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Dear Michelle Branch,

I’m grooving on ‘All You Wanted‘ but ever since Mo mentioned that when you say ‘So busy OOOOUTTT there’, you sound like the boys from Hansen, I expect you to break into ‘mmm-bop’ at any second. On the bright side, I hear that they’ve hit puberty now, so you’ve probably got a lock on the prepubescent boy sound for a while, anyway.

Also, how did you score the gig on Buffy? Because you just don’t seem quite that cool. Even so, I just found out that I’m going to your concert in six weeks. So try to lose the Zachness, ok?


Dear Cubicle Desk,

What the hell is the greasy stuff that you keep getting on my pants? It’s been like two years and you’re still messing with my clothes, but I can’t figure it out. And Shout Wipes just do not take care of that crap. Where is it coming from? Why are you making me feel so inept and stupid?

Also, do you think you could be MORE exposed to the world, the way you’re positioned so my ass faces back into the department? So that when people walk into the department, they get a lovely view of my ass? It’s a feng shui nightmare. I feel like a ham in a butcher’s window. A curvy round sexy kind of ham, but a ham nonetheless.

You’re too low, too. It’s not ergonomically acceptable.

I hate you.

Dear Ricky Fitts, my beloved TiVo,

I love you. You’re so tasty that I want to lick you.

You are my favorite person in the entire world. The way you care for me. The way you show me Martha Stewart to watch while I’m doing my ab crunches. The way you giggle with glee when I fast forward through her stupid segments, like when she shows us the proper way to make a bed or detail the different kind of caviars. The way you showed me not one but two episodes of Two Fat Ladies that I had never seen and it’s like the Holy Grail of Unhealthy Cooking Shows. The way you allow me to stash them away to savor later and not delete them in favor of Steven’s Cowboy Bebop stuff. You show me everything that is beautiful and good.

You are perfect. Never change.

Kisses on your hard drive,