The Wee Democracy

open letters

dear beer commercials,
stop making empty promises. the only thing drinking the beer you so vigorously promote as social lubricant and chick magnet has succeeded in attracting is fat cells to my stomach.


dear my stomach,
stop growing hair. i'm a man now, i get the picture. just knock it off.


dear work,
i hate you. not my job, though i hate that too, but work in general...you must go. failure to go away in a prompt fashion will result in violence perpetrated upon your head and body.

dear irish girls,
stop being so damn attractive. i can't take it anymore. ok, don't stop,


dear fingers,
learn how to play an instrument, will you? stop being shiftless layabouts and get on the stick! i'm writing a letter to my voice soon to demand immediate improvement in the singing department, so you'd better start crackin'.


dear cheerios,
i'm just writing to you to thank you so much for all the years of yummy bowlish happiness you've provided me through my life, with your honey nut lusciousness, your sassy and playful apple cinnamon, your bold frosted o's, and your tasteful and tasty classic plain cheerios. i hope that you and i have several more years of good times ahead of us.


dear karma,
get to work, you lazy fuck!




feeling: ok - it's late, leah's here
thinking of: sleepytown, USA
song of the day: nothin' but a g thang - snoop and dre
its the capital S, oh yes, so fresh N, double O P, D O double G Y D O double G, ya see, showin' much flex when it's time to wreck a mic, pimpin' hoes and clockin' a grip, like my name was dolemite