Sunday, December 26, 2010

Letters To The Reader and Talkback!

Dear Governor-Elect Haley and Stephen “Key a Car” Garcia,
You both live in a state that is the last in everything good and the first in everything bad.  So let’s not let being a local celebrity go to your head.  During her recent election campaign, our future female Luv-Guv allegedly walked out of a locally owned coffee shop, assuming her cup of Joe would be comped.  (That’s a reference to coffee, not Represenative Wilson.)
As to USC’s quarterback, he even more boldly is alleged to have walked out on a booze tab at a locally owned bar.  When confronted by a staff member of the establishment, Garcia is reported to have said, “I don’t pay.”  (Funny, that’s what the Governor-Elect said about her taxes, too.)  Classy!  Anyway, thanks for keeping South Cackalaky the butt of every joke on MSNBC and Comedy Central!
Columbia City Paper

Dear GPS estimated time,
You are like my pot-smoking brother who says he’ll be there in 20 minutes, which I translate to mean at least an hour or however long it takes to find a new pair of semi-stained underwear and stop off at the Paki-mart to buy a large canister of Cheetos.  I do appreciate your programmed ability to say “recalculating destination” at least 30 times per minute--this helps keep me awake on all-night road trips.  But it would be nice if someone had thought to program you to refresh “time to destination” data, too.  At least when my brother reaches his destination, he has some herb and snacks to share and a story about cleaning his briefs with a bottle of purple-flavored Vitamin Water.
Columbia City Paper

Dear Bank Of America Robotic Customer Service Labyrinth,
Admit your defeat.  If I just keep saying “stick a banana up your twat” long enough into the telephone, eventually I get sent to a human named LaTonya.
Columbia City Paper

Dear Holiday Freakout,
“Hi, who is this?”  “Grant.”  “Grant who?”  “You know, Grant.”  “Grant from the seventh grade Grant?”  “Yeah, you remember!”  “Sure I remember.  We dated briefly, until you told Kelly McFadden that you wanted to give me a boner sandwich.”  “Yep, that’s me!”  “Ummm, I’m in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner with my husband and four year old.”  “Cool.  Want to have drinks some time?”  Click!
Columbia City Paper

Dear “Don’t Tread On Me” SUV Rear Window Sticker Guy,
Are you really having a tough of a time it in your Escalade?  I bet you even cashed in on the “cash for clunkers” for that 12 MPG blood beast.  By the way, have your taxes gone up in the last decade?  Where were you during eight years of the Bush Administration when Republicans you voted for created wars based on lies?
Now that a Democrat is in office, you scream from the rooftops about documentaries you don’t watch, newspapers that you don’t read, all the while ignoring the fact that those wars you supported have a price tag of over a trillion dollars.
The irony is that during the Clinton Administration, you screamed “wag the dog!” when Bill Clinton bombed Al-Qaeda targets in Afghanistan.
Don’t kid yourself:  “Don’t tread on me” should be the new slogan for Alzheimer’s Disease.  I hope you get run over by an asphalt grader.
Columbia City Paper

Dear Mr. Blake:

For several years, I have been engaged in a daily war of words with any of my fellow Columbia citizens who dare stand opposed to the honorable mission of City Paper—until your most recent issue, that is.
Despite all your efforts to expose corruption in our capitol city, from our closeted gay state leaders who rub themselves in the lard of political pork to the wily Five Points Association crooks who pee green from the illicit profits of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, you have lost me permanently as a faithful admirer.
Why, you might ask?  Because you have sullied the good name of my favorite male sex aid!
In your recent review of the Fleshlight, “How I fell in love with my night light,” Mr. Dook and Mr. Cutchins write:
“Fucking comes innately, if you know what I mean.  I popped in the batteries and some classic porn: ‘Peter North slams Nina Hartley.’  Several hours later, when I had advanced to ‘Big Hand, Red Butt Bulgaria, Volume XIX,’ I found myself still sweatily banging the hell out of a black flashlight with a twat for a tip.”
While fucking may indeed come innately to your staff writers, and while in fact “Big Hand, Red Butt Bulgaria, Volume XIX” is a classic audiovisual stimulant for masturbation, I have a feeling neither of these writers are actually amongst the two and a half million proud who actually own and use Fleshlights.  How do I know this?!  Because Fleshlights don’t take batteries!
I should know.  I am the owner of by far the finest Fleshlight collection in the Palmetto Spandex Club.  Just how deep runs my experience and expertise?  I was the first patron to purchase the Eva Angelina Fleshlight model.  (And Interactive Life Forms, the company which produces Fleshlight, responded immediately to my complaint that the signature texture of the Angelina model was a tad too stubbly; as compensation, they invited me to be one of only four testers of the same proto-Lupe Fuentes model.  Other than the sensation of sloppy seconds, it was one of the finest masturbatory moments of my life.)  At any rate, if anyone knows that Fleshlights do NOT require batteries, it is I!  And for what it’s worth, the homosexual equivalent Fleshjack doesn’t take batteries, either—although I do not speak from experience regarding that particular product.  (If you publish this rant, I wouldn’t my mother to question my heterosexuality.)
Further, I am agog that your writers would commit an abomination of journalistic integrity and suggest that the proud makers of the world’s most innovative sex instrument would include a feminine hygiene product in said product’s pleasure orifice.  Instead of a tampon, your writers may have experienced a rod that is inserted at the factory to maintain the product’s form.
That is, if they experienced anything at all!  No, as surely as one can say “phthalate-free polymers,” I’m pretty damned sure your writers made that article up.  Hell, I bet your rag didn’t even really interview the Haley Transition Team, either.
Keep your dirty minds away from my groin!

Fisher A. Sasstodé

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