Letters

Dear Asshole in the Hyundai Accent:

It's called the speed limit. There's no reason to be afraid of doing it. There is, however, reason to be afraid of me ripping you out of your car and ramming your head against the pavement a couple of times if you keep driving at ten miles per hour UNDER said speed limit.

Hit your gas pedal,
Feather.


Dear Beyonce:

We all know that you are the undisputed queen of urban yodeling. You do not need to remind us in every single song you release. Please shut up.

Waiting for the day when you sing a song without gratuitious "OOOOooooOOOOOOoOOOoooo's",
Feather.


Dear Iraqi kidnapper-types:

Hello. The American government does not give a rat's ass about its citizens unless they happen to be a member of an oil family. Kidnapping reporters and executing them is not going to get your prisoners released. Rather, I would try getting some grappling hooks and some rope and actually spring them from jail like a normal person. Americans respect that sort of thing. I mean, c'mon. Has kidnapping anyone ever done anything for you when you're dealing with the American Military Machine? Shit, dudes. The sun couldn't have fried your brains that much.

Amazed at the idiodicy,
Feather.


Dear Gino and Joe's Pizzeria:

You need to stay open later, seriously. I totally wanted one of your antipasto salads last night and was cruelly denied it, as you were closed. It was only eleven o'clock. As a result I went home and ate cold rice out of a pot on the stove that someone didn't put away from dinner. With my fingers. That's craziness. Nice people don't stand over pots and eat the contents with their fingers because they're just too hungry to get a plate and fork. If I had a salad, however, this could have been prevented.

I love the pickled vegetables you put on your salads,
Feather.


Dear Quinners,

You make me squee. Nonetheless, I demand a sacrifice of kittens at your earliest convenience.

Love,
Babers.

Letters

Dear Asshole in the Hyundai Accent:

It's called the speed limit. There's no reason to be afraid of doing it. There is, however, reason to be afraid of me ripping you out of your car and ramming your head against the pavement a couple of times if you keep driving at ten miles per hour UNDER said speed limit.

Hit your gas pedal,
Feather.


Dear Beyonce:

We all know that you are the undisputed queen of urban yodeling. You do not need to remind us in every single song you release. Please shut up.

Waiting for the day when you sing a song without gratuitious "OOOOooooOOOOOOoOOOoooo's",
Feather.


Dear Iraqi kidnapper-types:

Hello. The American government does not give a rat's ass about its citizens unless they happen to be a member of an oil family. Kidnapping reporters and executing them is not going to get your prisoners released. Rather, I would try getting some grappling hooks and some rope and actually spring them from jail like a normal person. Americans respect that sort of thing. I mean, c'mon. Has kidnapping anyone ever done anything for you when you're dealing with the American Military Machine? Shit, dudes. The sun couldn't have fried your brains that much.

Amazed at the idiodicy,
Feather.


Dear Gino and Joe's Pizzeria:

You need to stay open later, seriously. I totally wanted one of your antipasto salads last night and was cruelly denied it, as you were closed. It was only eleven o'clock. As a result I went home and ate cold rice out of a pot on the stove that someone didn't put away from dinner. With my fingers. That's craziness. Nice people don't stand over pots and eat the contents with their fingers because they're just too hungry to get a plate and fork. If I had a salad, however, this could have been prevented.

I love the pickled vegetables you put on your salads,
Feather.


Dear Quinners,

You make me squee. Nonetheless, I demand a sacrifice of kittens at your earliest convenience.

Love,
Babers.