Dear Idiot…

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Dear People in Love,

I am so happy you’ve found each other. I really am. I love love. I just don’t love your love. You two need to stop slobbering all over each other in public. The table at the restaurant is for eating food, not eating each other’s faces and horrifying children and old people while ruining my appetite. Your back pockets are for carrying wallets and condoms. Not secretly squeezing some of that Grade A new boyfriend ass. Go home and get it on all day and night. Hell, even tape it and put it on YouTube if you want. Just stop dry humping each other in line at the store. You knocked over the gum display. And that’s just rude.

Love,

Christa

(I dare you to smell your hand now.)

Dear Guy Who Cut Me Off,

Congratulations, asshole. You are now one whole car ahead of me. You are still stopped at the same light as me. You just get to sit there longer because you got there first. You are a wizard among men for almost damaging my vehicle, your vehicle and both of our selves so you could get to the intersection 4 seconds faster. Not only do you get to be in front of me, now you also get my wrath. Think of me when karma happily kicks you in the nuts for being such a jack ass.

Sincerely,

Christa

(Christa says “hey”, Speed Racer.)

Dear People Trying to Open My Eyes,

I know there are horrors in the world. I know children die every day from hunger and abuse. So do animals. I am very aware of this and it upsets me greatly. But for the love of God, please stop posting pictures of starving, dead babies and bleeding, suffering animals on Facebook. This is a social networking site. For like, socializing and stuff. Not giving people nightmares. There are ways to help these situations and get sympathy for your cause without exploitative, disturbing photos that cause people to turn away immediately in abject horror and, therefore, giving your cause no thought at all other than to make the pictures go away.

Thank you.

Christa

(And they poop rainbows, too!)

Dear Emotional Wreck,

I understand from your Facebook post that there is something terrible and depressing going on in your life. I also understand that you say you don’t want to talk about it, based upon your mysterious “Don’t text or call. I don’t want to talk about it.” post. But let’s be honest here. If you really didn’t want to talk about whatever it is (I’m guessing it’s a guy who didn’t do what you wanted), you wouldn’t post that stuff on Facebook. You’d just turn off your phone and computer and take a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to your room and watch Titanic. But you do want someone to ask. So stop fishing and go ahead and say, “Johnny Depp broke our date because he said his grandmother died but he just posted pictures of him and Grammy Depp and Christa Woomer at Disneyland. I hate him and everyone else should, too!” There. Now don’t you feel better after saying how you really feel?

Your friend,

Christa

(Why does everyone keep asking me what’s wrong? I’m fine!)

Dear Person Busier and More Important Than God,

I understand that you are, without a doubt, the busiest person on the planet. No one has nearly as much work as you do and no one could possibly accomplish in a month what you do in a single day. You are a machine. You should be given a plaque for all that you manage to do whilst being the only one in your office who ever does anything. Brava! I also understand that if you go on vacation or get sick or have to take time for a number two bathroom break, you think the office will crumble without you. Let me ease your mind on that count. We are all replaceable. Even you. When River Phoenix dropped dead in front of a nightclub while filming “Interview with a Vampire”, he was replaced in mere hours by Christian Slater. The only irreplaceable one is God. But if you think you are more important than Him, I’ll let you discuss that amongst yourselves. And since you are so damn busy, shut the hell up and go do all that work you’re always bitching about.

Sincerely,

Christa

(This never would’ve happened if you only took a ½ hour lunch.)

Dear Person with Bratty Kids,

I know that babysitters can be expensive. But if you really feel it necessary to bring all 8 of your screaming, misbehaving, rude loin droppins to the store with you, please make sure you either beat them or drug them or whatever you have to do to keep them from running into me, stepping on my foot, taking things out of my cart, knocking down old ladies without apologizing, shoplifting, farting, sneezing and coughing on products I was thinking of buying and, in general, causing mass public chaos and shrinkage of my reproductive organs.

Yours truly,

Christa

(Drink up, Timmy. It’s Dress Week at Ross.)

Dear Person Behind Me,

I’m flattered by your fascination with me. I understand that I am an intriguing individual whom you would like to get to know better. That being said, we are in line in a public shopping store. Please remove yourself from my ass. We are not German Shepherds. There is nothing you can really learn about me by being so close to my butt despite what some scientists might tell you. There is no need to inch up on me. I’ll be done as soon as I can, then you can have a turn to buy your items. Don’t make me fart on you. Seriously. Back off. Now.

Kindest regards,

Christa

(I told you, if you bumped me one more time…)

Dear Negative Nellie,

Stop being negative. You are alive. You have a job. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food in your stomach. Quit your bitching before God gives you something to bitch about.

Always,

Christa

(Cheer up. You could be…well, either of these two.)

Dear Women in Public Restrooms,

Why in the hell are there always pee drops on the toilet seat, ladies? First off, you’re supposed to use the little butt paper to cover the seat so you don’t get any ass-related diseases from others. Because we all know that the butt cheeks of every stranger we pass is just crawling with germs. If you are a tough broad though and don’t want to use the butt paper, then just sit your ass down and pee! Stop hovering and swaying and dancing or whatever the hell you’re doing that makes you leave whiz all over the seat like some kind of urinating lawn sprinkler.

Thank you.

Christa

(Yes, fellas. This is how we actually pee.)

Dear Driver with Cell Phone,

One of these days, I am going to pull up next to you, get out of my car, tear your car door open, rip that fucking phone out of your hand and beat you half to death with it. The law says you cannot drive and hold a cell phone to your face. Are you insane, stupid, selfish or all of the above? And it’s not like you’re having Syrian Peace Talks, either. You’re discussing with your other idiot friends driving and talking on their phones which Real Housewife of Who-Gives-A-Shit made the biggest ass out of herself last night on tv. Here’s a hint: It’s ALL of them! Those shows are worthless. Go get a Bluetooth before you hurt yourself or someone who doesn’t deserve it. Like me. You can get one for as little as $19.99 at a discount retailer near you. Bottom line, sweetheart. The law applies to you, too. Put. The phone. Down.

Thank you.

Christa

(You’re gonna be calling Jesus when I’m through with you.)

And that’s all I have to say about that.

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3 responses »

  1. All. I love you Christa! You tell it like it is. I have two beautiful kids, but just because I had them doesn’t mean I want to subject other’s to them. Amen for not bringing your beautiful, lovely, wild kids out to places where they can not contain themselves. Also – it’s called an iPhone, let your kid play with it, they are should to be good.

  2. Pingback: Dear Idiot (Part Deux) | Woomer Has It!

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