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Something stinks here…oh it is another batch of “Letters To The Reader”

Dear Vitamin Water Thanks to you I now have an excuse for doing the drive thru bacon cheeseburger for fifteen days in a row before passing out drunk. For you, Vitamin Water, possess key nutrients and minerals and pass vitamin C around the Miller Lite and through to my struggling liver. In theory, drinking you will make me healthy and counter the fact that I’m watching Super Size Me on DVD while dipping a trans fat soaked carb tater into a leftover cup of Bar B Q sauce. At the least, people at work will think I’m trendy and healthy while your vitaminly goodness secretly washes down those two tacos I wolfed down in the parking lot. Columbia City Paper

Dear Growing Paranoia, Apologies to the unannounced Time Warner Internet guy who was denied entry to our office last week for fear he was an assassin (after all, any schmo can grab a work shirt and a clipboard at a thrift store). A City Paper reporter worth his salt is always prepared for a hatchet wielding FPA board member and always expects to be struck down by a blow dart from competing news editors in the tree line. Our publisher has been pacing the halls and talking to himself like Caligula lately and we all find ourselves whispering around the white van that always seems to be parked downstairs at noon for “lunch” in Five Points. Christ, I think I’ve said too much already! Columbia City Paper

Dear Mom, Sorry we’re too broke for Mother’s Day cards and gifts; this little Letter to the Reader will have to do. If only we had majored in Business like you told us to… Columbia City Paper

Dear “Cops” the TV show, Hey, loving the sting for a $5 bag of weed. You guys are really going under cover to get the most dangerous crooks, huh? I guess you are proud to give the average blue collar American a criminal record. Why go after the top drug lords or violent felons when you can harass and entrap the everyday schmucks? Meanwhile some attorney that shoots a bouncer at a strip club can claim innocence via low blood sugar. You guys work with the same judges and prosecutors every day and you still think we average Joes have an ass of a chance when an underpaid cop makes a mistake and has a bad night? Just bend over and pay the ticket because it is the price of freedom baby and the city has festivals to pay for. Columbia City Paper

Dear Heavy Metal pet owners, We know you guys think it’s macho to own boa constrictors and tarantulas, but we think it would be even more hardcore if you owned one of those meat-eating plants from Southeast Asia. Some of them grow large enough to draw small monkeys into their slathering green jaws. If you’re going to feed it in front of your houseguests, we recommend toy breed dogs or rabbits as a prime food source as they tend to scream for effect. Columbia City Paper

Dear store brand deodorant, Something is wrong when your product smells worse than actual B.O. Apparently, “Sport Scent” means it’s supposed to smell like the jock strap of an Oakland Raider’s lineman. Thanks to you people my co-workers think I don’t shower. While rubbing on cologne ads from the magazines in the bathroom, I decided to pick up a brand name stick rather than have my pits smell like moldy onions with a hint of CK one. Columbia City Paper

Dear Mrs. Shankles, former 2nd grade teacher I wonder if you recall the time I copied down a poem for you out of Reader’s Digest? It still plagues me—now 24 years later. If you recall, I colored some trees and rainbows and other cheesy stuff around the poem. You were flattered and thought I had penned it myself for you. When I came to class the next morning you had framed it, put my byline on it and hung it near the pencil sharpener. Other teachers started to trickle in to ogle it and express their jealousy. I didn’t have the heart to tell you that you shouldn’t have put my byline on it, that the whole thing was a sham. You gave me preferential treatment, straight A’s for weeks and all the while that damned poem mocked me from the wall. Then one day I came into class and it was gone. I assumed you figured it out… after all we’re talking Reader’s Fucking Digest here; it was only a matter of time. You looked at me funny from then on, we grew distant and never spoke of the poem again. You’re probably pretty old by now, Mrs. Shankles. I hope you were able to move on. Columbia City Paper