by Alicia LAWTON

Dear Man Eat­ing Piz­za near the foun­tain in the “Eu­ropa” area of the theme park,

I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. This place wears out even the fittest among us and you must be twen­ty-five years old­er than me. That’s near­ly twice my age! How­ev­er, be­ing tired is no ex­cuse for for­get­ting your man­ners. Please re­move the glob of greasy moz­zarel­la that’s hang­ing out of your mouth and rest­ing on your wrin­kled chin. It’s disgusting.

Thank you,

A Con­cerned Passerby

…

Dear El­bows,

I’m sor­ry that mul­ti­ple rides on the Mam­ba left you bruised and ten­der; not to men­tion rather un­at­trac­tive. De­spite ev­i­dence to the con­trary, I knew you were be­ing as­sault­ed each time we crest­ed a hill, rais­ing out of our seat and crash­ing back down. You must be­lieve that I was pow­er­less to pre­vent your in­juries; I will grant that I could have cur­tailed our rides once I re­al­ized you were be­ing af­fect­ed, but it was just too much fun to stop! I of­fer you a three-day in­ten­sive treat­ment with Vic­to­ri­a’s Se­cret’s “Love Spell” lo­tion; it won’t help you heal but you will smell good.

With apolo­gies,

Adren­a­line Cen­ter of the Brain

…

Dear Man With the Goog­ley Eye Who Thought Kei­th was Tiger Woods,

He’s not.

Stop talk­ing, you’re mak­ing a fool of yourself.

Thank you,

Not Tiger’s Girlfriend

Filed under Letters on July 13th, 2004

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