Dear Dick Cheney,
Foremost among all the things I would like to say to you is, please sir, stay out of my dreams. It is bad enough you don't feel you are a part of the executive branch, but to enter my slumber is simply unacceptable. Perhaps you do not understand my complaint. Let me explain.
Under a falling sunset, you and I walked side-by-side to the Dairy Queen a mile from my house. We laughed the happy laugh of longtime pals as we excitedly anticipated the sugary goodness that awaited us. When we arrived, you ordered chocolate, and I, vanilla. And then you changed. Your face twisted into that freakishly terrifying half-smile, and you chided me for my choice of ice cream. "Girly," you called it. And you knocked the cone out of my hand, laughed and walked away.
Please don't put me through this again. It is appreciated.
Yours in impeachment,
Wipe your damn self off my floor because I ain't not gonna do it. Ain't not. Does that mean I am going to do it? Oh, I don't know. Just dry yourself, please.
Yours in the quality airflow needed to speed the pace of evaporation,
Dear Mrs. Lincoln,
I apologize for using my single-use time machine for the purpose of going back to 1983 to halt my parents' drunken gropefest that resulted in my brother's existence rather than rushing to Ford's Theatre on the night of April 14, 1865, to prevent John Wilkes Booth from murdering your husband. I was selfish.
Yours in unhappy familial developments and long unruly run-on sentences,
Dear Air Conditioning System At Work,
I realize it is not your fault. Somebody in charge of your control panel made you so cold. But you have to understand, it is simply not practical for me to sit at my desk wearing gloves, earmuffs and a coat. It makes typing difficult. And you know, when it is 90 degrees outside, it looks freakish to walk into a building with what amounts to snowstorm gear. All that is missing is my sled. Wait...that's a good idea. I'm going to sled down the spiral staircase. You're awesome!
Yours in frostbite and potential future paralysis,
Dear Closest Star To The Earth, or, The Sun,
Quite honestly, you frighten me. Appearing and disappearing as you please. The consistency of it all is horrifying. It's like a real life peekaboo on a huge scale. It, it gives me the terrors. You're making me crazy. Oh, and stop being so hot. Al Gore is soooo going to kick your ass, so watch yourself. But there's one thing I don't understand. Clouds. Why do you deal with them? Why don't you just say, "Hey, guys, what the hell? Get out of my way!" and blast them with your rays of fury? You probably could.
Yours in skin cancer,