An Open Letter To White Guys Who Think They're Gangsters

Dear Whiggers,

You're fucking white.

Sincerely,
Cracker-ass-Cracker

An Open Letter To My Balls

Dear Scrotum and your Inhabitants,

You rock. I love that no matter where I am, you are always there, just hanging out. Whenever I am in need of a friend, you are there. You guys are awesome, and I want the whole world to know.

I love you, balls. I even love the crazy big vein you have as well as the big krinkle you have on the left nut.

Love,
Ian

An Open Letter to my Blog

Dear So Picante It's Enfuego,

I love you. I love having you around, and while I have been neglecting you, I want you to know we are friends and always will be. That being said, I am tired of posting in open letters. I know it may be cute and a little cheeky, but I can not allow myself to continue.

I am not saying that no more posts will be open letters, just that I have become bored with the format. It seemed so fresh and new, the way we interacted, but now. . . it has become old, tired, lame.

I will still post on you, baby, but I need some change. Think of this as a new step in our relationship. At first we started out just making out, and then we moved on to missionary. And, for a while, that was nice. But now I want to stick it in your proverbial butt. I love you baby, now bend over.

Yours Truly,
Ian

An Open Letter To My Alarm Clock

Dear Alarm Clock,

Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I will kill you.

Love,
Your pal and confidante
Ian

An Open Letter To My Subconscious Mind

Dear Subconscious,

We have had many fun times, you and I. All the wonderful dreams you have given me have been a blessing. Remember the time we went to the mall? You ate too much ice cream and I got a headache from the Orange Julius. That was great. Or how about the time we went flying? What a wonderful evening that was.

Many times you come out while I am near sleep, and give those around me jems of joy, such as "feeding the bears" and "don't take it all." When you come out like this it is appreciated and wonderful.

You cannot, however, be mean to the ones I love. I will not stand for your negative comments to my girlfriend, nor your need to vent frustrations and be a general nuisance.

I understand it can get lonely in the recesses of my mind, but that does not give you the excuse to be unpleasent. If needs be I will put you in your box and never let you out. The gauntlets are off, my dear hidden friend; I will no longer tolerate your intrusions into my life if they continue to bring daytime discontent with Drew.

And finally, please no more nightmares that cause me to clog dance. We all hate it.

Sincerely, your pal and owner
Ian Fucking Prebo

An Open Letter To The Guy Who Always Sits Next To Me On The 37

Dear Man With a Creepy Mustache,

I have no problem sitting next to people on the bus who I don't know. When I first started dating my girlfriend, Drew, I also started catching the number 37 Metro, and for the most part it has been a pleasent ride. There is the lady who keeps her dog in a purse, often it is wearing an adorable sweater. There is the cute punk rock girl, with her wry smile and constant look of boredome. And then, there is you.

Every time Drew gets off the 37 at 2nd and Union you move from where ever you sit on the bus, which lately has been a seat or two behind me, to right next to me. Not only do you sit next to me, but you scoot in and lean on me. Sometimes I push back with my legs, the international sign for "you're sitting too close to me on the bus."

When the bus comes to your stop on 1st avenue you look for me. How can I tell you might ask? I believe it is the smile that forms under your serial killer mustache when we make eye contact.

You lurk there on the bus, waiting for Drew to leave, and then you quickly slide in. This must stop immediatly.

I have tried many tactics to stop these offences: eating food that makes me gassy, but you just sit through the stench. Staring at you has not worked either. You look perfectly forward and ignore me even when I sing along to my Diskman. But you still lean. And, finally, when I give up and look away you turn and stare at me.

When I try to get off the bus at 4th and Union you purposely position yourself to block my way out of the seat. No amount of politeness or "excuse mes" have done anything to sway you from your perverse attempts.

I hate you and your damn creepy mustache. I hate the way you lean on me and the way you nod to me as I leave the bus cussing you. I hate your serial killer eyes and your child molester smile. And, I hate the fact that Drew calls you my "Bus Boyfriend."

If these attacks on my person do not cease I will be forced to make a pre-emptive strike with my weapons of mass destruction.

Sincerely,
Seattle Metro Patron Extrodonaire, Ian.