Posts tagged: letters
You’re right. We are inept. We call soda “pop” and indoor parking garages “ramps”. We love meatloaf and casseroles and our children operate lemonade stands, for shame. Who let us near the ballot box? What do a coupl’a million gun toters know ‘bout politics? And what in the Sam Hill is a Tea Partier?
Congratulations. You’ve managed to immerse yourself for 20 long years in a land brimming with students from all walks of life, in a state increasingly urban (over 60% urban), to paint us all with one of three brushes: 1) the “skuzzy and uneducated, Bible-thumping hick with malice for turkeys and a meth addiction to boot” brush; 2) the “sports-car driving Chinese student” brush; and 3) the “slaughterhouse-dwelling illegal immigrant” brush. My whiteness dictates I must belong to the first group. Thank ya Jesus!
In the interest of wasting as little of my time as possible on something you will no doubt ever read, I will keep my statements brief: Iowa City was barren that day you arrived during U of I’s Spring Break not because of a nuclear bomb, but because the U of I students were away for Spring Break (duh?). Nobody knows what Red Waldorf cake is. My dad is over 50 and he does leave home without a penknife. Lollipops and suckers are two completely different things. “Bud” is not a proper noun I have heard people in this lifetime use to describe young boys. My grandparents answer the phone the same way you do. Some of the most breathtakingtowns in this country sit along the banks of the Mississippi in Iowa. People do not take tuna casserole and cottage cheese flavored Jell-O to wedding receptions. What is the matter with you? Lastly, Iowa’s suicide rate ranks 27th in the country. The way you altered your statistics to portray Iowa as a prime place to kill one’s self was clever (and a little pathetic) and for a second I thought you were pretending to be a politician! Then I remembered that I am an Iowan, and therefore I’m ill-equipped when it comes to such posturing.
I am, however, equipped to tell you that your writing itself is an example of everything my own journalism professors at the University of Iowa taught me never to do. Aside from the lapses in proofreading, you use sweeping generalizations and your entire “argument” is based on a fallacy. You touch on the fact that mental illness is stigmatized in Iowa, then go on to call the state schizophrenic and depressed? Huh? And didn’t your own journalism professors teach to you to avoid cliches like the plague? ;) To be blunt, Observations from 20 Years of Iowa Life smells like pig shit. And I would know. Pig shit is a smell “absolutely venerated” in Iowa. Because LOVING the smell of pig shit makes a whole damn lot of sense! About as much as anything else in your article.
In all fairness, you did get some things right. For one thing, Iowa is in the middle of the country. Yay! And yes, students in Iowa do stand up for themselves when holier-than-thou professors tell them it’s un-American to wish people Merry Christmas. Additionally, I love meatloaf!, and Yellow Labs are absolutely known to be a hunter’s best friend. Despite all of your rambling, you still haven’t explained how these truths make me, an Iowan, any less capable of choosing a presidential nominee than someone from Georgia who eats grits or someone from New Jersey who calls it “soda” or someone from California who loves a Pomeranian.
I want to tell you to quit your whining, to go home already, but you don’t have a home. That’s sad. You’ve had 20 years to absorb what Iowa can offer, and what do you have to show for it? A poorly edited article in The Atlantic, and a bunch of ornery meth addicts who want you to GTFO.
Eek! Them are fightin’ words.
Dear ABC News,
Dumpster is not a proper noun.
All the best,
Lindy
Long time viewer. First time caller.
You don’t need to sex up real estate to get me to watch your channel 24/7.
You’re paying too much for that sexy female voiceover.
You’re using the words “fantasy” and “hhhhot” too often.
And the next time I hear your overpaid sexy female voiceover seductively breathe phrases like “Come on. You know you want to look,” I will straight up puke.
xoxo,
Linoly
You would purchase my Environmental Science textbook from Amazon and pay thousands extra for two day shipping 10 minutes before I leave for California.
You’re lucky I’m nice!
Rocky,
When you get done touting your newly-passed Wall Street overhaul jig around town, can you make an overhaul of the wedding industry priority number one?
That’s my way of telling you I am now a bride-to-be. AND poor.
Do it now!,
Lindy Mae
[PS] :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)
PLEASE STOP MAKING SEX TAPES! You keep on gettin’ it on only to weep and whine when they are made public and it’s getting to be ri-diculous. You are not a victim; you are actually kind of pitiful. And you are wasting 35% of the media’s headline capacity, which should be devoted to Rhianna’s sexy wardrobe, McDonald’s toy recalls, and breaking news updates on Facebook’s privacy flops. And not to mention, get hip with the times. More sexting, less taping. Puh-leez.
I have to tell you something. I would tell you to your face but you’re working for the weekend, and if I don’t say something now, I’ll forget the thing I’m obsessing over in 2 seconds. So here it is: your stapler is archaic. If you ever feel like using mine, you may. It’s on my desk by the tiny stuffed dog. The cool thing about my stapler is that it doesn’t emit an offensive groan and human-like wince when you bang it, that’s what she said. The springs don’t echo across the apartment, and it doesn’t take a team of body builders to press it all the way down. Actually, I’d like to walk yours to the nearby dumpster or sell it for parts on Craigslist, but I wouldn’t do that without asking. Like the time you drank my chocolate milk when I wasn’t looking the other morning. SHHHH, HUSH IT, YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. Bitter digressions aside, I think I will hide your stapler behind the computer and replace it with mine, and then see if you notice anything strange when you come home. And I love you. You have one day.
Love,
Lindy
Dearest teenagers in America,
I know it may seem strange, but that recreational activity you and your BFF4Ls engage in called “sexting” actually stems from something known as “texting”, which evolved in the early 21st century as cellular telephones began to be multifunctional. Texting for fun was preceded by playing house, running through sprinklers, and fishing for tadpoles in lifeless backyard streams. Children of this pre-texting era were glued to TV shows such as Salute Your Shorts, Total Request Live, Saved by the Bell, and All That.They ate home-cooked meals and tagged along with their mothers to grocery stores—a serious departure from whining until left alone to pose in front of bathroom mirrors with camera phone in hand and nothing but sexual exploits on the mind, I know.
I know what you’re thinking: celebrities do it all the time, mother. Like such as Miley Cyrus, Vanessa Hudgens, and Jesse James’s mistress, Michelle “Bombshell” McGee. Um, okayyoustoprightthere. First, do not call me mother. Second, Michelle McGee acts that way for a living, so as long as child labor laws are still in effect in this country, your argument is invalid. Also, she is gross. As for the others— Miley Cyrus apologized via People magazine for being without scruples, as did Vanessa Hudgens: ‘I am embarrassed over this situation and regret having ever taken these photos’, she read from a personal statement that was likely prepared by a robotic and indifferent publicist. And besides, famous people also frequent sex rehab clinics because they know they’ve been bad(!!!). Some* even proclaim abstinence until marriage! Why do your perverse little pastimes override these celebrity morals? If you’re attention-starved, take up an after school sport. If you’re bored, go for a walk. And if you’re really just that horny, turn off Gossip Girl and get your mother to drive you to a clinic for God’s sake, because you need help.
In closing, I would like to mention a study released in March—a British study that suggests gonorrhea is becoming a Superbug (*shudders*). In a few years, it may not be treatable. What’s that got to do with you, you ask me out of ignorant invincibility? Oh, nothing. But keep it in mind the next time you disrobe for your many cell-phone suitors. If you’re mature enough to act like an “adult”, you’re mature enough to reap the consequences. And in the case of hyper-sexed teens sexting their Summer Vaca away, unwanted pregnancies and STDs may be only a picture-message-gone-too-far away.
*Read: Tim Tebow
I’m officially perplexed, World. One minute, you’re telling me and 3 billion other imperfect, impressionable females that in order to be deemed beautiful, we must channel women like, say, Jessica Simpson circa 2004’s Dukes of Hazard world premier.
But the Jessica Simpson of February 2009 is utterly loathsome, right? Since she packed fifteen pounds onto her skeletal frame and became completely useless and everything, yeah?
That doesn’t matter now. My beef isn’t even with the myth of a fat Jessica Simpson.
Why is everybody hating on the wonderfully pretty Miss Australia, Stephanie Naumoska? The world media has attacked her viciously, alleging that she is a severely malnourished bag of skin and bones, and as such, she is not the role-model to young girls that she claims to be. What in the hell are you talking about, World? You love skinny. You crave skinny. You’re the one who pushes diet pills and cosmetic surgery and NeutriSystem and those impossibly gorgeous stiletto-toting toothpicks on the G.D. Miss Universe pageant down all of our throats, and suddenly, you’re placing the “bad role model” blame in one of your own puppets’ hands? My, my. What has gotten into you?
So Miss Australia acknowledges that she is skinny, but insists her body is naturally thin and has denounced anybody who is portraying her in an undeservingly bad light. Accusations of eating disorders are completely false, she says. And still, concerned members of the media (wait, what?) and flabbergasted mothers all over are fired up over this skinny little treat walkin’ around their TV box.

Listen, World. If you want us to believe that it’s even possible to be “too skinny”, stop telling us that a 140 pound Jessica Simpson is morbidly fat. Stop publishing pictures of Mischa Barton’s cellulite accompanied with hyperlinks screaming “Don’t end up like Mischa! Save yourself!” Quit turning every tiny imperfection into some sick form of Armageddon. The women of planet Earth fill out infinitely many shapes and sizes, and the bottom line is this: we can’t all be the Jessica Simpson of 2004, so leave us the hell alone.
And leave the poor Australian girl alone. She’s only 19 years old, and you worldly ignorant mean-asses are just being mean. The wounds of adolescence are a nasty bitch, and in regards to pretty girls everywhere, so are you.
As Rebecca Anne Lehman of “Mount Rose American Teen Princess” fame would tell you if she were a real person and/or if she hadn’t died in a fiery ball of swan gas, “Miss Australia’s skinny, World. Not deaf.”
(I love you Denise Richards!!!!!!!!)