Spunk Mail

These are the reasons we don't have hopes and dreams.

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Looking Good

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Dear Long Lost Son,

I had forgotten about you, and that time in Japan. Recently I asked:

"What would you name your son?" To a friend of mine. They replied,

"Mordecai."

"I'm reading Barney's Version right now." I said, entertained by coincidence.

"I'm reading Haruki Marukami. That's what you wanted to name your son right?" Vocally gesturing a joke.

It was there that I fell into a pit of repressed memories. I actually have a hidden Japanese baby named Haruki. He’s at a lesbian, vegan couple's house in San Francisco. They had wanted to adopt a Chinese baby. I scammed it off as Chinese to a crooked adoption agency that deals with just those sort of self-righteous, save-the-world-type lesbians, and here I am, wiping my hands clean. A lie is ok as long as it brings good to all parties right? Right?!

  Sincerely,

A Responsible Mother

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Dear Writer's Block,

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Dear Procrastination,

Sincerely,

J*** L**

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Homeless? Yard sale?

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Dear Yard Sales,

There has been some recent confusion as to what a yard sale should entail. If you are posting signs a week in advance down several nearby streets that you are hosting a yard sale, please have more than three old cups, some mis-matched utensils, and seven shirts strewn over your fence. Also, a yard sale is not a place to sell your art. Yes, being an aspiring artist is hard, but I have to break it to you that no one wants your water colour self-portraits. This should be a time to clear your house of unnecessary items. Absolutely. Yet, if your items were three dollar discounted Walmart t-shirts to begin with, how do you really expect me to buy these. Especially now that your sweat and hotdog-mustard-grease combo stains are splattered over it (or is this another art piece, a fuck-you to Walmart whilst expressing your inner Jackson Pollack?). If you only are selling several dilapidated items of cloths and things you have found on the ground in the past week, or your own art pieces this is not a yard sale. If it were that homeless man in the subway trying to sell me flip flops and watches is also having a yard sale. However, if you are truly desperate for money please don't put up signs advertising that it is a yard sale. There just happens to be things on your front lawn that you are looking to exchange for money.

Sincerely,

Ended Up At Four "Yard-Sales" Today

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Dear Shiny Pastel Dress Shirts,

It's rare that one can walk into a club and hear anything above the blare of Guetta pounding from the speakers, and yet, your shirt manages to be louder than any music I've ever heard. Really though, what better way is there to complement that overgelled hairstyle and those one size too large all occasion dress pants than by rendering me blind? It really is a fantastic ploy though, there's no better way to guarantee you'll stand out than by being the only thing everyone sees when they're in the place. And as an added side-effect, you'll often be the last thing most see before their retinas are permanently burned and rendered completely useless. Why should we let the Eastern Europeans hog all the style? Sure, we could have been content with borrowing some delicious recipes for game-meat stews, but why take that when we can steal atrocious looking clothing instead? And hey, seeing as those shirts can never possibly go out of style (can't go out if it's never in! Am I right guys?) , you can still wear em' to the club on F1 weekend when you're well into your mid 50s. I realize that I've asked far too many questions in this short paragraph - a testament to how baffled I am by this phenomenon.

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Dear Family Vacations,

No matter how intelligent each individual member is, as a collective whole the unit orchestrates no more orderly than an electrical storm. Bumbling through morning routines and daily plans it is near afternoon by the time everyone has put sunscreen on, gone to the bathroom, had coffee, agreed on a destination, found the keys, gone to the bathroom again, found the beach towels, 

"No, those aren't the beach towels." "Where are my sunglasses?" "Do you have your phone? Is it on?" "Where will we meet? Where is that? No, no, we should all go together." "Yes, you should probably go to the bathroom before we leave." "Oh, I've already been there."

And now hunger has set back in. The family brain, food-deprived, is now firing on  all synapses! Each individual, indignant and ostentatious, fights against the accusation that the laborious task of feeding the unit is, in part, their fault. Feeding the family unit is a plight through the battle field littered with mines of: 

*Meat

*"No, vegetarians options??!"

*Glutan? "What's glutan?"

*Cost

*"Are there seats in the shade?"

*Noise

*Cleanliness

Not that anyone will taste the food admits the pungent, over-powering stench of Purell and sunscreen (being re-applied in five minute intervals).

Now to decide the next outing, hopefully before dinner.

Yes, a vacation; a vacation from sobriety.

Sincerely,

Alcoholism is Necessary With Family Vacations.

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Dear Toms Shoes

I was peering through my Ray-Bans at my iphone 4 today and found out how great your company is on a vegan, slave-free, fair trade, NGO, farmer's rights, stop-humanizing-and-hence-inevitably-destroying-other-planets blog. I can't, along with my fellow bill-packed civilians, find reputable deposits to invest my wads of Visa "cash" in. Luckily, you service my consuming needs without the guilt of admitted self-indulgence. I now can consume and wear my impatiently purchased novelty with the relief of knowing everyone around me knows I'm a better human being for choosing your footwear. It also works out perfectly that you are made without longevity in mind, so I can re-up and stay in fashion on a regular basis due to your shoddy craftsmanship. It is indeed all the better that you have a "One-for-One" business mission. This delivers a pair of shoes to those in need for every pair of shoes bought. I'm sure your footwear probably do hold up under the lighter conditions of African terrain as depicted on your website. Altruism, you do exist within a capitalist society, and your tangible for is right here, in Toms shoes.

Sincerely,

An Image of Chosen Conscientiousness

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Alcohol: choice beverage of responsible drivers everywhere.

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Dear Grand Prix Weekend,

For three days every year you bleed my people of their energy drinks. You pollute our air with high-end eau-de-toilettes. You make our women uncomfortable by openly staring at their oversized and clearly fake breasts. For three days, my city no longer resembles the peaceful hamlet I've come to assume it is, but instead descends into a hellish rendition of middle-aged spring break. Fully grown men are reduced to children. Except instead of having watched Die Hard and fancying themselves John McClane, they've just finished watching a professional sporting event and suddenly believe they have the skills and training to drift through residential areas at high speeds in the cars they paid far too much money for. The air is thick with the pungent aroma of testosterone and dejected housewives. The weekend is more or less a conglomeration of sad almost-bachelor parties. Men who gave up the single life long ago, wanting to recapture the wild antics of their youth surrounded by fast cars and loose women. Only the men themselves have the horsepower of a 1908 Ford Model T and the loose women need a lot of money and booze to get anywhere near loose enough. On Monday morning the residents let out a collective sigh of relief and begin picking up the pieces of our broken city, reassembling it with the good morals it was built upon. Now if you'll excuse me I'd like to go enjoy my morning paper while I sip a Red Bull.

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Dear Preorders,

First, there was the barter system. I give you something, and in exchange, you give me something of equal value. Eventually, things got a little more complicated and laborers stopped wanting to swap their pain and sweat for bushels of apples and handfuls of wheat. Money, as a universal currency, was introduced and now it's basically the same barter system only there's a  middleman who mediates when you just won't accept any more potatoes in return for full body massages. And,now, as we make stunning progress yet again, companies have figured out that we'll pay money, not for the product (because that would be too predictable), no no, but we'll pay for the promise of that product! $59.99?! So that I can get it immediately? As soon as it's released? Where do I sign over the deed to my house?! When did immediacy attach itself to the price tag? Does the product start losing value as soon as it hits shelves? Why the fuck am I even buying this piece of shit in the first place then?! Won't it be just as good the day after it comes out? We've returned to a grade school mentality where having something before everyone else is all that matters. And it's not even like most people will go pick up the thing on the day it's released! "You're guaranteed to get it though." What? Are they gonna release a dozen copies worldwide for this thing that literally millions of people are already swarming to buy? If enough people don't preorder are they just going to scrap the idea once they're in the packaging phase of things? Next time you have money to burn on the promise of a good deed, give it to a homeless guy. Then you can tell everyone about it over Facebook.

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Dear Timbits in Plastic Drinking Cups,

711 has a fine assortment of food to keep you satiated and hydrated. A recent development has me a little concerned, and that is timbits in plastic cups. The reason they are in plastic cups is so they can sit in your cupholder next to your Big Gulp as you drive your car. it worries me that this invention was, a) made, and b) popularized. Must we have timbits in arms reach? Can we not place them on the passenger seat? If you cannot stretch across the console in order to reach your timbits perhaps you should be questioning the level of inflexibility your body has reached rather than shovelling in fried dough. Have we come to the point that we have to be eating whilst engaging in every activity through the course of a day? 

Waterproof donut despenser!

Have donuts available for whenever you shower without risk of water leakage.

Download the donut app to see where the nearest consumable donut is. Luckily with the plastic cup it will be within arms reach.

Sincerely,

Willing to Budge. 

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Terror, thy name is Six Flags.

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Dear Six Flags Man AKA Mr. Six,

I've sat through countless horror movies "guaranteed" to give me chills. They didn't. I've watched internet videos of decapitations and horrifying accidents without batting an eye. When I was a wee lad, I'd have my mother read selections from Ted Bundy's autobiography in lieu of bedtime stories. As far as fear and horror are concerned, I'd like to imagine myself to be quite unflinching in my demeanor. All that to say that when I find myself face to face with a Six Flags television commercial, my only course of action is to cower in a puddle of my tears beneath a hastily thrown together protective blanket fort. Whose idea was it to have the face of such a wondrous location as a theme park; a place where children's imaginations are free to roam as the please - whose idea was it to have this fantastical land be represented by a pedophilian half-old-man-half-mutated-penguin? At no point whilst peeking through my trembling fingers, watching your horror-short, have I ever been enticed to attend your park. If anything, it completely deters me. It's as if you've taken the creepy strange man offering me candies to get in his van, only now he's trying to lure me into the van to buy the candies from him. As enticing an offer as it is, I must decline. I'll opt for the theme park that doesn't offer a chance of molestation with the price of admission.

Sincerely,

A petrified 26-year-old child

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This hangs proudly in my kitchen to remind me to take Muscle Milk every morning.