Dear America:

Bollocks = nonsense, horse hockey

Bullock = boy cow, Gotham City police officer

Love,

Ann

Dear Bejeweled Voice Guy:

You sound like you're wearing a pig head and are about to tell me where you've hidden the key to my handcuffs. What's that spoon for?

Your pal,

Ann

Dear Neal Stephenson:

960 pages for the upcoming book.

What, another 40 would've killed you?

Your pal,

Ann

Dear Colleague:

Shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat shut up about Ararat SHUT THE GODDAMN HELL UP!

Your pal,

Ann

Dear American Television:

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Best,

Ann


Dear Barak and Hilary:

Just kiss already!

Love,

Ann


Dear Alien Abductees:

Please find real therapists, and not hypno-loons. Please.

Love,

Ann


Dear CNN:

Please send your staff to journalism school, or at least show them some episodes of Lou Grant over lunch.

Your pal,

Ann

Dear Gmail:

WORK!!!

Best,

Ann

Dear God:

Freezing the car doors shut? Nice touch.

You're a funny fella.

Love,

Ann

Congratulations on your upgrade, Ceres!

Please don't ram into us.

You remember our second or third MediaWest, when I accidentally locked the keys in the rental car? And I had a total crazy-ape-batshit hysterical squealy must-eat-planet-of-the-asparagus-people fucking meltdown and cried like Gloria Bunker until the AAA guy showed up? Well, listen to this:

Yesterday morning, when I was leaving the house, I fiddled with the key that's supposed to work the deadbolt lock on the back door. It didn't, as near as I could tell, actually do anything. I made a note to work on it when I had actual time, because it would be nice if I could make it go from the outside.

I got home last night after a couple hours' fooling around (needed matboard, valet hook, new issue of Newtype, etc.), got out the key to let myself in the back door, unlocked it, and...kunk. So, I tried the key again. Kunk kunk.

Well, I thought, I musta locked the deadbolt after all. I got out the deadbolt key, put it in the lock, and...no turny.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fucksticks on a fuck.

Went around to the front door. I have a key. Works fine. Unfortunately, the steel storm door with two layers of glass, a layer of screens, and a decorative grille displaying the house number were all between me and the front door.

I went back to the back door and tried the keys again. And stared at it. Then I went round to the front door, and stared at it. There's a police substation across the street, but the most they can really do is help me break a window safely. Perhaps later. I could call a locksmith, but that's like a hundred and fifty dollars, and I would prefer to spend that on, like, food. Plus who knows when he'd get there. And Lost is on and I already missed one because Mom was selfishly kicking it and I'm not missing another in the same month. 'Cause it's Lost for Christ's sake.

I look at the hinges on the storm door. I try a dime on one of the screws, but this isn't an episode of that other great Wednesday night drama, Search, and my confidence in American currency is not justified.

So I pad across the lawn to Chris and Nina next door, and ring their bell. Nina comes up, all cute in lavender jammies and unidentifiable accent. "Blah blah locked out," I say. "Blah blah borrow screwdriver? Blah Lost." "Of course!" she says. "Philips or the other thing?" "The other thing." "Be right back." So she brings me a screwdriver. "Call if you need Chris to lift anything heavy!"

It's kind of a pussy compared to my screwdriver, which I have just now decided is called The Widowmaker, but it gets the job done. In ten minutes, I've got the door off its hinges and am inside my house. In five more minutes, I've got the power drill out of the kitchen and have re-hung the door. Which is good because it's getting fucking dark out. Return screwdriver, wash feeeeelthy hands, etc. Call sister to tell her how much I fucking rock. Watch Lost. Frame vintage V for Vendetta comics poster. Completely full of self, because I am Q.E.D! I am MacGyver! I am Jerry fucking Robinson!

I still have no idea how to break into a rental car, but now know that's AAA's job anyway.

Love,

Ann

Dear Ann:

Green sleeves was, in fact, all she wore, and not "all she wrote."

Your pal,

Ann

ETA: Actually, greensleeves was all my joy. Fuckin' American renfest folksingers.