The Bitch Is Back

Many times when something upsets us we are advised to write a letter to the powers that be and express our displeasure. Somewhere around my tenth birthday, I realized that this was completely futile, and that everyone who told me that "you wouldn't believe what a single letter can do" was either a) a kindergarten teacher, b) mentally challenged or c) Sesame Street. Mostly what an angry letter does is provide us with an easy way of deluding ourselves into believing that someone in power actually gives a crap what we think. We rant and rave, and proudly show our friends and family our written diatribe, all the while walking around with a great deal of pride in how proactive we are being in making the world a better place. I'm not trying to look down on the therapuetic value of a good rage...my mother always says that no one can seethe like I can. However, I think we all realize that nine times out of ten, these letters are promptly tossed into the garbage by the addressees, and that all of our righteous anger goes out with the trash.

After my last posting had an unusually high-level of heartfelt emotion in comparison to judgmental snarkiness, I received several explicit requests for something a little more pointed. Funny. Bitchy. It seems some readers come here to live vicariously through some of my more vicious observations. This is for you. Think of something that makes you angry, like horizontally striped spandex, vegan cookies or The Pink Panther 2. Hopefully it really chaps your ass, with just a dash of superiority, which should put you right in line with where this is going. For all of you readers who feel oppressed by the stupidity of the majority...these are for you.

Dear Women Who "Work-Out":

You might be wondering why you aren't losing weight. You go to the gym every day, and really exert yourself walking on that treadmill at a break-neck speed. You make certain that you're going as fast as you can without causing any perspiration that might cause the make-up you spent half an hour putting on before you arrived to run in any way. Furthermore, you have to make certain that you aren't moving so fast that you can't flip the pages of your Us Weekly...after all, when else will you be able to catch up on Jennifer's heart-breaking meeting with Brad and Angelina at the Oscars? Also, if you put that machine up to a pace too intense, you would actually need to buy sneakers. The wedge sandals, high-heeled boots and just plain socks would never be able to stand up to any pace over 3 miles an hour. Finally, if you go too fast, you'll never be able to continue the oh-so-interesting conversation that you're having with your friend who's walking on the treadmill right next to you. A conversation, I might add, that you're having so loudly I can hear every single word even though I have my Ipod turned up to the highest volume in an attempt to get Tina Turner to drown out your incessant prattling.

News flash, ladies (and while I am sure there are male offenders, in my experience this group is almost entirely composed of women): you aren't losing weight because you aren't working out. Simply physically being on a treadmill does not count as burning calories, and just moving your arms a lot so you look like you're speed-walking doesn't mean that you get to have a pint of Ben & Jerry's when you get home. Taking your lazy ass to the gym isn't going to do anything if you don't actually exert yourself when you're there. Here's an idea: take the time you use to make sure that you "look good" before you leave the house, and add it onto your time on the exercise machine of your choice. Then stop reading magazines, stop talking to your friends, and for God's sake, stop working out in your street clothes. Go to the gym, and work out until you vomit. You'll lose weight one way or another that way.

Dear Restaurant Canoodlers:

We, the public, believe that you are very much in love. This is our official position. Now will you please end the completely unnecessary habit that you have of sitting next to each other rather than across from each other at the table? First of all, it makes everyone in the restaurant, from the staff to your fellow diners, want to yell out "Hands where I can see them!" every time they walk past you. Secondly, no one wants to watch you nuzzle, cuddle, huddle, giggle, tickle, Eskimo kiss, really kiss, gaze into each other's eyes or feed each other while they themselves are trying to eat. It's repulsive, particularly when you are a person over the age of 25. At least the young ones out there can blame their raging hormones. After that, you just become the picture of a desperate person trying to prove to a group of strangers that you found someone who's willing to accept the fact that your ugly mug is going to be the first thing they see when they wake up in the morning.

How's this: if you really can't eat a single meal without being in physical contact with each other, order in. That way you can dry hump on your couch while shoveling take-out into your mouths, and we aren't treated to your delightful public displays of affection between courses. Everybody wins, especially the people trying to eat around you who will no longer have to fight crippling nausea as they attempt to eat their meals.

Dear American Apparel:

Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.

Dear Loud Subway Talkers:

Why must you sit across the aisle from each other and have a conversation? Why can you not sit next to each other like normal people and speak in a measured and quiet tone of voice? You are the exact opposite of our earlier offenders, The Restaurant Canoodlers, and yet manage to be just an infuriating. While most of these offenders are male (I can't sit next to my friend! We both have to spread our legs as wide as we can, cause our penises are SO BIG! And if we sit next to each other, our thighs will touch, and that's totally GAY! I HAVE A BIG PENIS!), this letter is being specifically addressed to the group of three women who surrounded me yesterday, and spoke of Jesus and alcoholism. The woman sitting next to me loudly proclaimed, "I used to drink. I mean, I didn't have a problem but I drank. And then one day, I was in a bar, and I woke up with my face on the toilet seat, and I just said "Jesus, I give it to you." That's what I said" seemingly unaware that the people around could hear her admit that her FACE touched a TOILET in a BAR.

Now you listen to me. If you were drunk enough to allow your face to touch the toilet seat of a bar, you have a problem. You have lost control, and you need to stop drinking. And deciding to "give it to Jesus," really presupposes the fact that Jesus is not as completely grossed out as the rest of us at the content of your story and the location of your face. Jesus has bigger issues to deal with, not the least of which being the fact that a large part of his followers are complete nutbags, so stop bothering him with your ridiculous whining. But the real issue here is that I don't need to know this about you...all you need to do is sit next to your girlfriends and keep your voice down. This will not only help me, but will stop half of a subway car looking at you like you're a toxic waste dump. And these are people sitting on a New York City train...our standards of cleanliness are definitely on the lower end.

Dear Agents, Managers, etc:

Suck it. I have tried to be polite to you. I've tried to not be a pest. I've tried to just sit back and let nature take it's course, tried to believe that eventually things will happen just because I got trained and I work my ass off. Well, no more. I'm performing in a show where, quite frankly, I'm fucking fantastic. Now get your asses to Loaded, or this ship is sailing out to fucking sea, and never again will you have the opportunity to hitch a ride. If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. Peace out bitches.

Regards,

Paul