Dear Readers,

The time has come to take a vacation from this blog. I'm hate to say it, but I'm completely burnt out.

Thanks for reading, commenting, sending emails and becoming my MySpace buddy. I'm touched that anyone beyond my parents even took the time to read this thing.

I'll try and return shortly. In the meantime, stay out of trouble and be sure to look both ways before you cross the street.

Your pal,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Inexpensive Alarm Clock Manufacturer,

When your employees show up late for work, do you really have a right to get mad at them?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Nudists (Part 2),

When you celebrate Mardi Gras, isn't the whole "Show me your tits" thing kind of anticlimactic?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Kid,

I'm very impressed by your uncanny ability to attract grown-up women and make them gush. In fact, inspired by your ways, I took notes of your methods and recently hit up a discotheque to try them out myself.

I put on a floral chick hat, diapers and a pair of unfashionable sunglasses (upside down, of course) and headed off to Paradise, a hot spot located just a few blocks from my pad.

The cute woman working the door, however, was not even slightly aroused by my outfit. In fact, she glared at me, threatened police action and told me to "get the hell out of here."

"What could I be doing wrong?" I asked myself. "How can that kid wear these clothes and attract beautiful women, whereas I wear them and get treated like dirt?"

Then it hit me: it's not just your fashion! It's the fact that you cry a lot and frequently shit your pants!

Since Paradise was a no-go, I hopped on a bus and headed off to The Groove Machine, a new club that had recently opened downtown. They made me wait in line a couple hours, but finally relented and let me in. Hot Chick Festival, here I come!

I bought myself a Zima and sidled up to a couple honeys by the bar. After taking a few gulps of liquid courage, I crossed my fingers, burst into tears and took a giant crap in my pants. (Just like Doom The OriGinal at the basketball game!)

Did the ladies fall for it? Had my kid antics turned these women into flirtatious nymphomaniacs? Miraculously, the answer is no. In fact, quite the opposite. They threw drinks in my face, called me a "perverted fucker" and pulled over two bouncers who proceeded to take me outside and snap my collarbone in half.

As I recover at the hospital, I simply can not figure out how you work the ladies so well. Maybe it's your smile, maybe it's the way you pick your nose and eat it, or maybe it's just a certain "je ne sais quois" that an awkward dude like me will never understand.

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

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Photo Submitted By: Courtney

Dear Two-Toed Sloth,

How do you differentiate between giving someone a thumbs up and telling them to fuck off?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Doom The OriGinal,

Bless your heart. In a world filled with derivative thinkers and copycat schlock, you've come along and given us something the world's never seen: a hip-hop album about what it's like to be large.

Before hearing your CD, I'd never thought about what it's like "buying two damn seats just to get on a plane". I had no clue "shit's a drag/when you can't fit yo' body in yo' own sleepin' bag". And I was blind to the fact that "skies turn gray/when you're banned fo' life from the Shoney's buffet".

In my favorite song, "Man Did Tha' Game Suck, Yo", I totally felt the pain of your second verse:

They rocket launched a t-shirt in my direction/
A free cotton tee was comin' straight toward my midsection

And damned if the tee didn't land in my lap/
First I felt like a winner...but then I felt like crap

'Cause the shirt was X-Large, six sizes too small/
So I ran to the can, crapped my pants, had a bawl

Dude, I'm feeling you. You're a brave motherfucker to share such stories. Congrats on ignoring such played-out topics as "love", "freedom" and "equality" to instead remind the world that "muthafuckas who weigh themselves on industrial scales are still muthafuckas too".

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter WriTer

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Order Doom's album here

Dear Pepper,

You egomaniacal tramp. One day I'm helping you land an athletic scholarship, the next day you're using your newfound fame as a path to shady riches. What's your deal, lady?

To give you the down low on what the hell I'm ranting about, let me fill you in on some details my private investigator Ralph dug up:

"Pepper accepted a full athletic scholarship from an undisclosed Division I school late last night."

"Flew to Milan early this morning and slept with several highly-respected fashion writers. During post-coital conversation, convinced them all that wigs will be the next hot accessory."

"Paid off hundreds of restaurant waiters to sprinkle more pepper on customers' meals."

"Developed a complex algorithm which proves that an increase in global pepper consumption will increase Kleenex sales and jump start the paper industry, creating more work for lumberjacks who will consequently increase both their personal wealth and body sizes, thereby sparking a boom in sales at Big & Tall Casual Male stores."

"Hired a trend forecasting company (in New York City, no less) to confirm her belief that a boom at Big & Tall will ultimately lead to growth in sales for the entire fashion industry."

Do I have to fill in the rest of the blanks for you, Ms. Pepper? You took the scholarship in order to get a free 30-foot giant afro which you'll then cut off and turn into dozens of wigs that you'll be able to sell to VOGUE-reading fashionistas...FOR THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS!!!

The school that signed you will be up shit creek, but what do you care? You'll be sipping Mai Tais on the Riviera with some slutty Italian fashion writers. Grr!!!!!! Shit on a taco, you good for nothing trashbag!!! I'll see you in hell!!!!!

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear NCAA Tournament Teams,

If you want a guaranteed National Championship, do as follows:

1. Give this woman (her name is Pepper) a full scholarship.

2. Send her to a beauty salon and pay for thirty-foot extensions so her hair blocks your basket from every possible shooting angle.

3. Start her in every game you play.

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Big & Tall Casual Male,

I notice your sign says, "God Bless America". Is that because you're making money hand over fist? Me thinks it is. Well, if I were you, I'd change it to "God We're Screwed", because a little birdie just told me the Feds are headed your way.

Why's that? Um, how about the fact that you're paying off waiters to push pepper on customers so they'll sneeze like maniacs and purchase more Kleenex which will grow the paper industry and create more work for lumberjacks who'll not only get bigger wallets but bigger muscles which means they'll need bigger clothes that they'll buy at, hmm, let me guess...YOUR FUCKING STORE YOU FUCKING FUCK-FUCKS!

You may think this brilliant scheme of yours has you on Easy Street, but I ain't sleeping until you cheeseburgers are behind bars. Goodbye "Big & Tall", hello "Arrested & Handcuffed". It's time for this citizen to make a three-digit phone call that begins with nine and ends with one-one.

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Lumberjacks,

Are you flippin' kidding me?! If my sources are correct, you oversized oafs are paying off waiters to put more pepper on customers' meals...so they'll sneeze like crazy...leading to a rise in Kleenex sales...and a growth in the paper industry...creating a need for more trees to be chopped down...which means more work for you guys........AND MORE MONEY!!!!

Until this scandalous theory is disproved (unlikely!), I'm gonna hit the gym like ten times DAILY and get myself mega-buff. Then, once I'm like ten times bigger than a moose and dinosaur combined, I'm gonna head to the woods and introduce you Forest Mafioso to couple friends of mine. They're called "My Fists". Can you dig it? You'd freakin' better!

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Kleenex,

What the hoot?! Is it true you're paying waiters to sprinkle "just a bit more pepper" on customers' meals in order to spark a nationwide increase in sneezing...and a massive rise in the sales of your product?!!! If it is, I'm starting a Handkerchiefs For America campaign, ASAP!

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Pepper Factories,

How do you stop employees from sneezing all over your product?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Everyone On Planet Earth,

Which one of you fuckers stole my cat?! I'm serious, people. This is NOT a joke. I've searched my apartment up and down and my damn cat is nowhere in sight! Whiskers is gone...who the fuck pinched her?! Complete bullshit!!!

While you're all potential suspects until proven innocent, I've shortlisted a few people who the cops should track down ASAP:

1. Consuelo, my cleaning lady. She's one of two people besides myself who has a key to my apartment. Is it possible she entered my place under the guise of "cleaning" and instead "stole Whiskers so she'd have a birthday gift for her niece"? Likely. Very likely!

2. Mitch, my landlord. He's the other one (besides that hussy Consuelo) who has a key. I can just imagine him stopping by my place to "change the smoke detector battery" when he's actually "taking my freakin' cat...so he can sell her on eBay!!!!" As if he's not making enough bank from the overpriced rent he charges me! Damn you, Mitch!

3. Pickpocket Patti. I just read something about her in the newspaper. She stole like ten peoples' wallets in one day!!! If she can pull off that kind of shit, there's no question she could've jimmied a window, grabbed Whiskers and taken off for Canada or some other jerk country where pickpockets hang out. Grrrrrr!!!

I'm sorry to be such ragin' 'rangutan, but Whiskers' disappearance has truly steamed my windshield. I repeat: STEAMED MY WINDSHIELD! If one of you jerk noses doesn't tell me where Whiskers is at in like the next ten minutes, my fists are coming swinging and y'all are my targets!!!

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

PS Show me the catty, fuckers!

Dear Marjorie,

I know you struggled in the dating world. That said, did you really have to marry Ruff-Ruff?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Miss Manners,

Is it rude to tell people I think you're completely full of shit?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Aspirin Manufacturers,

Every time I have a headache, people say, "Take a couple aspirin." So let me ask you this: why don't you fuckers just double the size of aspirin?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Headbangers,

When you dudes scream out "Freebird" at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert, are you being serious or sarcastic?

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Kirby,

We'll miss you, buddy. A lot.

A gigantic hug,

The Sad Letter Writer

PS Thanks for signing that autograph for me outside Tiger Stadium in 1990.

Dear Reese,

While watching your Oscar acceptance speech earlier this evening, your quivering voice and welled-up eyes truly touched me. It was beautiful to see you pay such emotional tribute to all the loved ones who've helped you grow.

But then I thought, "Wait a second. You're accepting a Best ACTRESS award. For all I know, you hate your parents' guts and could give two shits about the lessons your grandma taught you."

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

Dear Parents,

When I was a teenager, ear piercing was the most common form of fashion rebellion. A simple silver stud or golden hoop was our way of telling the world to "sit on it". (Unless our parents forebade us, in which case a bathtub chain necklace or elongated rat tail worked just fine.)

For the past ten years or so, the tattoo has been in vogue as the "fuck you" of choice. Bad-ass teenagers have permanently needled themselves with images of butterflies, indecipherable Asian letters and Kurt Cobain to let authority know that "they're not gonna take it anymore".

Today, however, tattoos have become so commonplace (or "played out") that it's almost more rebellious to not sport one at all. The time has arrived for Generation Y to bust out something completely, utterly new: placing live animals upon their heads.

I shit you not. Disgruntled teenagers from Alaska to Arkansas have been spotted with creatures ranging from pigs to coyotes on their craniums. In Topeka, Kansas, an angry girl was suspended from her volleyball team for arriving at practice with a Komodo dragon atop her dome. When asked by her coach what she was doing, she said, "Letting my parents and my brother know how jerky I think they are."

Parents, I alert you to this trend not as a scare tactic, but simply to make you aware. While resting a squirrel upon one's noggin may seem rather extreme, please remember that you were a teenager once, too.

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical Letter Writer

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Photo Submitted By: D'Arcy F.

Dear Nigel Iglesias,

I'm sure it's not easy being Julio's brother. While he's made gold records and banged exotic models worldwide, your only claim to fame is a 4th place finish in a neighborhood paella cook-off.

That said, you'll never be happy if you're only known as "Julio's sibling". It's time to step out of his shadow and start believing in who YOU are. It's time to find your own identity.

If your daring hat/banana hammock combo is any indication, you clearly have a sense for fashion. Why not take a crack at designing your own line? Why not be the Iglesias brother with the famous swimwear collection? You could call it "Nigel's Swimwear" or something like that.

If not fashion, what about fitness? I'm not one who usually checks out other dudes' bodies, but your fierce biceps are impossible not to peek at. If you were to write a book called "Getting Ripped, Iglesias-Style", I bet the Euro-Trash set would start riding your jock like crazy.

The point is, Nigel, it's time to stand for SOMETHING. Get your Spanish ass off that towel and turn up the hustle dial. Choose a passion and fucking go for it! If you do, before you know it people will start approaching Julio and saying, "Your brother is Nigel Iglesias? Holy tortilla! That is SO cool!"

Sincerely,

Los Rhetorical Letter Writer

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Photo Submitted By: Rachel Y.

Dear McDonald's,

If you want to make Burger King crazy pissed off, here's my suggestion: buy the St. Louis Arch and build another giant arch right the fuck next to it. If you pull that shit off, King's gonna blow a freakin' gasket.

Sincerely,

The Rhetorical McLetter Writer