Tag Archives: stolen comedy concepts

10 Short Letters from Me

 

 

Dear Mr. Ford Explorer on Gulf Drive,

Thank you for not hitting me as I rode my bike back from Publix. In return, I offer you this observation: I should not be able to smell your cologne outside of your car.

 
Signed,

The Bicyclist with a Bourbon Bottle Sticking Out of Her Backpack

 
***

 

 

Dear friends,

I’ve decided I shall throw a party in celebration of the completion of the puzzle I’m working on. No need to worry about disturbing the vacationneighbors; it’s going to be fucking June before I get this shit done.

 

Until then,

Sad, Sad Puzzle Lady

 

 

***

 

 

Dear Alex Trebek and the peacocks,

 

SHUT. UP. You pompous, preening, stupidly vocal bird-brains. ARGH.

 

 

XOXO,

Person Who Shouts at Animals and the TV

 

 

P.S. If you run in front of my car again, I’m not braking. For any of you.

 

 

***

 

 

puzzle

Seriously. SIX WEEKS.

 

 

***

 

 

To the Angry German pedestrian on St. Armands:

To answer your question, although it seems it should have been apparent, no, I am not going to stop for you. First and foremost, you were not near enough to the road warrant stopping; had I glided right through, you would not have had to break stride, as I would have been past the crosswalk already. Secondly, I regret that I had to stop on the crosswalk in your presence, but you see, I’d just gotten cut off by a motherfucking horse-drawn carriage that did not yield appropriately. I thought you might have noticed that, being a horse’s ass yourself.

Still, I was in the process of offering you a conciliatory wave when you threw your arms up in the air and began expressing your assholeishness in a vocal manner. This, and not any innate character flaw on my part, is why I told you to fuck off.

 

 

Auf wiedersehen,

Frau F-Bomb

 

 

P.S. Way to stand in the middle of the road and yell at me like a crazy old fart as I drove off. I hope that horse shit on you.

 

 

***

 

 

Dear IRS,

I know we’ve had our differences, but…I love you. It’s not about the money.

Except, well, actually, it is, yeah. But that doesn’t make my love any less real.

 

 

Thanks for the refund,

Broke lady

 

 

***

 

 

Oh CJ,

Honey. No. Stop licking the floor.

—Foodbearer

 

 

***

 

 

Dear Awesome People Behind the Counters of Various Downtown Sarasota Businesses (You Know Who You Are),

You are awesome. Everybody thinks so. We talk about it all the time. You greet us so warmly—many of you even remember our names—offer us the best service, make small talk without being cheesy about it. You even forgive us when we come up short, or say things like “Just get us next time” when we try to pay for a $1 soda with a credit card.

You are a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. And on sunshiny days? Forget about it. We appreciate ya.

Keep being awesome,

Hammer and friends

 

 

***

 

 

To the current vacationneighbors:

Please do not be alarmed that I listened to the Lawrence Wright Scientology interview on NPR and then immediately listened to it again on the interwebs. I simply appreciate public radio. Do not report this, or you will be declared a Potential Trouble Source.

Ta-ta for now,

Operating Thetan

 

***

 

Hey, Lady at the Gym,

The stairmill is less effective if you prop yourself up on the handrail so your legs aren’t bearing any weight. Why not get some parallel bars and stay home? Just sayin’.

 

Signed,

The Sweatmonster Next to You

 

 

P.S. I know it’s a locker room, but…just…stop being naked.

 
***

 

Dear orchid,

Please don’t die. I don’t know what you want. Open up to me.  I’ve tried being there for you. I’ve tried giving you your space. Nothing makes you happy. Believe me when I tell you that you’re a very special flower. Please. Let’s work on this together.

Love,

Your Confused Life Partner

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IiiiiiIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIIME!

So we’ve decided we’d like to make our little UFC gathering on Saturday a bit more of an event. C’mon over, we’ve got a guaranteed tensome. There hasn’t been a fight in a while, first of all, and this one promises to be another satisfyingly bloody embarrassment for one of our favorite jerkoffs.

Secondly, it’s CJ’s birthday. Don’t make the kitten cry.

We’re thinking the standards–some beer, some booze, maybe some nachos? Something like that. Sound good? See you there? It’s going to be a Deelio-riffic Big J/Little J/Krazy K kind of group. You know you don’t want to miss that.

(Seriously: Jon Jones has almost a 10-inch reach advantage on Rashad Evans. This is going to be epic, as the kids say.)

Don’t forget your game card.

If you can’t come, you can still play along at home. Here’s how it works:

Drink a Four Loko. Then a beer. Fill out your sheet. Wait for the fights to start. (Drink another beer.)

Watch 135-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your first fight predictions. Watch 145-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your second fight predictions. Pour a Jack and Coke. Explain to the cat the benefits of the butterfly guard.

Watch your third pick take a widdle nappy-nap on the canvas. Submit to the appropriateness of two-fisting while watching combat sports.

Rally shot? AWESOME idea.

Kitteh refuses to learn proper kimura technique. Bandage face. Add beer. To stop the swelling.

Watch fourth fight. Check your picks. Ponder why you picked “Round 8, minute 3r1rsosfjsmmmthhfhrss” in a three-round fight. Give yourself 10 bonus points. For being awesome.

Watch fifth fight. Ponder how the cat has more correct picks than you do. Edit your sheet to declare Joe “Rogaine” Rogan the loser in every fight. 10 more bonus points.

“Rogaine sucks!”

Develop a drinking game centered on Joe Rogan sucking. Develop a shot called “Joe Rogan Sucks.” Develop a plan for marketing your shot recipe until you’re interrupted by Joe Rogan sucking.

“Shots!!!”

Leave remote with cat; take a widdle nappy-nap.

Wake up to Animal Planet Late Night. Change channel back to Pay-Per-View. Scold cat. Order pizza.

Discover half-finished beer behind a book shelf. Go ahead and assume it’s yours.

Watch…wait, which fight is this?

Eat pizza off game sheet. Ponder why pizza has more correct picks than you do.

Ooh! Main event?! Yay!

Declare yourself the new Official Voice of the Octagon. “IiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIME!!!!!”

Make yourself some hot tea with lemon. And honey. And…blue curacao?

Try to google Jon Jones’ tattoo. Fall asleep midway through typing “Phillillippippiansssss.”

Wake up to Mike Goldberg shouting “IT’S ALL OVER!” Assume he’s got a point there. Apologize to cat.

Blame Herb Dean for ending your night prematurely. Go to bed.

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