To Whom It May Concern, Fuck You.

Lately, I have been having the urge to tell people off in letter form, and instead of actually writing these letters, getting lawsuits, and eventually getting thrown into a Turkish Prison (again), I am just going to post them to my blog.

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Dear Yvonne Strahovski,

I would love to count the ways in which I love you, but every time I do, I always lose count, and have to look for a towel to clean myself up. So no, not today. Today I want to talk to you about your place in our society. Yes, I know you are Australian, despite what your last name is, and I have moved passed that. To be quite honest, I have never seen any human being as good looking as you come from Australia or most counties for that matter. The fact that you are born in Australia almost redeems Mother Nature for all of those fucked up critters that live on that crazy, topsy tervy, continent of yours. Seriously though, what the fuck is up with the bugs there?

JESUS WEB-SLINGING CHRIST!!!

Before your fine, Arian ass came along, I had no clue what Australia was. When it was brought up in conversation, I just assumed that it was some kind of new, carbonated beverage, or a type of burrito concoction from Taco Bell. But then, you proved that TV hot is still really hot. I only watched an episode or two from the first season of Chuck, and even though I did not think too highly of the show at the time, I saw you in that corset and pigtails- while you put up a front as a bratwurst peddler as a cover for your super sexy spy persona, and I fell in love. Kinda.

I watch the show regularly, partly because I enjoy the show, but mostly because you are smoking hot, and that show is the only place I can find you. This brings me to the point of this letter. I think you should guest star on the hit Television show “House.” I have the perfect story arc for you too: You are Dr. Remy (13)’s new girlfriend. You will do all of the standard lesbian girlfriend stuff. I have no clue as to what that is, but I assume it has something to do with changing tires and feeding the cats.

I know that the gratuitous sex scenes may be uncomfortable, especially because they will be broadcasted on national television, but I for one think this will be a great opportunity for you. For one, you will be able to add a new character to resume (or whatever the fuck actors have) Not only that, this could show fans, critics, and talent agents your acting range. Also, think about what this could mean in terms of awards. If you play Remy’s lover well, you or the entire show could get nominated for or even win an Emmy. It hits on that whole gay equality crap we’ve been hearing so much about.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I want you to make out with Olivia Wilde.

Love

Minigan Blackwood

P.S. Call me (XXX)XXX-XXXX

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Dear Michael Bay,

Please, for the love of God, stop making movies.

Sincerely,

Humanity

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Dear Brittany Murphy (dated December 19, 2009),

You’re a dumb bitch and I hope you die.

Sincerely,

Minigan Blackwood

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Dear Facebook,

I am not sure if you know this about me, but I do not like stalking my friends. Or, at least I didn’t, until you forced me to. Don’t get me wrong, I know that I can log off of you, but you know my weakness. You know that deep down, I like knowing that I make people laugh and that I like getting attention for doing so. So you make sure that I am notified whenever someone likes my status or if a friend comments on one of my pictures. You know that I feel validated when they do, and when they don’t I get obsessive, and I start trying to figure out why they are not paying attention to me. Here’s what happens:

“What? Ashley Caggiano did not like any of my motivational posters? The BITCH!!! Did she even look at them? Let’s have a look at her profile… Wait a goddamn minute, She has 166 friends that her attention could be focused on instead of it being focused on me! What the fuck is this about?!?! Facebook, tell me these people’s names and what town they live in. While you’re at it, make my status say, “Doug has got some anger issues, a knife, a list of names, and a reason. Try and stop him, Trashley.”

Why am I shirtless?

See what happens when you give me access to the personal details of peoples’ lives? People die. And it’s not even like I want to know that personal information. You are a part of the internet. The last thing people should do is be incredibly open about their lives on you. For one, No one gives a shit. They may act like they do, but they don’t. And secondly, who knows what person is facebook stalking you. That homeless guy down the street could be your facebook stalker (He could have a laptop, you don’t know).

I guess what this all boils down to is: I respect my friends enough that I don’t want to know every last little detail about their day. They deserve some time that I am not breathing down their neck,  and they cannot have that when I am commenting on and liking all of their shit.

Thank you,

A not-stalker (for realsies)

Minigan Blackwood

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Dear Ernest Hemingway,

I know that you are dead and all, in fact that is why I am writing. It’s not that I think you faked your death; I know that you died. I am writing to you because of the manner that you died.

See, everyone sees you as a badass because you wrote stories about war. Stories that you actually lived (Kind of). You were in WWI, and went to Spain as a reporter for the Spanish Civil War. Towards the end of your life, you spent most of your days in Cuba, getting drunk and fishing for sharks or some shit.

But how you died… it was so unmanly. So unmanly, in fact, that I have no choice but to revoke your badass club membership.  I am sure that this news upsets you, especially because John Wayne is still in, and everyone knows that he was gay. But he didn’t kill himself. He died probably due to an overload of awesome (or possibly dick. It’s one of those two.) and his head exploded. He is still missed. You however, moved to Idaho, and shot yourself with a shotgun.

I don’t know what is more disturbing: that you killed yourself with a shotgun, or that you willingly moved to Idaho. I understand that you were mentally ill, but still does not explain the move. Not even crazy people want to move to Idaho. Maybe you did not know how much of a shit hole Idaho is, and once you moved there, you could not live with the fact that such a terrible place existed, do you offed yourself.

I’m sorry- let me get back to my point. You killed yourself. That is the second most unmanly way to die. No matter how you kill yourself (you don’t want to know the least manly way to die, but I will say that it involves an electric motor, some anal beads, a pair of ice skates, and a unicorn.), if you kill yourself,  you lose over half of your badass points that you have earned throughout your life. And there’s nothing you can do to bring them back-because you’re dead. What the fuck are you going to do?

And to be honest, “For Whom The Bell Tolls” is almost impossible to read if you are not being forced to read it.

Sincerely

Minigan Blackwood

Leader of the Awesomesquad, and Chairman to the Council of Badassery

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Dear Thursdays,

Why must you suck so hard and with such gusto?

From Russia with love

Minigan Blackwood

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Dear Minigan Blackwood,

I am sorry to tell you that I only suck with gusto for you, and that is only because you make me suck with gusto. I am not a particularly difficult day of the week to get along with, but you force the worst out of me. I think you do it because you hate yourself. I think you need some counseling; I am worried about you. Or, maybe I am not a difficult day at all, and you are just a bitch. I’m just saying…

With a hatred that scares the piss out of the Devil,

Thursdays

P.S. will you do me a favor and tell Monday to fuck off. He has become way to egomaniacal lately. Thank you.

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Dear Maxim Magazine,

Before I go into my complaint, I would first like to thank you for destroying the fond memories of my childhood is the sexiest way possible. Let me explain. I recently got your latest issue (February 2010) and I was thrilled/ a little disturbed to see Amanda Bines stripping on the cover. This is not the first time that you did something like this. You also have had the likes of:

Hiliary Duff,

Avril Lavigne,

Sarah Michelle Gellar,

And Marge Simpson

I am not sure why you feel the need to force my innocent crushes into a full state of gorilla lust, but thank you all the same.

But that is not why I am writing this. Actually, I am writing this for almost the exact opposite reason. Basically I am tired of seeing half naked dudes in your magazine. I understand that those are the ads and the message that they want to convey is “You will get laid by using our product!” and I cannot blame them. However, I will say this: Do you know what appeals to men more than half naked men? Half naked women. I know, I was shocked when I found out too, but it’s true. It is a scientific fact that every living man, no exception, loves titties. [citation needed] Seeing as though you are a magazine that focuses on how hot female celebrities are, you already know this. What I do not understand  is why do you sell your ad space to companies whose adds do not have some hot topless chick being objectified in them. Do they pay more? Is it because you want your readers to look at the specimans that you supply, or is it some kind of social experiment that you are trying to conduct?

In any case, stop. When I look at your magazine, I look at a few  things, the jokes, the workout tips, the tips for meeting women, and the pictures of all of the women posing in lingere. Not, I say, NOT the Abercrombie boys playing a homoerotic game of rugby. If I wanted to look at a magazine just to see a bunch of shirtless dudes, I would buy a gay porn magazine, like…umm… I don’t know, Penis Quarterly?

All I am really asking for is a better boobs to boys ratio.

Fist pound,

Minigan Blackwood

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Ok, Blogs over. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Seriously, this is not a physical place. There is no place for you to stay. How would we accommodate you? Also, we’ve got a monster truck rally that needs to start setting up in 20 minutes. So, yea… Get the fuck out.

Peace

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