Alyssa:
It must be really hard to be so perfect. I'm guessing you are in your early thirties, so this means you've successfully navigated every social pitfall and popularity-sapping situation for the past three decades. Congrats, because you are seemingly the only human being to ever pull off this feat. Every person you've been introduced to, been friends with, dated or let into your life has fully embraced every single facet of you without question. Nice job!
But meanwhile, the rest of us have these quirky imperfections (some call them personalities) that sometimes don't jive with other people. For example, I like to whittle life-sized wood carvings of historical leaders from 13th century China. My wife hates historical leaders from 13th century China.
On the other hand, my wife has an affinity for collecting used mustache wax from famous barbershop quartets of the 1920's. Had she told me this on our first date, I would have admittedly thought, "That's kind of weird, but I'll bet she has some other cool hobbies that we could do together." And that's exactly how it turned out - when I'm not whittling and she's not canvassing the barbershop quartet memorabilia forums, we like to take long walks down the beach in over-sized penguin costumes. Somehow we figured out a way to make it work in this crazy world.
My point is that you should start preparing for a life of loneliness. The way you justified the digital evisceration of that poor gaming dude is indicative of a bigger and self-destructive pattern in your personality. You will never find love, I suspect, for all the reasons that are bubbling up on the internet in the wake of your experiment-gone-wrong.
The guy just wanted to get to know you better and maybe make a new friend. And I think the most-likely result of all this scuttlebutt is that Jon Finkel will emerge on the other side a better and stronger person, and probably quite a bit wealthier than he was last week. Meanwhile you will remain an unhappy and lonely woman, sniping at others across the internet while ever-waiting for a prince that will never arrive because he is too busy playing Magic or WoW.
Sincerely,
Jose Brando
Open Letters
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Open Letter to the kid I nicknamed 'Fig' in Junior High
Dear Fig:
Growing up I never had enough social currency to gain stable traction with the popular kids in my class, but I did possess a sharp and advanced sense of humor that earned me a standing-room-only pass and an occasional guest-starring role in the compelling drama that was their lives.
Growing up I never had enough social currency to gain stable traction with the popular kids in my class, but I did possess a sharp and advanced sense of humor that earned me a standing-room-only pass and an occasional guest-starring role in the compelling drama that was their lives.
With that said, I have no idea why I started calling you Fig, but the popular kids thought it was funny and you became the only kid in our class with a certified, school-wide nickname. Even the teachers were calling you Fig by the end of October. Now, over twenty years later, I can’t even recall your real name. It may have been Jeremy. Maybe Sean. Who knows, but it certainly had zero correlation with the fruit tree that’s native to Southwest Asia and the Mediterranean region.
In fact, I never even ate a real fig until much later in life so it’s not like I was enamored with the damn things. I was almost thirty by the time a dried fig first made its way into my culinary universe, and even then I still couldn’t figure out why I called you that so many years before. Perhaps you loved Fig Newtons and ate them every day for the first few weeks of school. Perhaps I meant to call you a ‘fag’ and my Midwestern twang of an accent jumbled the pronunciation (although this is highly unlikely because Fag was not part of my normal vocabulary; I was a “homo” kind of dude).
Did you know that the edible fig is one of the first plants that was cultivated by humans, dating back to 9000 B.C.?
Now that I think of it Fig, we weren’t even really friends, which makes my nickname bestowment upon you even more perplexing. You came from the “other” elementary school that fed into our Junior High so we had no prior history or social context. You also had bright orange hair and I tend to be spooked by Gingers due to a negative babysitting incident involving a baseball bat and some Pop Tarts.
Truth be told, I always wanted a cool nickname. Not some homo nickname like “Fig” but something cool like “Turbo”. I even went so far as to start labeling my homework as “Turbo Brando” in seventh grade but that didn’t fly with the teachers. Sometimes I wonder if you still answer to Fig, Fig. Does your wife call you Fig? Does she refer to you as Fig during the throes of passion (ie. Fuck me, Fig! Do it harder Fig!)?
A 40-gram portion of dried figs produces a significant increase in plasma antioxidant capacity, by the way.
We drifted apart in high school and you presumably became whatever it is red-haired people do as adults. You’re not on Facebook, at least under the name Fig so I can’t e-stalk you, but hopefully you’re just as Figgy as ever, enjoying a wonderful Figgy life.
Yours,
Jose Brando
PS – I just remembered your real name is Ryan. Or Brian.
Open Letter to Tim Tebow's Penis
Dear Tim Tebow's Penis,
Dude, you have no idea what you're missing. Seriously. In the spectrum of desired celebrity athlete penises, you rank pretty damn high near the top. I mean, it must have dawned on you in college when all those co-ed hands were grabbing for you during football season and beyond. Yet your owner, he of the religious and moral convictions that are stronger than oak, decided to keep you safely tucked away as if you were bound in shrink wrap and delivered from the penis factory five years too early. Tim Tebow's Penis was not open for business and he made that perfectly clear to everyone with a vagina, much to your chagrin.
Case in point. Even when Tim's Denver Broncos teammates shaved his head to look like Friar Tuck, chicks were still pining for your glorious presence. But sadly, it was to no avail. You are still off-limits, which is a bummer; I hear Denver chicks are loose because most of them moved west after college to discover themselves. And everyone knows that when a girl wants to 'discover herself' it really means she wants to 'set a personal record for most strangers banged in a single fiscal quarter'.
I guess my only advice to you, Tim Tebow's Penis, is to have patience my friend. Once Tim finally reveals you to the world, there's going to be an avalanche of activity coming your way. I would imagine he doesn't really work you out very much by himself, so frankly you might be out of shape. Chafing could also be an issue. I'm assuming that Jesus has not personally approved condom use for Tim, so that could actually play to your advantage because condoms suck.
Speaking of suck, boy are you in for a treat. I hope you have a fantabulous coming-out-party. See what I did there?
Lengthily yours,
Jose Brando
Dude, you have no idea what you're missing. Seriously. In the spectrum of desired celebrity athlete penises, you rank pretty damn high near the top. I mean, it must have dawned on you in college when all those co-ed hands were grabbing for you during football season and beyond. Yet your owner, he of the religious and moral convictions that are stronger than oak, decided to keep you safely tucked away as if you were bound in shrink wrap and delivered from the penis factory five years too early. Tim Tebow's Penis was not open for business and he made that perfectly clear to everyone with a vagina, much to your chagrin.
Case in point. Even when Tim's Denver Broncos teammates shaved his head to look like Friar Tuck, chicks were still pining for your glorious presence. But sadly, it was to no avail. You are still off-limits, which is a bummer; I hear Denver chicks are loose because most of them moved west after college to discover themselves. And everyone knows that when a girl wants to 'discover herself' it really means she wants to 'set a personal record for most strangers banged in a single fiscal quarter'.
I guess my only advice to you, Tim Tebow's Penis, is to have patience my friend. Once Tim finally reveals you to the world, there's going to be an avalanche of activity coming your way. I would imagine he doesn't really work you out very much by himself, so frankly you might be out of shape. Chafing could also be an issue. I'm assuming that Jesus has not personally approved condom use for Tim, so that could actually play to your advantage because condoms suck.
Speaking of suck, boy are you in for a treat. I hope you have a fantabulous coming-out-party. See what I did there?
Lengthily yours,
Jose Brando
Open Letter to my Pinky Toes
Dear Pinky Toes,
Thank god for evolution, because I am ready for both of you to be evolved right the fuck off my feet. Sometimes I think your only function in life is to provide fleshy, yet highly sensitive, stumps that can be repeatedly thwacked into various pieces of furniture around the house.
Why do you even exist? It’s certainly not for balance, because my best friend Keith Mermon lost his left pinky toe in a bizarre kite-flying accident, and he can still walk just fine (although his skin is now permanently tinted light orange). It’s definitely not for cosmetic purposes. Sorry to be blunt, but you are pretty damn grotesque. All the other toes stand at perfect attention, sloping across my feet at a gentle and attractive angle with their nails looking well-manicured and nonthreatening. Then there’s the two of you, all slumped over and runty. You’re like the short ugly friend that tags along uninvited and never gets to go home with anyone at the bar while all your more attractive buddies are hooking up with sorority sluts.
Also, I wasn’t going to bring up your toe nails, but they simply can no longer be ignored. Seriously, they’re fucking disgusting. Left Pinky Toe, that razor-sharp sliver of hardened protein you call a nail could probably cut glass. And that yellow-ish gunk that’s been collecting beneath you for the last several years? Yeah, that’s fungus. And just so you know, females find it repulsive.
Evolution takes a long time, I understand that. But maybe God and/or Jesus could speed up the process just a little bit to get you eradicated from existence more efficiently. I’d like to be able to confidently move around my house without the ever-present fear of inducing seven seconds of excruciating pain by ramming you into the leg of our Ethan Allen coffee table.
Sometimes I consider inducing intentional frostbite so we can just get this whole ugly mess over with.
Gangrenously yours,
Jose Brando
Open Letter to my Left Contact Lens
Dear Left Contact Lens,
Why do you have to be such a little bitch? I've been working with your kind for almost twenty years, and in that time I've never had to deal with such a prima donna. Sometimes I wish you could be more like your doppelganger, Right Contact Lens. Every morning he goes in, every night he comes out, and frankly he just gets his shit done without all the drama.
Pardon the bad language, but you are driving me fucking crazy.
For example, last Tuesday you were filthy and obviously couldn't care less about the big budget meeting that Kathy scheduled for 9am Friday morning (btw, who does that?). I had to rush off to work and you were acting like a little fucking baby. First of all, you were covered in eyelashes (if you didn't already know, eyelashes are like white-hot fire pokers to the naked eyeball). Also, I could distinctly make out at least three different splotches of protein buildup on your face. Have you no respect for yourself, Left Contact Lens?
Meanwhile, Right Contact Lens and I are ready to walk out the door, but you know we can't leave without you. It would make driving wildly unsafe, and there's lots of kids in our neighborhood. How would you feel if I plowed through a game of street hockey due to a loss of depth perception because I was only wearing one contact lens? Hopefully you would feel pretty shitty. But to be completely honest, I'm not so sure you can even feel emotion anymore. And street hockey has really declined in popularity.
Look, we both know that for economical reasons I have to employ your services well beyond the contracted end date. But in this post-9/11 world, do you think you could step it up a little?
Myopically yours,
Jose Brando
Why do you have to be such a little bitch? I've been working with your kind for almost twenty years, and in that time I've never had to deal with such a prima donna. Sometimes I wish you could be more like your doppelganger, Right Contact Lens. Every morning he goes in, every night he comes out, and frankly he just gets his shit done without all the drama.
Pardon the bad language, but you are driving me fucking crazy.
For example, last Tuesday you were filthy and obviously couldn't care less about the big budget meeting that Kathy scheduled for 9am Friday morning (btw, who does that?). I had to rush off to work and you were acting like a little fucking baby. First of all, you were covered in eyelashes (if you didn't already know, eyelashes are like white-hot fire pokers to the naked eyeball). Also, I could distinctly make out at least three different splotches of protein buildup on your face. Have you no respect for yourself, Left Contact Lens?
Meanwhile, Right Contact Lens and I are ready to walk out the door, but you know we can't leave without you. It would make driving wildly unsafe, and there's lots of kids in our neighborhood. How would you feel if I plowed through a game of street hockey due to a loss of depth perception because I was only wearing one contact lens? Hopefully you would feel pretty shitty. But to be completely honest, I'm not so sure you can even feel emotion anymore. And street hockey has really declined in popularity.
Look, we both know that for economical reasons I have to employ your services well beyond the contracted end date. But in this post-9/11 world, do you think you could step it up a little?
Myopically yours,
Jose Brando
Open Letter to my original Nintendo
Dear Original Nintendo,
It's been awhile, so I should probably formally address you as Nintendo Entertainment System, but to me you will always be simply Nintendo. As a child of the early 80's, I remember hearing your name for the first time at my rich Jewish friends' house. It was radical, foreign and fun to say. You sounded like something invented in outer space by people from the future, possibly involving large rubber bands. His rich Jewish older brother wouldn't let us in his room to play, so you remained a distant mystery.
Then you came into my life on December 25, 1986. Various Christmas mornings of my childhood all blend together in a haze of die-cast toys that are just now starting to become nostalgic and ironic. But once I laid eyes on that perfectly square, wrapped box, I knew it was you in the same way that a husband returning from war knows the faceless woman approaching in a rainstorm from far across the street is the love of his life.
Your rigid casing and Soviet cold-war-era color palette belied the power that lay hidden inside, ready to be unleashed in the form of Gyromite or Duck Hunt. Despite your hunk-of-concrete design and myriad cords (nowadays things are wireless!) you integrated perfectly into our bustling family multimedia center, which consisted of a wooden-cased television and a black plastic VCR that featured an endlessly blinking pale green digital clock that had never been set to any time other than 12:00am in the six years we owned it.
You turned my world upside down. There were two fucking buttons on your controllers! A and B!
You were also low maintenance and required the mastery of one simple troubleshooting process: forcefully blowing gulps of air into the game cartridge or console resolved all hardware and software issues. I once left you running for three days straight just to beat Ikari Warriors, pausing you at night with the television off and waking up early to sneak in a few levels before the bus came.
Sadly, as the years passed you quickly and unwittingly became obsolete. Technology started accelerating and your rear-view mirror filled with the likes of Sega Genesis and Turbo Grafix 16. Personally Sonic the Hedgehog was probably the last nail in your coffin, but we had so many great memories. Remember when I missed a week of school with lice and we beat Zelda? I seriously cried with joy.
You changed my life, Original Nintendo. In today's world of wi-fi, iPads and Androids, you seem like a distant relic in the same way we used to examine an antique telegraph machine, or an old-fashioned rotary telephone from the 1920's. Was it really that long ago? Are we really that old?
Yes, original Nintendo. Yes, we are.
Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Select Start,
Jose Brando
It's been awhile, so I should probably formally address you as Nintendo Entertainment System, but to me you will always be simply Nintendo. As a child of the early 80's, I remember hearing your name for the first time at my rich Jewish friends' house. It was radical, foreign and fun to say. You sounded like something invented in outer space by people from the future, possibly involving large rubber bands. His rich Jewish older brother wouldn't let us in his room to play, so you remained a distant mystery.
Then you came into my life on December 25, 1986. Various Christmas mornings of my childhood all blend together in a haze of die-cast toys that are just now starting to become nostalgic and ironic. But once I laid eyes on that perfectly square, wrapped box, I knew it was you in the same way that a husband returning from war knows the faceless woman approaching in a rainstorm from far across the street is the love of his life.
Your rigid casing and Soviet cold-war-era color palette belied the power that lay hidden inside, ready to be unleashed in the form of Gyromite or Duck Hunt. Despite your hunk-of-concrete design and myriad cords (nowadays things are wireless!) you integrated perfectly into our bustling family multimedia center, which consisted of a wooden-cased television and a black plastic VCR that featured an endlessly blinking pale green digital clock that had never been set to any time other than 12:00am in the six years we owned it.
You turned my world upside down. There were two fucking buttons on your controllers! A and B!
You were also low maintenance and required the mastery of one simple troubleshooting process: forcefully blowing gulps of air into the game cartridge or console resolved all hardware and software issues. I once left you running for three days straight just to beat Ikari Warriors, pausing you at night with the television off and waking up early to sneak in a few levels before the bus came.
Sadly, as the years passed you quickly and unwittingly became obsolete. Technology started accelerating and your rear-view mirror filled with the likes of Sega Genesis and Turbo Grafix 16. Personally Sonic the Hedgehog was probably the last nail in your coffin, but we had so many great memories. Remember when I missed a week of school with lice and we beat Zelda? I seriously cried with joy.
You changed my life, Original Nintendo. In today's world of wi-fi, iPads and Androids, you seem like a distant relic in the same way we used to examine an antique telegraph machine, or an old-fashioned rotary telephone from the 1920's. Was it really that long ago? Are we really that old?
Yes, original Nintendo. Yes, we are.
Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Select Start,
Jose Brando
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