I recently dined in your fine establishment. Your feta yogurt sauce is my new favorite thing. I have colder feelings towards the pan of
alien limbs that I assume is tongue directly in my eye line. While I respect your right to cook things with horrifying unconventional supplies, I suspect there are better ways to spend your time.
- Jar your feta yogurt sauce and become a feta-yogurt-sauce operation and send me two jars a month for thinking of this awesome idea.
- Put pans of tongue somewhere else.
Tongues are for tasting,
Dear inventor of cheese curds,
Hope this email finds you making more cheese curds. End of letter.
With warm re-curds,
Dear UoAiMA (Union of Appliances in my Apartment),
It seems that all of you have gone on strike. Without picket signs and rhyming chants, it’s hard for me to figure out just what you all are demanding. But when my AC starts leaking; my dishwasher stops dish-washing; my dryer starts making death groans; and eight light bulbs walk off the job, I can only assume there are demands that must be met.
Please stop breaking,
Do you all hear me singing Newsies at 11:30 p.m.? I hope you do. So you might try and seize the day, and then remember it’s night time.
Carrying the Banner,
Dear Grocery Store,
Do you all keep track of the times I walk over from my apartment and buy a diet coke in an aluminum bottle and a bag of flaming hot Cheetos? Because these are my fears. Sometimes I throw a banana in there just so you all might judge me less. Unrelated note: you all should consider a punch card for frequent buyers of unhealthy soda and flaming hot snack food.