I just want a word to explain to you why I reacted the way I did when you playfully “discovered” an invisible wall in front of me on the street the other day. I admit that kicking you in the testicles and running away screaming like a girl was an indecorous reaction, but it’s important to me to explain myself before you pass judgment on me.So I thought I would enumerate the reasons your profession gives me the willies so that we could reach an understanding the next time I happen to pass through Union Square while a non-existent wind is causing you trouble walking.

1. Your mind is anarchy. Mime requires years of rigorous physical training as well as an astute sense of spacial perception and imagination. You have chosen to put yourself through such rigors – most likely at some prestigious French art school where teachers wear faux-turtlenecks and, I don’t know, berets or something all the time – just to stand on a street corner and have dimes thrown at you. Is it so far-fetched to assume that an individual that would make this deeply disturbing choice might also choose to remove my legs with a chainsaw? I think not.
2. Look what you’re wearing. The very Frenchness of your outfit is bad enough, but – and this is real cause for concern – you’re fucking silver. Yes, silver. The color silver. You’ve painted yourself up like a giant statue that answers invisible phones. Am I really the only one who has nightmares about this?
3. You’re obviously insane. In case my earlier point about logic and self-punishment didn’t hit home, consider this: you’re playing tug-of-war with a person who isn’t really there.
4. You’re about 20 years behind the rest of us. The “robot” might have been a dance craze in 1983, but it’s 2007 and you’re still doing it. And what’s worse, you’ve added a little zip whistle thing to blow at kids who, flying in the face of all self-preservation instinct, try to touch you. And when you blew it at me last week, you got spit all over me. Great, now I’ve got hepatitis. Thanks, mime.
5. You’ve got multiple personality disorder. Yeah, I said it. Last week you were a gold cowboy, and this week you’re a silver robot. Not cool, dude. Pick a horrifying manifestation and allow me a few weeks to get used to it, would you?
6. I did acid in college. Seriously, that thing you did with the masks last week? How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t a flashback? One minute I’m walking to work and the world is normal, and the next minute something that looks like that guy from Powder bred with Richard Chamberlain is skittering up to me on all fours. I made a very expensive appointment with a neurologist the next day, only to find out you were real. I can’t tell which is more frightening – the idea that hallucinogens are hiding in my spinal column waiting to be unleashed during a board meeting, or the fact that you actually exist.

I just wanted you to understand why it is that I hate you. I don’t know you personally – you may be a very nice, if somewhat odd, fellow – and I didn’t want you to think it was personal. Granted, I may have called you a “child-molesting creep show” and a “freaktard,” but I meant this with all due respect, which is to say little or none at all.

Love,

Pip

There are a few matters that I would like to discuss with you, without the use of the spray bottle. Apparently, tapwater has corrosive properties when applied to cats, which may make it an effective tool for expressing anger, but not productive for a civil conversation.

The following are a few points you might keep in mind in order to foster a more nurturing relationship between us:

1. The bowls in the corner next to the scratching post are yours, and contain your food and water. The rest of the dishes in the house are mine, and contain my food. I do not sneak up when you are otherwise occupied and nibble out of your dishes; I would appreciate the same treatment in return. Granted, I do not particularly like processed liver and salmon bits, but the veterinarian has assured me that this is the preferred diet for your breed, and that Kraft macaroni, while appetizing, will do you little good in the nutrition area.*

Placing a paw upon the edge of my dish does not make the food contained therein yours. Please do not bat at me when I try to recover my own dish. If you pick a fight, it will end badly for you, as I am much bigger and have opposable thumbs.  Still, I’d prefer to keep my eyes, so let’s try to avoid confrontation.

While we’re on the topic of food, I’d like to point out that being able to see the bottom of the bowl does not necessarily mean the bowl is empty. There is no need to yell at me the instant a half-dollar-sized spot is cleared away; there is still more than enough for you to eat.

2. The door to my office is solid wood, 1.5″ thick. If, by some miracle, I manage to beat you through the doorway and shut you out, you will not be able to claw your way through the door before I am finished working; this is simple physics. You will, however, deprive me of my security deposit, which means you will be eating factory-outlet Cat Chow should I ever need to relocate.

Incidentally, my homicidal mood as I exit the office is a neurosis directly attributed to the noise of your claws on my door. If you do not wish to be drop-kicked down the stairs, I would suggest you desist.

3. I’ve been bathing myself for years; your attendance is not necessary. Yes, the water splashes on you when you smack it. Yes, it will splash you again when you timidly try it ten minutes later.

4. I’m sorry about the incident with the laser pointer. I did not know that you would charge full-tilt at the little red dot on the wall; nor did I know that you would be unable to halt your progress on the linoleum.

5. I cannot give milk, so stop treading for it. I realize that some kneading is a natural sign of affection in cats, but you’ve crossed into the realm of obsession with this behavior. Also, try to learn a bit about human physiology; when you knead certain places, it makes me very uncomfortable.

6. I’ve seen you sleep perfectly well, curled up in a ball. I wonder, then, why it is necessary for you to stretch out to your fullest extent across my bed.

7. The couch was $400. You were $50. Do the math.

8. I know you can do the math, because I’ve seen you count. You allow me to walk exactly 5 steps in any direction before you attempt to dart between my legs. This may be a really neat game for you, but the kitchen floor is hard, and I don’t always land on my feet.

9. The litterbox is under the bathroom sink; the big mound on the floor is my jacket. Please do not confuse the two.

Thank you for taking time away from eviscerating each other to address these issues. I trust that you will continue to let me know the instant you need something.

Love,
Jeremy

*Me neither.

“Trix are for kids?” Seriously.  It’s a $3 box of crappy, unreasonably-colored sugar balls with little to no nutritional value.  A cartoon rabbit is about the only thing it is fit to be fed to.

Besides, he’s an anthropomorphic talking rabbit.  One with an obsessive fixation on a breakfast cereal, who’s shown time and time again the ridiculous lengths he’s willing to go to to score his fix.  He’s not silly; he’s scary.  And it’s only a matter of time before this gets out of hand.

So quit being a dick and give him a bowl.  Before somebody gets hurt.

Love, Pip

Love, Pip

P.S. I will hire a hacker to break into the iTunes account database and find the personal address of the next fucker who posts a review saying “should i wach this show? click YES if u think i should ”.

Then I will find you, and I will do things to you. Dark things.

Wh- but why?  Why would you… why?  Why.  Why.  WHY.

You’re a semi-moderate… why?  Why.  Why?  I don’t underst… why?  What were you going for, the neo-conservative vote?  Who else were they going to vote for, Obama?  They’re neo-cons – as a rule, they don’t like black people, much less liberal, free-thinking ones.  So why?

Why.

WHY?!?

I’m trying to wrap my head around the… WHY?  WHY? She’s like Hermann Göring with breasts.  And you could have grabbed on-the-fence moderates if you hadn’t backed… Why?  Why.

I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I wasn’t going to vote for you anyway.  But I want to understand.  I WANT to understand, John.  Tell me why.  Just send me an email and let me know before my head explodes.  Simple question: why?

What, because she’s a woman and you don’t want to run on the “old white man” platform against the potential first black president of the United States?  Is that why?  Is THAT WHY?  I MUST KNOW WHY!  Please don’t tell me it’s because she’s a feminist – the only resemblance between her and a feminist is a vagina, and I don’t even have proof she has one of those.

And FEMINIST?  Seriously?  You can’t even say that with a straight face, and your face has been stuck like that since 1972.  She’s anti-choice, balks at the rights of rape victims, and tilts about as far to the Christian right as she can without tipping over.  She makes Arthur Schopenhauer look like Ruth Ginsberg.

So… WHY?

Because she’s the governor of the largest state?  Get real; the population of Alaska is like 27, and 15 of those don’t count because they’re Innuit and the government ignores them anyway.  If you put Alaska where Texas is, it’d melt down to the size of Rhode Island.  So why?  WHY?

This is making me NUTS.

Maybe that’s why!  Maybe you brought her on to make your “abstinence only” education platform look sane by comparison.  Was that it?  Was it?  Please tell me what it was, John.  I mean the woman named her kids Todd, Piper, Willow, Bristol, and Trig, so if you’re not running on the “I’m not the craziest one in the room” principle, I don’t know what you’re up to.

Moderate Republicans were going to vote for you, because you’re a bit moderate compared to some of your cohorts, which means you don’t openly wear the swaztika on your lapel.  Neo-conservatives were going to vote for you, because who the hell else would they vote for?  Buchanan?

But some very conservative Democrats might have voted for you because you’ve got more experience than Obama, but now you’ve slapped them across the face with an Alaskan salmon by nominating Rush Limbaugh in a dress as your running mate.   So what are you playing at?

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

There must be a reason.

Is it because she’s young and pretty and you look like you’re going to go into cardiac arrest if the Secretary of Labor cuts a loud fart?  Is that it?  Surely there was another pretty Republican woman you could have chosen – hell, even Ann Coulter would have been a better choice than Sarah Freakin’ Palin.  A rhesus monkey would have pulled more votes for you, if for no other reason than sheer novelty.

And how did you let this pregnant daughter thing slip past you?  HOW?  I mean what kind of vetting process misses that SARAH PALIN’s teenage daughter is pregnant out of wedlock?  What did you do to vet her – ask the guy at the Starbucks where she buys her coffee?  Google her?  Oh, wait, guess you did.

I mean, Jesus, John.  Why?  Why did you… why?  WHY?

Is that burning toast I smell?  Aaaagghhhhrrrr….

Love, Pip

I totally love your username. I wanted, however, just to let you in on a little-known word that might help you out in the long run:

humble /ˈhÊŒmbÉ™l, ˈʌm-/ Pronunciation Key – Show Spelled Pronunciation[huhm-buhl]: adjective, not proud or arrogant; modest: to be humble although successful.

Whereas once I may have agreed with you on the specific topic of your hotness, I am now disinclined to do so. It is not that your looks have changed (although the increasingly abstract angles on your profile pics through the years might suggest they have); it is simply a matter of utilitarian practicality.

See, you think you’re hot enough for both of us. So that is redundant support for your attractiveness, and it would be more efficient for me to use that support for somebody else – somebody who, perhaps, doesn’t have pictures of themselves in their own wallet.

By providing my mental hotness votes to somebody who lacks your impressive self-esteem, I may in fact help them to reach the megalomania levels you yourself enjoy.

So please take my eye-rolling at your username with no offense; it is simply me re-assigning my mental hotness priorities to adapt to increased levels of ego in the room. Think of it as a progress bar; once my eyes have reached the full extent of the roll, the process is complete.

If you wish in the future for any reason to regain my respect support of your attractiveness, I may suggest some username alternatives for your convenience:

• delusional185
• modestyrocks217
• prouderofmysatscoresthanmybrasize36C
• prioritiesinorder654
• nottryingtosellmyselflikeausedcar756

Love,

snarky567

Now.

Hi! I’m the guy who sits behind you in class. You know that odd crunching noise you hear every time you speak? Yeah, that’s me griding my teeth.I know you look down on me because I rarely speak in class. I know you think I have nothing to add to what you say. And you’re right, I don’t.

Because what you say is stupid.

You know that professor you told us you worked with at Moderately-Prestigious University? The one whose name you’ve now said in class 16 times? Nobody’s ever heard of him. Yeah, he wrote some papers. Guess what? That’s what professors do. I’ve written some papers too. One of my favorites is a particularly poignant one entitled “What I Want for Cristmas is Peece.” I wrote in the 1st grade. My mom showed it to her co-workers, which probably means that more people have read my paper than your professor’s.

What’s that? You did a workshop with <insert meaningless name here>, where you learned to use your bodies as tools to fight oppression? That’s great. I’m a little fuzzy on how it relates to our discussion of iambic pentameter, but still… great for you. How about you continue to tell us about the workshop while I take a little brain nap and think about that chick from Lost sunbathing?

I’m not staring at my pencil, by the way, because I’m retarded. I’m staring at it because I’m wondering if the graphite in the tip is strong enough to make it through my eye and into my temporal lobe. I’m going to try it in a few minutes. Possibly sooner if you encourage us to “unpack this issue” one more time.

On a side note, the word you’re looking for is “gravitate.” People gravitate towards certain trends and pretty rarely levitate towards them. Levitation would be more interesting, sure. And maybe, if that’s really what you were actually talking about, I could focus for more than 1.73 seconds on what you’re saying, and maybe ask for a little of what you’re smoking after class. But I’m reasonably sure that’s not the word you want. Keep using it, though – I’m enjoying the laugh.

I honestly do know that it’s rude of me to roll my eyes every time your mouth opens. Forgive me; its an autonomic response to complete bullshit. Usually, I try to doodle stick figures in various inappropriate poses so that my eyes are averted when this unfortunate reflex occurs, but sometimes I take a break from my erotic/anorexic masterpiece to look up, and that’s always the moment at which you choose to speak.

Or maybe you’re just always talking.

Speaking of which, are you still talking? Feels like you’ve been pontificating since roughly, oh, 1994. I tune in every once in a while to pluck some tidbit with which to mock you mercilessly later, but even this pasttime is losing its joy. Plus, since I paid $1000/credit, I’m sort of hoping that the professor will get a chance to speak this class period. Or semester, come to that.

Love,Pip

Congratulations on winning the “Angelina Jolie Third-World Child Adoption” sweepstakes. You will now be treated to the life of a normal American child…

Except that your mother will never be home, you’ll have more money than God, and your every footfall will be recorded by the media for the viewing entertainment of about 3 billion people.  But other than that, completely normal.

Given your incredible good-fortune, it’s only natural that you should want to pass this good luck along to the less fortunate, right?

So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to mail you a nifty little toy with all kinds of buttons and pretty lights on it. No, don’t eat it! It’s called a video camera, and what I need you to do is press the button with the little red circle on it, and wander into your new mommy’s bedroom when you start to hear the funny breathing noises coming through the walls.

Mr. Pip, your new friend, wants a new house, and all you need to do is mail the little plastic rectangle in the camera to me when you’re done so I can sell it for a gazillion dollars.

Yes! A gazillion! And in return, you can tell everybody that you know the famous Mr. Pip of Cool Blog Name fame. Trust me, kid, knowing a celebrity like me will open doors for you that ordinarily would be closed to you, what with your normal American life.

I knew you’d understand.

Love,
Pip