I came home recently to find my mailbox stuffed yet again with half a dozen advertisement flyers. I quickly fired off responses to the offending companies.
How many more innocent junk trees need to be sacrificed to make your pesky weekly flyers? Please stop sending, as I have finally committed your entire store’s inventory to memory.
On a more positive note, I came in the other day for a flu vaccine, and the guy did a fantastic job with it, even though he turned out not to be an actual employee of the store. And also thanks so much to your cashier, Mindy, for quietly whispering her price check for my wart cream over the store’s PA system. It sounded truly creepy.
Til’ never (I hope),
Dear Adult Ed. Learning Tree Annex,
Your recent catalogue did not disappoint with its intriguing evening class offerings, such as “How to Make Your Own Beer Belly,” “Jewish Legends of Rock, Paper, Scissors,” and “Knitting While Under the Influence.”
Years ago I took your “Be the Best Bartender, Bar Nobody” class, and made over sixteen gallant, albeit glass-shattering, attempts at mastering that classic barkeep trick of sliding a full beverage down the entire length of the bar. My instructor actually paid me 100 dollars of his previous night’s tips to pack up my mixology kit, and go home.
Obviously I’ve been barred from taking further classes at your center, but I wouldn’t expect your contact-database manager to know that. Go ahead, and please keep sending me your tempting catalogs.
Not laughing at you laughing with you,
Dear Planet Fitness,
I glanced at your flyer, and got so excited to see that I had been missing out on an entire planet that’s right here on Earth. Grabbing my gym bag with its talc powder, nervously gnawed squeeze bottles, and assortment of ankle, knee, and elbow braces, I took off in my 1982 maroon Chevy Beretta on a mission towards your orb. Twenty minutes later I landed in your parking lot, and approached cautiously, looking for signs of life.
I was met by one of your planets inhabitants, a Jim Battista, who was kind enough to take me on a tour. Jim showed me how the gravitational pull on this Planet would fluctuate wildly during my visits, depending on which density of weight I chose to pump. I was happy to see that the entire heavenly body is populated by freakishly buff, shy, yet cocky “spotter” creatures who constantly repeat chestnuts of encouragement, such as “C’mon, push, don’t chicken out,” and “Jeez, no homo, but you’re looking good!” All this while holding back their tears of laughter at the fact that I can barely bench 90 pounds, and secretly wishing that they could just let the entire barbell drop to shatter my soft-shell crab of a chestal area.
I also appreciate that you’re open 24-7 to accommodate fitness-freak meth heads who so badly need to pump iron from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m.
Loved the visit, and I’m already raising funds for my next mission to you in 2021.
Dear (Insert Your City Here) Symphony Philharmonic,
I was pleased to see that you’re spitting in the face of prospective looming bankruptcy with your Rolls Royce of a brochure for the 2020-21 season. I noted that you’ll be meeting the masses exactly where they live with upcoming appearances by stand-up comedians such as Seabass Maniscalco, and Jeff Dunham and his doll.
The program “Philharmonic Rocks out the songs of The Cars and The Stone Temple Pilots”, will also no doubt make a big splash. Some may disagree, but I say, Why not? Your symphony is already quite adept at covering the works of well-known classical acts such as The Bach, The Mozart, and The Beethoven.
And I will definitely be in attendance for the performance of internationally wowed violinist Sing Sing, who made her debut in the early 00’s by playing Mendelssohn’s concerto in E minor when she was but an adorable, seven-month-old baby, all while being breastfed and gently rocked on her tiger mother’s lap.
Ta-Ta-Ta For Now,
Hi “The Car Wash” Guys,
I read myself to sleep last night with your most recent junk flyer. In my dreams, a variety of colorful, and reasonably priced car-washing packages spiraled before mine eyes—everything from the basic, and basic plus to the premium minus to the potpourri pou-pou platter voodoo wash.
This morning I arrived, ready to take my vehicle through the paces of one of these fabulous combos. And then suddenly I thought to myself, “Hey, what about my needs?” Removing my clothes, I blithely blew by the shocked attendant, and walked through completely nude for “The Bonanza Washers Golden $49.95 Paradise Package.” The experience beat out even the hot Epsom ™ salt baths of The Dead Sea as the single most relaxing, and refreshing experience I’ve ever had. (Can’t remember the last time I had my entire chassis scrubbed clean from that angle.) Also was excited to see that, in 2020 you’ll be rolling out your new drive-thru haircutting salons.
Big wet hug,
Dear Chow Down Gardens Chinese Restaurant,
Every evening I jump up startled from my La-Z-Boy®, thinking that a mouse has limbo-ed under the door of my flat, only to see yet another of your menus being stealthily pumped in. When I streak over, thinking I might open the door to catch the offender, I hear only the distant sounds of laughter and a screechy old bicycle being pedaled furiously away.
Yet I must admit that I do enjoy your menus—chock full o’ gut-busting typos and miraculously unfortunate usages such as “Substitutions are restricted with one happy smyle” and “duck ph yung”. Your menu currently shows the words “No MSG” in a circle with a line thru them; technically this is a double negative, which to my mind comes off as a “yes msg.”
Finally, please retroactively accept my sincere apologies for the hundreds of crank calls my friends and I made to you back in high school.
With zero insolence and much humility,
Dear Tony’s III “Gourmet” Pizzeria,
Got your most recent flyer in which I learned all about your pizza, grinders, hoagies, Stromboli, and calzones. You’ve cleverly managed to incarnate dough, red sauce, cheese, and overly oven-grilled vegetables into so many different shapes, and sizes, of what is essentially exactly the same item! Congratulations.
Dined in at your parlor recently. Head cook Tony absentmindedly scratched his armpits as he grouchily jotted down my order while muttering angrily about how much he still hates former impeached President Nixon. Second banana in command, Roberto, was in top form, grinning madly while verbally harassing all the female patrons with sly comments such as, “If you really want a hot grinder, come over to my place later, baby.”
Also, I totally grasp the enormity of actor/comedian Bob Saget’s visit to your establishment at the height of his powers in 1989 when he was the star of the hit sitcom “Full House.” However, now that over a quarter of a century has elapsed, it does seem like overkill that you still dedicate an entire side of your flyer to his full-sized autographed headshot.
Dear Giant Supermarket,
Thanks for mailing me colorful, high-resolution (dare I say airbrushed) photographs of almost everything in your market. It’s so comforting to find out every week that you’re still carrying all the oldies but goodies, such as milk, cereal, fruits, and vegetables.
I also love knowing that I’m always welcome to go into your store and, when no one’s looking, casually whip an entire 16 ounce glass jar of pickles over my head so that it smashes behind me into a thousand pieces. And you guys would no doubt be nice enough to clean it up for free, and without complaint. It’s probably for that reason that I have never needed to do it.
Warmly yours in ten items or else,