Letters to Beloved Authors

Dear John Steinbeck,

You listen here, John-boy, and you listen good – fuck you. Fuck you for making me think I might read an elaborate epic about fruits rising up against their herbivorous overlords. There were no goddamn angry grapes in the WHOLE FUCKING BOOK. I’m going to write a spiritual successor titled The Melons of Malcontent, and those watermelons are going to eat the fucking Joad family alive. How’s that for wrath, Ein-Stein?

(P.S. Also fuck you for making me imagine a grown-ass man getting breast-fed. Shit’s fucked up.)

Love, Blake


Dear Nathanial Hawthorne,

Alright, you Downton-Abbey-sounding motherfucker, what was with all those names? Shit, Chillingsworth was a scholar, not a goddamn Bond villain trying to take over the country with a fucking blizzard-making blimp. And could you even TRY to come up with a less on-the-nose boring guy name than Richard Bellingham? You should’ve just gone with Tiberius McHoity-Toites and given up all pretense, ass-face.

(P.S. You win the award for most implied references of going to fuck-town. Congratulations.)

Love, Blake


Dear Mary Shelley,

You fucked up big time, sister. You should’ve just given the fucking monster a different fucking name. Shit, you could’ve called him “Dave,” I wouldn’t give a flying dick. But if I’m talking about your shitty-ass book and some nerd-ass says “it’s technically Frankenstein’s monster” ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME, I’m going to resurrect YOUR corpse and burn it on top of a fucking mountain.

Love, Blake


Dear F. Scott Fitzgerald,

You’re the fucking worst, Scotty. I’d punt your dick-ass into that pool Gatsby died in if you weren’t dead already. Not for your writing, of course. The novel was a wonderful commentary on the idealization of the American Dream. But every fucking other themed party I go to now is lined wall-to-wall with goddamn flapper dresses and gold beads and shit. STOP FUCKING ASKING ME TO CHARLESTON, I DON’T KNOW HOW.

Love, Blake


By (surprisingly) Blake

An Open Letter to the Jonas Brothers

Dear Kevin, Joe, and Nick Jonas,

First off, I’m glad you’re all doing well. Nick and Joe, you have blazed your own unique paths as musicians, creating hit pop songs like “Cake by the Ocean” and “Jealous,” completely beyond the musical era of your younger days. Kevin, you were fired in the second episode of Celebrity Apprentice Season 7. Great work all around. However, I am not writing this open letter to congratulate you on your current endeavors. No, I am here as a member of the scientific community to express long-held concerns about your song, “Year 3000.”

Now, I am not going to chastise you for your toxic portrayal of the scientific community in the aforementioned 2002 hit. Nevertheless, the implication that the capacity to traverse through time – a revolutionary achievement that has been strived for by countless quantum physicians – could be accomplished by your “neighbor called Peter,” alone, with merely a “flux capacitor” is an insult to the toil of the men and women who have poured their lives into the study of time and its mechanics. And the audacity to claim that a time machine, even IF it were possible to construct, would look “like one in a film (you’ve) seen” is an audacious travesty – NO ONE IN THE SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY WOULD PUT SUCH PRECIOUS MACHINERY IN A DELORIAN OR A HOT TUB. YOU KNOW NOTHING OF QUANTUM TECHNOLOGY, CRAIG ROBINSON. I apologize; I said I would not chastise you, the Jonas Brothers, but the complexity of the quantum physics conceptualizing the reality of time is a touchy subject for me.

One of my main concerns lies within the chorus of the “Year 3000.” In it, you claim, following your visit to the next millennia, you discovered that “not much has changed, but they lived underwater.” Excuse you – I know you may only be a charming boy band that stared in their own Disney Channel Original Series, but I must believe that even a simpleton would have to recognize that underwater habitation for the human species would change a great deal in our existence as a species. Our source of nourishment would, even if it resembled our current foodstuffs in appearance and taste, would have to come from a drastically different source, likely an algae-based agricultural practice or stem-cell augmentation in replicating the properties of modern livestock. Transit, whether by submersible vehicle or water-sealed vacuum tubes, would indicate a significant departure from our current forms of social interaction at a very base level – sociology may not be my field of expertise, but I know how widespread the implications when it comes to altering urban transportation (assuming these underwater colonies are, in fact, similar to modern cities – they must be, the population density would require it).

Honestly, that is just the tip of the horrifically inaccurate iceberg. “Boy bands, and another one, and another one, and another one,” may be par for the course in our current society, but “triple breasted women” swimming around “totally naked,” contrary to what you may believe, the Jonas Brothers, is not. While I appreciate even the most naïve amateurs diving into the pool of scientific theorization, you were woefully uninformed and misused your widespread popularity among teenage girls to spread ignorant conjectures about life in the next millennia. Although, it appears that your prophetic hubris was indeed your downfall – your seventh album, rather than having “gone multi-platinum” and “everybody bought” it, was Live: Walmart Soundcheck. Unsurprisingly, it did not “outsell Michael Jackson.”

I, and the rest of the scientific community, would appreciate an official press release denouncing the claims of your predictive pop song. It would go a long way to ensure that the tweens of 2002 do not venture into their adult years working under the misconception that traveling through time would result in a “funny noise,” rather than the ear-shattering explosion that would accompany surpassing the speed of light. We wish you nothing but the best, and we hope that your great-great-great-granddaughter does indeed turn out fine.

Cordially, Dr. Peter Fletcher, PhD


By Blake

What They Won’t Tell You About Carrots

You’ve always been told that carrots improve your eyesight, but is that really true? And what else is there to know about the world’s most orange veggie? With the help of the internet and some unsurprisingly pristine library books, I was able to do some digging around to see what’s really the deal with this root vegetable. As it turns out, carrots are an indigenous crop of… okay, I think we’re safe. There’s no way they got this far. Listen, you, whoever’s reading this now, stay with me here – this is bigger than any of us.

I’m not actually writing about some fucking carrots. Really, what’s there to know? They’re delicious, nutritious, and consumed by bunnies everywhere. I didn’t lock myself away in an underground bunker in Uruguay to ramble on about the vitamin content of the most baby-fied veggie. No, carrots were merely a cover to disguise the true purpose of this article. Even with that misdirection, I know there’s agents on my trail right now, trying to put a stop to the truth. What’s really going on here goes deeper than anything you’ve seen before – I’m talking about potatoes.

That’s right, potatoes. The world’s favorite starch. But ask yourself – why is that? Think about all of your favorite potato dishes: French fries, mashed potatoes, hash browns, latkes, the list goes on. All of these dishes, in order to make them delicious, directly relate to having LESS potato in it and MORE fried batter, butter, or some other non-potato substance. Have you ever eaten a potato raw? No, you haven’t. And if you have, you’re already too far gone. Even baked potatoes, a dish known for basically just being a potato, is notoriously improved by adding excessive, some might even say ungodly, amounts of sour cream and bacon bits. Think about it – an ungodly amount of bacon bits, just to make potatoes palpable. You should not be forced to consume that much sodium to make a “baked POTATO” taste good. I crunched the numbers and it just doesn’t. make. sense.

So this begs the question, why do we, as a culture and society, love potatoes? You can’t go two days without seeing some Buzzfeed quiz or Odyssey article about how potatoes are God’s greatest gift to man. That’s just their handiwork at play. I’m talking about Big Potato, of course. They’ve got their hands in every major media outlet this side of Saturn. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole, and let me tell you, I didn’t find fucking carrots. It took every penny I had to infiltrate the inner workings of the media – corporate secrets, employee bribery, and fake mustaches cost a pretty penny. Every article, every quiz, every potato-based Emoji (there’s three of the goddamn things) – Big Potato made it happen. Just like potato itself, Big Potato has its eyes EVERYWHERE. Do you think it’s just pure coincidence that the side dish of every meal is potato based? Hash browns at breakfast, French fries at lunch, and tater tots at dinner. They couldn’t make their crop the main dish – no, that’d be too obvious. The potato lurks on the sidelines, planning. Plotting. Waiting.

I know what you’re thinking, “So what? Who cares if we eat potatoes a lot? It’s not hurting anybody.” That’s where you’d be FUCKING WRONG. There’s a reason no one runs a marathon after eating a tub of potato chips. They tried to throw us off the scent by making McDonalds the official sponsor of the Olympics, but don’t be fooled. Just like you can’t microwave a McDonald’s fry and have it be edible, you can’t eat a McDonald’s fry and be in peak physical condition. Potatoes keep us weak. Potatoes keep us sedated. And they know that. Big Potato always knows.

I can hear banging on my door now. It’s pure steel, but they’ll break out the blow torch soon enough. I’m not going to make it, but I’ve made my peace with that – this will have to be my last will and testament. Please, whoever you are, wherever you’re from, listen to me. Big Potato will not stop. They won’t cease until they have their hands in everything from desserts to degrees. When you can order a potato cheesecake while working on your Potato Sciences thesis, it will already be too late. I need you to resist now. The world needs you to resist now. They will take me away, and I do not know where, but you, out there, you can do something. Know this, that above all else, you cannot let them REDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTED

Ha Ha Ha, what a fun, satirical article I, Blake, wrote! Of course, this is a piece of fiction, created solely for the reader’s enjoyment. None of it is to be taken seriously. On an unrelated note, I will be taking a sabbatical from writing for a while, so do not worry about my impending absence. Thank you for reading this piece.

By Blake

An Open Letter to My Best Friend Debra

Dear Debra,

Hey Debra, it’s me, Barb! I’ve been seeing these “open letter” things all over the place lately, so I decided to write you one! Isn’t that a hoot? I don’t know why people write these instead of normal letters, but hey, we’ve got to keep up with the kids, don’t we?

Speaking of which, I heard from my son Jeremy that your little Harry has gotten into cooking! Last week, I overheard Jeremy going on and on about how Harry had just gotten a “grinder.” I’m no expert chef myself (You’ve had my chicken parm, Haha!), but I’m sure that’ll make seasoning so much easier! From what I’ve heard from Jeremy’s phone calls (I know, I’m bad!), he’s using a lot of “twink.” I don’t know that one, but from the way Jeremy talks about it, it sounds zesty! If Harry keeps it up, those skills in the kitchen are going to get him a nice Christian wife one day.

My kids are doing quite well themselves. Jamie has really been establishing herself at high school as a smarty! Whenever her friends come over, they’re always calling her a thought. My baby, having so many smart thoughts that her friends call her a thought! She must have gotten her father’s brain; it still takes me twenty minutes to work a corkscrew! (LOL!) Jamie’s really been making the effort too – she’s stayed after school every day for tutoring with Chad, and when I’ve done her laundry, almost every pair of her jeans has had white stains. She’s really working hard at those chalkboards.

Any-who, it’s six o’clock, and you know what that means – Wine time! At my last checkup, my doctor told me that red wine actually prevents heart issues. So I guess I’m going to live forever, ROFL! You know how I like to drink – wine glass in one hand, my secret stash of Dove chocolate in the other – so I’m going to finish up the letter here. I hope to hear from you soon! Give Richard my best, and the best of luck with his vasectomy!

Much Love

Barbra Hall

By Blake

An Open Letter to Letter Openers

Dear Letter Openers,

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Seriously, how dare you have the audacity to place yourself among the foundational desk adornments and pretend like you belong? Pens. Clacky balls. Those documents you should have faxed to Linda last week, but you’ve just been too busy. All of these are instrumental to facilitating productivity at the desk environment, while you waste space, you pointy piece of utter garbage (okay, maybe not Clacky balls, but I’ve got an open letter coming to them real soon, just you wait).

No one needs a letter opener. Sure, the postal service was cool once upon a time, with people sending letters all willy-nilly like paper grows on trees. But we’ve got MySpace now, and AIM. Even back when you could receive a letter without automatically assuming it’s a ransom note for your only child, envelopes are PAPER. They always have been. Unless you’re an infant, you can tear that shit open with your bare hands, and if you are an infant, you don’t have W2s to mail. If you’re an infant who does have W2s to mail, you can hire someone to do that shit for you, you’ve got blocks to grab and random objects to put in your mouth. Honestly, letter openers, you’re like a broken dildo – a waste of space when fingers can do the job just as well.

What are you doing with your life? You’re a knife; you are capable of so much. You could chop caviar and slice sashimi in world-renowned five-star restaurant. You could cut out a diseased lung with the finesse of a god and save a man from the cold grasp of death. You could stab a guy. But no, you open postage. For fuck’s sake, how do you look at yourself in the mirror without feeling pure disgust? Look at your brother, Scissors. He’s made a name for himself on the desk. He cuts with precision and safety, even thriving at every level of elementary school education system. Is Mrs. Bridges ever going to tell kids to not run with you? No. Because you’re a failure. Even your bitch-ass cousin Can Opener is a success. He was made with that fucked-up head, and look at him now. No one eats canned tuna without his say-so. And what do you do? Sit in the second desk drawer of a guy probably named Millard, gathering dust.

In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and everything you stand for, letter openers. You couldn’t have even come up with a more creative name? You don’t see anyone using Letter Writers to put words on Letter Holders. Dumbass letter opener. I hope you get rusty all up in your naughty bits.


Desk Lamps

P.S. Tell your friends, envelopes and stamps, that I’ve had enough with the licking bullshit. You don’t see me licking tape every time I need it to stick. I’m watching you, muthafucka.

By Blake