Zodi’s Blog

Letters Between Song Characters

Jack and Diane

 

The hair tells you that he’s proud to be an American. The shirt tells you he’s proud of his arms. The 1000 yard stare tells you he’s lonely.

Dear Jack.

 I apologize for having to do this in an email, but I had to get my feelings out once and for all. I would have preferred to do this in person but every single time I try to have a serious conversation with you regarding our marriage, you start sucking on some chilli dogs outside the Tasty Freeze. The doctor has told you numerous times that your cholesterol is through the damn roof and eating spicy, greasy foods and manufactured pork products is wreaking havoc with your acid reflux. If you keep this up your heart is going to quit on you or you’re going to get that cancer of the esophagus that they warned you about.

Another thing that’s bothering me is that we can never sit anywhere without you oafishly trying to jam your hand between my knees. Jack, we’re in our 50’s for Christ sakes, it’s time to grow the fuck up and stop the ham handed groping, you know? I’m also getting really tired of you asking me to “dribble off those Bobby Brooks and let you do what you please.” First of all Bobby Brooks haven’t been made in close to 30 years. These days I mostly wear the Wal-Mart brand because it’s close and it’s all we can afford. Secondly what pleases you rarely pleases me. One second you’re promising me the sexual world and the next second you’re back in the living room eating left over chilli dogs while I’m left feeling sticky and nauseous.

Now before you start scratching your head and doing your best James Dean… sorry, but I promised myself I’d let it all out. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much that James Dean act annoys the shit out of me. It’s just fucking repulsive. It was kind of cute when you were 18 and he was only recently dead, but now it’s becoming borderline psychotic. And you really date yourself when you do that, you know? Can’t you find a new impersonation? You should see the way people look at me when you do that. With pity Jack, they look at me with pity. Maybe start doing DeNiro or Pesci, maybe Pesci from Home Alone… that might be good for a laugh.

I guess that the point I’m trying to make is that I think it’s over between us Jack. I’m just not the same debutant I was in the backseat of your car.  We were so young when we started dating, just two American kids doing the best we could. You were supposed to be a football star but you couldn’t even get a scholarship to a division three school, and we’ve always lived in the heartland so there wasn’t even that much competition. Since then you’ve shuffled from one crappy job to the next with no motivation and a growing Vicodan habit.

I just can’t take it anymore. Sorry Jack but life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.

Thanks for wasting the best years of my life you fucking loser. My divorce lawyer will be in touch.

Diane.

August 27, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , | 78 Comments

Short Stupid Letters

Dear Spanish Desserts– Why do you have to tempt me with your seductive deliciousness daily? I have to come into the panderia where you live to by whole grain bread, which is healthy. You on the other hand are not. We are no good for each other. I know it hurts to hear, but I don’t love you. I never did love you. I only used you for my selfish amusement. So just go on your way…*sobbing* just leave me alone you sweet, sweet, tasty whores.  

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If you love something set it free. If it comes back it is trying to kill you. Or make you fat.

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Dear Gravity– You seem to take your job way too seriously. BTW, what do you have against middle aged white people who attempt to dance at weddings?  

P.S. – If you come near my testicles again I’ll fucking kill you.  

 

Dear Godfather Franchise– It’s been 20 years since the number 3 debacle; your punishment is now over. There is one stipulation though; Andy Garcia can not be the boss, he’s not believable. He’s much better suited to run a casino, or even play a Fredo type character. You should call Gandolfini, he’d be happy to hear from you I’m sure.  

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Dear Exclamation Points– You guys are far too ambiguous. I can never tell whether you are trying to talk loudly like, “Sorry Grandma, you’re all out of Oxy Contin, you have to order more. I said you’ll have to order more!” Or if you are just really passionate about what you are saying like, “I absolutely love watching The Price is Right with you when we’re medicated Grandma! Bid $10,500 lady!”  Or if you are in a murderous rage like, “If you don’t tell the fucking doctor you need more pills I’ma goin kill you! Raaaarrr!” Or if you are really exuberant like “I finish my prison sentence for elder abuse and doctor shopping tomorrow! Can you pick me up Grandma? Bring your pills!”  

I think you’d do well to be clearer with your meaning to avoid any confusion.  

P.S.- I really love you anyway!!  

 

Dear { and }- Sorry, I don’t even know your name. What do you do again? I’d use you more but I’m afraid you’ll make me look stupid.  

 

Dear Control/Alt/Delete– Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I owe you big time. Your amazing ability to make the porn disappear quickly is phenomenal. Thank you!  

 

Dear Lindsey– Just use this jail time to rest your neck and get your mind right. You don’t have to worry about whether or not to drink in jail, so you can finally relax. It will do you a world of good if you let it. I mean that seriously.  

 

Dear Iran– You fascist pigs are now telling your citizens that they can’t even get mullets? Actually that’s not too bad of an idea. Cheers Iran!  

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Worthy of a stoning? Yes.

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Dear People Who Use the Internet Primarily to Bully Others Because They are Fucking Cowards, or Maybe Just Evil, in Real Life. – You are jealous, petty, sad, pathetic bitches with black, dead hearts and no souls. Your actions and your lives are reprehensible. When normal people hate life so much they just kill themselves, they don’t try to bring other people down to their level of miserable. Please go sit in a cave somewhere and chew on rocks covered in bat shit until you die of bleeding gums and guava poisoning.  

P.S. Karma is a bad bitch, and she will bite your fat, white asses one day.  

 

Dear Karma– Did you take care of that thing for me yet? You know that thing with the thing?  

 

Dear Spinach, Broccoli, Chick Pea, Carrot and Cheese Salad I Had for Lunch– You tasted good but now you are killing the atmosphere in here.  

 

Dear Crackhead– You didn’t drop anything.  

 

Dear James Patterson– Sorry I took the piss out of you earlier. I was only joking. But you do have the biggest head in the history of physical and metaphorical big heads. If your head were a golf iron it would be a 299,999 wedge.  

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Seriously James, I can hear the hat screaming from here.

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Anyway listen buddy, I was thinking that ‘we’ could get together and write a trilogy about a really short, really badass, investigator, computer hacker chick based in one of those Nordic countries. We could call her Elisa Salamander or something; maybe give her a few tattoos or piercings….   

Think about it; your name + my effort = 99% your profit.  

I have a good feeling about this one. Call me!  

 

Dear Attention Span– I acknowledge that I was wrong to take you for granted. I know that I’ve done some things to unknowingly hurt you. I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I want you back. I’m humbly asking you to consider…. OHHH, somebody just sent me a message on Facebook!  

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Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.

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Dear German Octopus– You should have sex with Punxatony Phil and make some mutated, fugly and amazingly psychic (especially by animal standards) species of sports and weather predicting hybrids. Please?     

 

Dear Cigarettes– Haha, fuck you, I win!  

 

Dear Friends and Random People Who Read This Blog but Don’t Comment So I don’t Really Know Who You Are– This is the last post I am ever going to write   for about 10 days. Sorry if that last sentence was confusing. I was thinking that I could pretend that I was quitting blogging and then you’d all be like, “Nooo don’t” then I could say, “If you want me to keep blogging then beg for it…say my name,” and then you’d all be like, “Please, please don’t quit. We love you. Here, let us throw our panties and some wadded up hundred dollars bills at you!” and then I’d be like “Ok.” But I realized at the very last minute that it would be kind of douchey to do that so I didn’t. That’s why the first sentence of this paragraph looks like it was hit by an angry, drunken, retarded boy wielding a sledgehammer.   

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I'm coming future Wifey!

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Anyway, I’ll still be around obsessively faithfully answering comments and commenting and stalking and harassing until Saturday. But on Sunday I going to Malaga to watch Spain play in the World Cup final in a big city (90% sure. If not I’ll be here till Monday) to see if I can be a part of a European soccer riot because that would be amazing blogging material. From there Wifey and I are flying into Italy and spending 5 days between Pisa and Florence. There is a chance that I’ll stay in Italy forever if somebody decides to hire me as their personal comedy writer. Or Facebook updater. Or obsessive compulsive commenter. Or I suppose that there’s a chance some wealthy heiress will take notice of my obvious charm and wit and decide that she absolutely must have me, so she’ll insist that I divorce my wife and marry her, and then she’ll keep me and then I’ll be kept. And rich.  

But if none of those things happen I’ll be back shortly. And like I said I’m not even leaving till Sunday so don’t forget to comment or I won’t buy you any Italian gold or even think of you when I’m a wealthy Tuscan land owner.

July 8, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , | 100 Comments