Possums, we are taking a moment from our busy careers as baristas at Starbucks (we heard you, lady; your damned Frappuccino is coming right up!) to address you.
We are crying as we write this (we promised ourselves we wouldn’t do this, sniff), so you’ll have to forgive us if your latte tastes a little salty. We’re even a little [sic] to our stomachs. You just can’t imagine what came over us when we received this missive in our mailbox (reproduced in full below):
I was just wondering what kind of satisfaction you derive from taking cheap shots at people who have the guts to put themselves out [sic] into the public eye. I mean, there must be some kind of sad pleasure you derive from berating people with your mean-spirited attacks while you sit in front of your computer screens and televisions night after lonely night [sic]For a split second, our little stainless-steel, walnut-sized hearts stopped. With all the [sics] we had to insert, was it possible that our Padma Lakshmi had written us a fan letter? We have, after all, written more about her than her husband, Salman Rushdie (we don’t actually count The Ground Beneath Her Feet as writing).
I guess the old adage is true. "Those that [sic] can't do... [sic] teach." I'll add two more. "Those that [sic] can't make it as writers...[sic] blog" and "Those that [sic] got beat [sic] up in [sic] the playground create a reality television site."
Charlus, at least your partner had the guts to post her picture so her skinny lips and stringy hair can be seen by all. But you didn't even have the balls to do that. And yet you have the audacity to sit back taking pot shots [sic] at people who have a real passion in their lives?
Maybe your true passion is to try and hurt others so you will feel better about yourself. It's a lot easier to do that than to really [sic] extend yourself, isn't it? Now why don't you write about what you do for a living and where you work so we can all examine your life and publicly rip you apart. I doubt it would be very difficult.
Something tells me that a bit of personal scutiny [sic] would cause you to cry and quit your job at Starbucks.
Grow up and take the high road, would 'ya [sic]?
And then we saw the signature:
“If that’s your mother,” said Miss XaXa, “no wonder you turned out the way you did.”
“Indeed, darling. We’re quite proud of the family resemblance.”
“But I thought when you were 12 you had her committed to Miss Ernestina Thesiger’s Kozy Asylum for the Kriminally Insane after she made you watch Suddenly, Last Summer and Mommie Dearest in a single weekend?”
“Well, she shouldn't give people ideas. And there was also the business with the stable hand, and the little matter of Papa’s inheritance, but yes. She must have escaped. But how?”
“Maybe she got kriminally kozy with Miss Thesiger?”
We shuddered. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen her. Mustache above, mustache below. We shouldn’t like to see that snake pit.”
Oh, "Mother," you really do love us. You took time out of your busy, purpose-driven life to read “a reality television site” and write to us because you “love us,” “loathe us,” “think we personify the decline of Western civilization,” “worry about our mental health,” and “want to pray for our immortal souls.” (Isn’t [sic][sic][sic] the Sign of the Beast?)
You know us so well, "Mother," since we were born, as Saint Augustine put it, inter faeces et urinae. And we are ever so glad, Mommie dearest, that we could give you a taste of the “kind of satisfaction…derive[d] from taking cheap shots at people who have the guts to put themselves out [sic] into the public eye,” a little espresso shot (on the house!) of the “sad pleasure…derive[d] from berating people with your mean-spirited attacks while you sit in front of your computer screen[….]” And we're disappointed that you didn't send any photographs, "Mother"; we haven't seen you since we were 12, and have but a vague memory of your features.
So, "Mother," you take the high road, and we’ll take the low road, and we’ll be in Scotland afore ye.
And now, back to that Frappuccino.