LETTERS
To the woman in the white Corolla at the corner of Chartres and St. Ferdinand: put down the banana clip. Immediately. You’ve had more than a year to play the disheveled, disoriented, post-K card. No more excuses.
To the Commander-in-Chief: your hubris was cute and catchy back during first few months of airstrikes and shock-and-awe, but if you’d ever read a history book or watched The Princess Bride, you’d have known that it’s always a bad idea to fight a land war in Asia.
To Cormac McCarthy: I wrote that review of The Road before I’d finished the last ten pages. I’m done now, and all I gotta say is: wow, you’re a real pussy. You give me 230-some-odd pages of brilliance, and then that? …It’s perfect movie fodder, though, and I’m sure someone’s already paid you, like, a zillion dollars for the rights, so what do you care what I think?
To this morning’s forgettable, generically blonde newscastress: I don’t know what they teach you kids in school these days, but thin stripes–especially horizontal ones–are a bad choice for TV. You’re hurting my eyes, bitch.
To all the circuit queens who came to town for this weekend’s Halloween in New Orleans party: thank you. Now, please, pack your coke spoons and get your tweaked, cock-gobbling asses back to Dallanta or San Somethingorother. Our city’s need for tourism revenue doesn’t change the fact that I think you’re all a bunch of middle-aged ‘tards.
To anyone who cares: as the only magazines to which I subscribe are now National Geographic and Southern Living, I have officially turned into my grandmother. (As if you couldn’t tell that from #5 above.)
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