Drive(a)way

Dear Friends,

If you know me, you know that I have a lot of weird, quirky pet peeves. I can’t eat popcorn. I like to set the volume on radios to increments of five, since prime numbers mortify me. And, of course, I don’t like people who turn around in my driveway.

I live one block east of a moderately busy intersection. It seems that if you want to go through this intersection, you have to be a complete idiot, since it seems like the vast majority of cars that pass through have to turn onto my street, maneuver their automobiles between the mess of cars that’s already in my driveway (At last count, we have five cars. This is unacceptable.), and back out. I normally wouldn’t have a problem with this, but lately people are getting more and more courageous.

People will pull into my driveway even when I’m in the driveway. If I’m taking the dog out or getting the mail, they completely disregard me and pull their two ton pickups right up onto my property. It’s especially bad when I get in my car to back out of the driveway and go about my mundane travels, and I can’t because some thoughtless old cow has proceeded to impede my ability to travel in favor of her own ignorance when it comes to basic navigation. It really ticks me off.

Therefore, I have lately been a master of the three point turn, such that folks would not see me in the same light that I see the dolts who rumble into my driveway multiple times every hour. And, my friends, I encourage you to do the same.

Yours,
Casey

Love is $.45/pound

Dear Produce Girl from Publix:

I’ve watched you stock tomatoes and bananas ever since I was in the 8th grade. You must have been in high school then. You had short reddish hair and wore thick-rimmed glasses. You were really, really good looking.

But a month ago, which was the last time I saw you, you had gotten contacts and bleached your hair. Im not saying that you didn’t look good, but I am saying that the Produce Girl of yesteryear had something that today’s Produce Girl doesn’t. And maybe I expressed this opinion a little too openly the last time I was buying a bag of potatoes, because I haven’t seen you since.

Produce Girl, I’m sorry if I offended you. Please, come back to your little corner of my neighborhood supermarket so I can fondle you with my eyes.

Love,
Casey

Tricky, tricky

Dear United Cab Company:

I realize that you’re a taxi service and therefore a common vehicular design is necessary for name recognition, but do you really have to paint all of your cars black and white and slap your logo on the side?

Every time I see one of your cabs, I panic and downshift because I think you’re The Fuzz. Then, after you pass, I curse your name and swear never to use your service.

Because really, who wants to get charged $.40 for every additional mile while carting around in the back of a pseudo patrol car?

Love,
Casey

Revenge of the Sith

Dear George Lucas,

It is 3:06 AM, and I just got back from my local theater. Now that I’ve seen every Star Wars movie in the saga, I have a few suggestions that could make it even better than it is.

# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?
# You should remake Episode 1 so that Jar Jar Binks does not talk.
# Perhaps an intellectual Wookie? You know, one who wears glasses and gives the British equivalent of a hearty grunt. All of the current Wookies just sound retarded.
# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?

Love,
Casey

Call it torture

Dear colleges that are sending me application letters,

Everything you send to me looks alike. There’s a picture of a token group of interracial males and females sitting outside with books smiling, a list of the exact same undergraduate options, and a business reply card that I will probably never fill out.

If you want to make things really easy for me, you could just pool your publication funds together and send one collective parcel with the name of your college, its difficulty on a scale of one to ten, and an approximation of the number of girls in your town who might be interested in pursuing a long term relationship with me.

Yeah, that would be great.

Love,
Casey

Clap on…

Dear Santa,

You’ve given me some awesome presents in the past. Though I really am not into the whole idea of gift giving at Christmastide, after the fact I am pretty content. This is especially true this year, because this was the year that you gave me the best present ever.

Santa, my good friend, my new Clapper is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given to me. I think it suffices to say that I have been more occupied with it than any other gift you’ve ever given me – even my little red and yellow Flintstones-style car back when I was knee high to a grasshopper. All day today, I have been questioning the amount of light in my room and altering the state of my lamp with two swift and consecutive smacks of my hands.

Originally, I had my doubts. But now you’ve proven yourself to me, Santa, and I believe in you.

Yours,
Casey Peterson

Riding the storm out

Dear Hurricane Frances,

While I know that you’re wreaking havoc and destroying much that lies in your path, I would like to extend a warm welcome to Florida. I know that you’re getting a bad wrap about all the damage you cause; I understand that it’s your nature to spin and release fury upon all who dare to build their lives upon the feeble sands in the tropics, and I respect that you have the inalienable right to remain a hurricane, even in the midst of such animosity against you influenced by the biased media.

This letter is probably different than others you’ve received as of late, in that its intent is neither to disgrace your very nature nor to beg your mercy, but to thank you for all you do for us. Only you would have the genius to strike at such an opportune time for Pinellas County schoolchildren. Your welcome party coupled with Labor Day awards us with a four day weekend. You, my friend, are an asset to societal schedules, and for this, I thank you. Hurricane Frances, you are my friend.

Love,
Casey

P.S. While I respect your power, I don’t particularly want to be negatively affected by it. May I suggest Cuba? Nobody likes Cuba.