the OPEN LETTER PROJECT is moving!

Hello, Open Letter Project readers!  I’m movin’ this blog to POPHANGOVER.COM – my pop culture satire/news website. This section will be updated far more frequently. Thanks for the support. See you there!

Dear Trader Joes

Dear Trader Joes Supermarket,

I’ve had it with you. I can’t drive anywhere near your store on the weekend. Your shoppers clog up the roadway and make traffic flow slower than the blood through Louie Anderson’s veins. And should I want to go to another store in the plaza, well, I can just forget about it. There’s never any parking; every spot is filled with cars sporting VERMONT stickers and SUV’s covered with “Anti-War” stickers. Please.

The thing is, I’ve been in your store a few times, and I’ve always been less than impressed. So I’m wondering, exactly what do you put in your granola that makes people rush through your doors like cattle? Do you have clowns in there that juggle and serve kettle corn? Is there a topless bartender pouring shots of tequila down an ice luge over in the dairy section?

I just don’t get it. Your produce section is skimpy, and what IS there looks wilted and rancid. Your bananas are rubbery, your limes are brown, and your eggs are cracked. If you don’t eat your berries within 24 hours, they’re covered in mold like a 5th grade science project. Oddly enough, you try to maintain a “unique health food store” image, yet 65% of the food you sell is FROZEN and is loaded with preservatives and salt. And don’t even get me started on your revolting crab in a can.

Fine, your Joe-Joe cookies are delicious. And I hear you sell your, uh, nuts really cheap. But I don’t care. I see that huge, long Walt Disney World line over by your registers and there’s no way I’m standing there for 25 minutes just to save $1.45.

AND, as if all that wasn’t enough, your retarded, Hawaiian-shirt wearin’ employees are always ringing that annoying COW BELL in my ear every 4 seconds like they’re fucking Quasimodo. I’m proud to say, however, that I think I’ve finally managed to decode those mysterious bell ringing sequences:

One ring: We are incompetent and need help, there are too many fat women here who just won’t leave without their three buck chuck. Open another register, pronto! They’re staging a mutiny!

Two rings: Captain, I need more money in my register, because I had to issue so many refunds on our gross, rotten products.

Three bells: Oh shit, there’s a bearded hippy in a tie-dye shirt choking on a kashi bar over here, send help ASAP.

Dear Trader Joes, I wouldn’t shop in your store for free. Truth be told, you’re a bunch of posers and hypocrites… pretendng to care about the Earth and its inhabitants, and showing pride in “your brand.” My ass. When are you going to stop buying eggs from caged, mistreated hens? And just how much PLASTIC and STYROFOAM does one need protecting their squash? Not to mention that your entire brand is just a big front; you sell Aldi’s food with your packaging on it. But we’re not supposed to know that.

What the hell is 3 buck chuck anyway?

Jill

Dear Pushy Salespeople

Dear Salespeople Who Work On Commission,

You seriously need to chill. I’m not in your store for 15 seconds before you’re up my ass like Wilfred Brimley to a diabetes testing meter. It’s quite annoying. I’M LIKE SO HAPPY my purchase of this TV stand will put $4.82 in your pocket, but you seriously need to chill.

Fine. I get it. You’re just trying to make a buck. Your kid has incisors like Hugh Grant and desperately needs braces. Or maybe you’re just 3 mattresses away from getting your name engraved on that little plaque outside the employee restroom. But I just politely informed you I wanted to browse… and yet you’re hovering around me like I’m an ill-behaved doberman pinscher and you’re Cesar Milan The Dog Whisperer. So kindly back off and let me browse your sectional sofas in peace. Thanks.

Dear pushy, annoying, 20 year old sales girls who work at clothing stores at the mall, stop stalking me in the dressing room. I’m naked in here, and I’m busy trying to prevent my bare foot from touching the nasty floor. I don’t need you screaming at me from outside the door. No, I don’t need another size. No, I don’t want you to bring me things you think I’ll like. And please, spare me your ridiculous opinions; you’re never going to convince me I look fabulous in these yellow and purple polka-dot leg warmers. You’re not coming across as helpful, you’re coming across as a patronizing loser who desperately needs to scrape together some beer money for the weekend.

And a random note to you, dear middle aged women who work at Yankee Candle: stop telling me 900 times that “the fragrance is strongest in the lid.” No it’s not. Give me a break! What’s next? You’re going to try to convince me the Flowbee gives a great haircut, and that Whoopi Goldberg is straight? Please. And while I have your attention, immediately cease and desist rudely barking at people to “not pick up the candle by the lid.” You’re selling a $25 CANDLE. You should be happy people are picking them up at all.

Those pants make your ass look fat,

Jill

Dear Slow Drivers

Dear slow drivers of the world,

In case all the “middle fingers” and curse words coming your way on a daily basis didn’t alert you, let me be a bit more clear: YOU ARE OBNOXIOUS. And everyone hates you.

I know, I know. It can be exciting to hum along to a Celine Dion song on that newfangled CD player of yours… basking in the glow of Dion’s melancholic French Canadian vocals and reminiscing how you saw her in Las Vegas last year. But for the love of all that’s good and holy, can’t you drive more than 22mph while you do so? You’re killing me here.

Dear slow drivers, you always pull the same shit with me. You dart out of the Krispy Kreme parking lot without looking, and cut me off . You then proceed to drive slower than the blood through John Goodman’s veins, inevitably leaving me driving 15mph under the speed limit and seething in frustrated rage for mile after mile.

Slow drivers, you are the bane of my existence, and even the undead hate you; why, just last night, I contacted Henry Ford via ouiji board, and even he said you were an asshole. He also mentioned he hates what Ford has done with the Mustang. But I digress.

And while I have your attention, dear idiot driving the Porsche/BMW/Corvette at 55mph in the fast lane on the highway, I hate to break it to you… but you are SUCH a loser. You are KING LOSER. Your cologne is Eau de Loser (French). If you were in the movie 300, your name would be MAXIMUS LOSERUS. If you were a vacuum, you’d outperform the Dyson with your suckage. If you were on NBC’s The Biggest Loser, you would win even if you gained weight.

Bottom line: slow drivers in the fast lane, you are a hazard to the road and you need to have your licenses revoked. And people who drive sports cars slowly, you losers should be driving a broke Kia Spectra. Leave the elite machinery to people who have a clue.

Beep Beep,

Jill

Dear Dolly Parton

Dear Dolly Parton,

I loved you in 9 to 5. Boy, you really know how to work a lasso. And I’m so impressed that you kept your composure after finding that dead body in the trunk of Lily Tomlin’s car; I would have been much more freaked out.

Also, I thought it was so heroic how you came to Julia Robert’s aid with that orange juice in Steel Magnolias. By getting her blood sugar level up, you saved her life. You may have ensured that she lost neither her vision nor her limbs. It was so moving. Drink your juice, Shelby!

I also really admire your willingness to fight for your man. I’m right behind you on that one. That slut Jolene? Yeah, she sure has it coming. (Do you know who Joey Greco is? You should let me give you his number…)

However, dear Dolly, after seeing you on American Idol last night, I’m sort of concerned about a few things. You sounded very hoarse and your voice was quite weak. Are you coming down with something? If so, don’t take Airborne; I heard on CNN that it doesn’t work and there is some lawsuit against them or something. Hmm, maybe you should get some B-12 shots. At age 62, it’s no secret that your immune system can be quite weak.

(Sidebar: have you spoken to Sally Field about the state of your bones yet?)

Dear Dolly, I love so many of your songs. I Will Always Love You, Islands In The Stream (a duet with Kenny Rogers), 9 to 5, Jolene, and uh, ok, those are the only ones I know. But I love them.

However, I don’t have love for your new song, Jesus & Gravity, after hearing you sing it on American Idol last night. I must confess, I’m not a fan of religion… even when it’s being crammed down my throat via a melodic little ditty. I hope we can still be friends after that revelation; I know what Jesus means to you.

Also, I found the lyrics to Jesus & Gravity confusing. After more closely listening, I can’t help but ask… is this song about the state of your breasts in the water versus on land?

…I’ve got somethin’ lifting me up,
somethin’ holding me down…

Dearest Dolly, regardless of Jesus & Gravity, I’m coming to see you perform at Mohegan Sun Casino in 3 weeks. I hope the show is good, because your tickets were really expensive. You postponed the concert a few weeks because of back pain due to your aforementioned breasts; hopefully you’ve since acquired a better bra and have rectified the situation. Here You Come Again!

I’ve included a SASE for an autographed photo (please?!) and a few tickets to Dollywood (pretty please?!) and airfare so I can get to Dollywood (oh that would be so great).

I Will Always Love You,
Jill

Dear Inconsiderate People at Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, and Subway

Dear Person-In-Front-Of-Me Ordering-7-Espresso-Drinks At-Starbucks and/or 8-Footlong-Sandwiches-At-Subway:

Oh how I loathe seeing you standing in front of me, trying to look inconspicuous while clutching that little piece of yellow scribbled-on paper to your chest. But I’m onto you. I know better. That’s not your grocery list. It’s tangible proof that you’re about to make my life a living hell.

And you know it too, as you bark your orders for Jake and Jan and Trevor and Tracy, and then turn to shrug your shoulders and smirk at everyone behind you in line… all the while, sentiments of “Please don’t form a mob and kill me” oozing from your posture and your eyes.

I have a strange mix of feeling for you, person in front of me ordering enough food and beverages to sustain a small country in Africa for several weeks. On the one hand, I pity you. Only the lowest schmuck on the office totum poll acts as the lackey. You have to continually do the shit no one else wants to do. People take advantage of you. And more likely than not, no one respects you or trusts you to do anything other than a menial task. For whatever reason, you’re desperate and/or foolish enough to just suck it up and take everyone’s abuse. That must suck.

On the other hand, I HATE YOU, person in front of me ordering the food and beverage equivalent of Oprah’s ego. People have lunch hours. People have 15-minute break times. People have schedules. You’ve just ruined all of that because you couldn’t say “no.” True, I’m impatient as it is… but I hate you even more because you just took away 15-20 perfectly good minutes of my life that I will never get back. And wake up, you’re not doing a favor for friends, you’re being USED. And you know you’re never going to get all your money back, either.

Dear person leaving Starbucks with 4 coffee drink trays stacked in your arms, using your chin to press down on the hot beverages for balance whilst trying to open the door to your car, grow a backbone. Tell Jasmine and Sara and Peter and Paul and Mary to go get their own fucking venti frappuccinos.

And while I’m on this topic, dear person in front of me at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru, ordering 4+ toasted bagels and 5+ custom coffees… YOU ARE AN EVEN BIGGER ASSHOLE. How about you, oh I don’t know, park your car, and walk your fat ass into the store to place your gargantuan order, you self important prick?

Thank you,
Jill

Dear People Who Call Me MA’AM

Dear People Calling Me Ma’Am:

STOP MA’AMing ME. AT ONCE.

I repeat, do NOT call me ma’am. I’m 30 years old. I’m not Betty White. I can’t name 2 songs by Frankie Valli. Candy bars never “cost just a nickel” in my lifetime. When it comes to shoes, it’s still fashion over comfort. My underwear are hot… and they fit me. I don’t take 45 seconds to pull into a parking space, or 90 seconds to back out of one. And WTF is a flying nun? I don’t buy CDs at Starbucks. My generation is represented by a single letter. I don’t misplace my car keys or glasses. When I’m sleeping, no one thinks I might be dead. I’ve never donated to PBS. I don’t own a metal detector. I see no point in bowling without beer. Putting on black pants and a sweater is still “getting dressed up.” I’m well aware of when Taco Bell closes. I don’t call hair salons “Beauty Parlors.” I don’t need Boniva… and my haircut doesn’t make my head look like a q-tip.

So please, people of the world, save the MA’AMing crap for Sally Field, Betty White, and my grandmother.

Thank you,
Jill

Dear A&E Network

Dear A&E network,

What the hell has been going on with you lately? I’m feeling quite dejected as a result of your bad programming. Literally every time I go to tune in, you’re showing reruns of “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” You see, the thing is, NO ONE CARES about him. I highly doubt even his mother watches.

Come on, A&E, you’re letting me down. And for the record, the rest of your lineup sucks, too. THE TWO COREYS? CRISS ANGEL? GENE SIMMONS? They’re all washed up has-beens who haven’t worked since the Reagan administration.

And you have got to be kidding with DESIGNING BLIND. I’m supposed to believe anyone would entrust some BLIND DUDE with thousands of dollars to decorate their house? Not so much. Morph into a kit kat and give me a break.

You’re depressing me, A&E. If it weren’t for Intervention and Airline, no one would tune in. At all.

Make like Andrew Shue and Do Something.

Thanks.

Concerned and bored,

Jill

Letter to my Lawn

Dear grass,
Hi, it’s me, Jill. Listen, I just noticed that you’re really long again. You’re really green and pretty, and you look much better than the neighbors’ lawns, and DON’T GET ME WRONG, I really respect that. You’re doing your thing. I get it.

But the thing is, I feel like ALL I DO is mow you, bitch about having to mow you, or procrastinate mowing you. It’s quite time consuming, especially considering I have a tiny-assed little Toro lawnmower from Sears. Not to mention, I have a really busy schedule these days.

I really don’t want to pay Mexican laborers $40 a week to mow you, so… I was wondering if you could… maybe… just chill out for a little while. Stop taking your fertilizer. Kick back and put your feet up. Listen to a little Jimmy Buffett and have a few pina coladas. Fins!
Basically, just cease and desist with the whole supersonic growing thing. For a little while.

That would be amazing.

Sincerely,

Jill