorical way, though, this letter is for you. If you bring your A-game every Halloween, I want to thank you. Here’s why: Keep reading »
Yesterday Jezebel got ahold of an email that had been sent out to 72 members of an Administrative Law class at a law school in Canada. The anonymous student who sent it has some choice words — 655 of them, to be exact — for his or her classmates regarding a very specific topic: their snacking habits. I could go on about this person’s hilarious disdain for crunching noises and how I actually kind of agree about the “don’t eat tuna sandwiches in enclosed spaces” thing, but really, you just need to read this letter for yourself… Keep reading »
Dear Cookie Butter,
I wasn’t aware of your existence until I was standing in line at Trader Joe’s a few weeks ago and noticed a display of jars with a sign that said “LIMIT TWO PER CUSTOMER.” I went to investigate but was stopped by a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache wearing a Gryffindor t-shirt. Apparently sensing my curiosity, he held his hand up and shook his head. “You don’t want to buy that,” he said ominously.
“Why?” I asked. “What is it?”
“It’s cookie butter,” he said, “and once you start buying it, you will never stop.” Keep reading »
Dear Goat Thief,
Listen, I get it. There is nary a time when I watch a funny goat video or walk by the urban goat sanctuary by my house (I live in Portland) and don’t plot a way to steal the adorable goats and make them my pets. My eventual life goal is to have a herd of a thousand pygmy goats who all wear coordinating sweaters, and it can be frustrating that my current lifestyle does not allow for that. Stealing just one goat often seems like a quick fix for my sad, goat-less life.
Perhaps you felt the same way when you abducted a pygmy goat from a Montana petting zoo. The next part though, the part where you took said goat to a bar at 1:30 in the morning, that’s the part I don’t really understand. Keep reading »