Dear Pilgrim,
Today is for many a favorite time of the year. People in the United States are gathering with friends and loved ones to share in comaraderie, food and drink. Today they celebrate a bloody holiday that has for too long been a tribute to you.
What troubles me so much about this is not the gaiety and shared quality time with loved ones, but that so few are willing to recognize the truth behind the story of Thanksgiving. I'm all for giving thanks and being grateful for the countless blessings that my life has been filled with. But I can't sit comfortably praising a bunch of racist, sword-wielding murderers who take false credit for this day.
While the bones of those innocent natives lie rotting alongside your ivory monuments, and people give thanks for all the blessings that you made possible for generations of stubbornly ignorant Americans, there are a few more enlightened folks who turn our heads and spit on your graves.
I do have so much to be thankful for today, yet what I ask most for is forgiveness for the atrocities that my ancestors committed against those peoples who rightfully deserve the blessings of this Thanksgiving Day.
In shame,
Brently
27 November 2008
20 November 2008
A Letter to Miranda
Dear Miranda,
As your best friend, I have to fill you in on something. You're always complaining about how guys gawk at you, how you can't even walk down the street without strange men making lewd comments and staring at you lustfully. I gotta agree though...men can sometimes be real pigs.
But what you haven't thought about is how your gym pants have JUICY written across your plump little ass. Yes, girlfriend, you do "got it goin' on." But you also need to realize that wearing provocative clothing is an invitation for all the creeps to come out of their shells and slobber when you're strutting past them in your "slut gear" (as you jokingly call it).
If you don't want people staring at your butt, making references to peaches when they're walking behind you, maybe you should think twice about the messages you're giving when you choose clothing that screams "Hey, check out my ass!"
Always,
Gloria
As your best friend, I have to fill you in on something. You're always complaining about how guys gawk at you, how you can't even walk down the street without strange men making lewd comments and staring at you lustfully. I gotta agree though...men can sometimes be real pigs.
But what you haven't thought about is how your gym pants have JUICY written across your plump little ass. Yes, girlfriend, you do "got it goin' on." But you also need to realize that wearing provocative clothing is an invitation for all the creeps to come out of their shells and slobber when you're strutting past them in your "slut gear" (as you jokingly call it).
If you don't want people staring at your butt, making references to peaches when they're walking behind you, maybe you should think twice about the messages you're giving when you choose clothing that screams "Hey, check out my ass!"
Always,
Gloria
13 November 2008
A Letter to the Ents
Dear Treebeard,
How ya doing, old buddy? I want to say thanks first off for the help you lent to Merry and Pippin, and in the wonderful disaster you caused for that nasty old grinch, Saruman. I'd be willing to bet that those jolly little "hobbitses" have written a few songs about you and your comrades. I'm sure that makes you all very proud.
A buddy of mine likes trees, and he's a "recycling nazi." So I jokingly call him "tree hugger" when he gets fanatic about people throwing recyclables into the trash. But this makes me wonder about something. Do you like hugs? Granted, you might crush me to dust if you tried hugging me. Can I hug you, though?
I bet you enjoy birds nesting on your limbs, humming along with their joyful singing. And the squirrels -- you gotta love the squirrels! The bears, rubbing their backs against you to cure that itch, must be a soft, furry delight, huh? But why do you Ents let the dogs pee on your feet?
Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven't written in a while.
Brently Baggins
P.S. I composed this on a computer, by the way, so that you'd be willing to read it. (I remember the first time how you scolded me about using paper.) Take care, old friend.
How ya doing, old buddy? I want to say thanks first off for the help you lent to Merry and Pippin, and in the wonderful disaster you caused for that nasty old grinch, Saruman. I'd be willing to bet that those jolly little "hobbitses" have written a few songs about you and your comrades. I'm sure that makes you all very proud.
A buddy of mine likes trees, and he's a "recycling nazi." So I jokingly call him "tree hugger" when he gets fanatic about people throwing recyclables into the trash. But this makes me wonder about something. Do you like hugs? Granted, you might crush me to dust if you tried hugging me. Can I hug you, though?
I bet you enjoy birds nesting on your limbs, humming along with their joyful singing. And the squirrels -- you gotta love the squirrels! The bears, rubbing their backs against you to cure that itch, must be a soft, furry delight, huh? But why do you Ents let the dogs pee on your feet?
Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven't written in a while.
Brently Baggins
P.S. I composed this on a computer, by the way, so that you'd be willing to read it. (I remember the first time how you scolded me about using paper.) Take care, old friend.
A Letter to the Phone Solicitor
Dear Annoying Solicitor,
I don't have the heart to be rude to you, even if I feel you are invading my privacy. I'm not going to yell at you or speak insults when you ignore me and continue your endless chatter either. But I certainly don't want even to pretend that I understand your mile-a-minute Chinese fluttering in my ear.
So while you holler "Wei, wei..." I'm going to respond with "Hello, hello...can you speak English?" really fast -- making your head spin, your blood pressure rise -- until YOU hang up (and, hopefully, resolve never to call this number again).
I know you're only doing your job, but this is my privacy you're treading on. If I want something, I'll go buy it myself. I don't want your spiel, so you needn't call me anymore.
Thanks for your understanding. ;)
Brently
I don't have the heart to be rude to you, even if I feel you are invading my privacy. I'm not going to yell at you or speak insults when you ignore me and continue your endless chatter either. But I certainly don't want even to pretend that I understand your mile-a-minute Chinese fluttering in my ear.
So while you holler "Wei, wei..." I'm going to respond with "Hello, hello...can you speak English?" really fast -- making your head spin, your blood pressure rise -- until YOU hang up (and, hopefully, resolve never to call this number again).
I know you're only doing your job, but this is my privacy you're treading on. If I want something, I'll go buy it myself. I don't want your spiel, so you needn't call me anymore.
Thanks for your understanding. ;)
Brently
12 November 2008
A Letter to "Dolly"
Dear Dolly,
I stared in grief at the photo. You lay there, as beautiful as ever, the sun shining off your satin-like body. Your eyes cried not of desperation, but of utter despair.
You're not the first to have done this. And you'll quite likely not be the last. What disturbs me, however, is why. This is a question I've ruminated over for weeks -- why?
You're intelligent beyond measure, beautiful, loved by so many. You have a power that captivates people. You're gentle, empathetic, a healer of immense proportions.
Staring into your eyes, I saw a sadness more abysmal than the depths of the vast world you call home. Your gaze bore into my depths, tearing at my insides. I wanted to reach out to you, to lift you from that gritty deathbed you'd made for yourself. I wanted to ask you, "Why?"
This burden, whatever it is, must be great. Was it a cry of warning? An act of defiance at mankind's cruelty? A message from the gods? Or was it that pain that only love can cause -- having lost your soulmate?
I go back to that photo, to the beauty, and the intense suffering that your heart cried out. That stricken gaze now lives within me, haunting me.
Mankind needs you. Let me ease your burden.
I stared in grief at the photo. You lay there, as beautiful as ever, the sun shining off your satin-like body. Your eyes cried not of desperation, but of utter despair.
You're not the first to have done this. And you'll quite likely not be the last. What disturbs me, however, is why. This is a question I've ruminated over for weeks -- why?
You're intelligent beyond measure, beautiful, loved by so many. You have a power that captivates people. You're gentle, empathetic, a healer of immense proportions.
Staring into your eyes, I saw a sadness more abysmal than the depths of the vast world you call home. Your gaze bore into my depths, tearing at my insides. I wanted to reach out to you, to lift you from that gritty deathbed you'd made for yourself. I wanted to ask you, "Why?"
This burden, whatever it is, must be great. Was it a cry of warning? An act of defiance at mankind's cruelty? A message from the gods? Or was it that pain that only love can cause -- having lost your soulmate?
I go back to that photo, to the beauty, and the intense suffering that your heart cried out. That stricken gaze now lives within me, haunting me.
Mankind needs you. Let me ease your burden.
11 November 2008
A Letter to Righty
Hey, Righty.
You think it's strange that I can't use my right hand to write, at least nothing better than the scribble you'd see from a five-year-old playing with crayons. So you snicker to yourself. You laugh when I try kicking the ball with my right foot, and how clumsy my right side is while playing hackysack. You ask me strange questions such as "Why do you use your right hand to hold your soup spoon?" as if there's something wrong with that. After laughing at my expense, you insult my left-handedness.
Basking in your glory, you consider me inferior. But what you forgot to realize that night when we were drinking and messing around playing ninja warriors in the basement is that you never expected that wild left cross. Living in your delusional right-handed-only world, I sucker-punched your proud ass. Damn, it felt good.
It's already hard enough trying to find scissors that actually cut when I use them, can openers that I can use without looking like a twisted pretzel, left-handed ergonomic computer mice, and so on. You have it made, buddy.
That bruise on your right cheek is a sweet reminder that I'm not only as good as you, Righty, but that in a fight, I'd take you out faster than you could say "Where the hell did that come from?!"
Still friends?
Lefty
You think it's strange that I can't use my right hand to write, at least nothing better than the scribble you'd see from a five-year-old playing with crayons. So you snicker to yourself. You laugh when I try kicking the ball with my right foot, and how clumsy my right side is while playing hackysack. You ask me strange questions such as "Why do you use your right hand to hold your soup spoon?" as if there's something wrong with that. After laughing at my expense, you insult my left-handedness.
Basking in your glory, you consider me inferior. But what you forgot to realize that night when we were drinking and messing around playing ninja warriors in the basement is that you never expected that wild left cross. Living in your delusional right-handed-only world, I sucker-punched your proud ass. Damn, it felt good.
It's already hard enough trying to find scissors that actually cut when I use them, can openers that I can use without looking like a twisted pretzel, left-handed ergonomic computer mice, and so on. You have it made, buddy.
That bruise on your right cheek is a sweet reminder that I'm not only as good as you, Righty, but that in a fight, I'd take you out faster than you could say "Where the hell did that come from?!"
Still friends?
Lefty
10 November 2008
Sean's Letter to Mother Nature
Dear Mother Nature,
The mountain was empty today, Gaia, I suppose because of the weather. On the west side, I stopped a ways down the trail and turned to face the wind—at this time of year (as you know), the cool weather makes the mountain wind crisp and biting—and, surrounded on both sides by the tall native Taiwan grass, the thick blades closely packed, I just stared into the greyness. You know how I feel when I'm alone. The silence and the closeness of this day, at that spot, perfectly created my ideal loneliness. For twenty minutes I let your wind caress my face. Nothing could move me from that spot.
Are you planning more of the same weather for later this year? I hope so. We don't get it that often in Taipei city because the buildings block it out. We have to go to the mountains most times to experience it.
I know we haven't had a meaningful contact in quite some time, and this is my fault. Most of my days are spent in the school, and I don't have many opportunities to go and visit you. Although I see you around the city occasionally, this is not enough for me; I want to be with you always — alone and surrounded by you. I read a story recently entitled Sailing Around the World Alone. The man in this true story writes of the infinite solitude and singular aloneness that he felt drifting on the open ocean with only the lapping of the water against his little boat's sides and the fish for company. I feel this way each and every time you and I are together, whether this be on the mountain in Taipei or on the open expanses of Saskatchewan's Qu' Appelle Valley.
I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps tomorrow, after class, we could meet on the mountain. I don't think my wife will mind, indeed, she is quite fond of you and even will come with me sometimes to visit our favourite places.
Be well, Gaia.
The greatest of your passion remains with me always.
The mountain was empty today, Gaia, I suppose because of the weather. On the west side, I stopped a ways down the trail and turned to face the wind—at this time of year (as you know), the cool weather makes the mountain wind crisp and biting—and, surrounded on both sides by the tall native Taiwan grass, the thick blades closely packed, I just stared into the greyness. You know how I feel when I'm alone. The silence and the closeness of this day, at that spot, perfectly created my ideal loneliness. For twenty minutes I let your wind caress my face. Nothing could move me from that spot.
Are you planning more of the same weather for later this year? I hope so. We don't get it that often in Taipei city because the buildings block it out. We have to go to the mountains most times to experience it.
I know we haven't had a meaningful contact in quite some time, and this is my fault. Most of my days are spent in the school, and I don't have many opportunities to go and visit you. Although I see you around the city occasionally, this is not enough for me; I want to be with you always — alone and surrounded by you. I read a story recently entitled Sailing Around the World Alone. The man in this true story writes of the infinite solitude and singular aloneness that he felt drifting on the open ocean with only the lapping of the water against his little boat's sides and the fish for company. I feel this way each and every time you and I are together, whether this be on the mountain in Taipei or on the open expanses of Saskatchewan's Qu' Appelle Valley.
I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps tomorrow, after class, we could meet on the mountain. I don't think my wife will mind, indeed, she is quite fond of you and even will come with me sometimes to visit our favourite places.
Be well, Gaia.
The greatest of your passion remains with me always.
An Anonymous Letter to "You Know Who"
Dear You-Know-Who,
It's strange (don't you think?) that everyone I know seems to know you, but I'm certain that you and I have never met. Everywhere I go, people I know -- even strangers -- speak out your name like you're a household commodity. Just the other day, I overheard Mom say "You Know Who is coming over to dinner tomorrow." My theory is that you don't really exist, but then how could everyone know you by name?
Perhaps you're a distant cousin of "What's His Name," or someone who likes to use the words "whatchamacallit" and "thingy."
Anyway, I don't know who the hell you are. Until I figure you out though, I'm going to call you Ordinary Bob. How do you like that, Mr. Mystery Man?
Sincerely,
Anonymous Me
It's strange (don't you think?) that everyone I know seems to know you, but I'm certain that you and I have never met. Everywhere I go, people I know -- even strangers -- speak out your name like you're a household commodity. Just the other day, I overheard Mom say "You Know Who is coming over to dinner tomorrow." My theory is that you don't really exist, but then how could everyone know you by name?
Perhaps you're a distant cousin of "What's His Name," or someone who likes to use the words "whatchamacallit" and "thingy."
Anyway, I don't know who the hell you are. Until I figure you out though, I'm going to call you Ordinary Bob. How do you like that, Mr. Mystery Man?
Sincerely,
Anonymous Me
09 November 2008
Emily's Letter to Cockroach
Dear Cockroach,
I hate you! You're a worthless, vile insect. You crawl everywhere, you invade my home, you haunt me in my sleep. And you stink after I've crushed you into mush.
I understand that everything has its place, that you're part of the multitude of creatures that feed and feed off each other. You just might have your place in that chain of all things, but I'm skeptical as to what it is you can offer this world other than serving as a nasty, freeloading pest.
I dislike ants, but they serve a worthwhile purpose in decomposing waste, playing a part in ecology's biological makeup. Spiders, which really creep me out, make ingenious contraptions that catch their foes -- and then they eat them. Muahhhh haaaah haaaah! Bees, with that annoying buzzing, those poisonous stingers, and their sick fascination with my picnic baskets, at least provide me with honey for my tea.
So what the hell do you have to offer? Why should my karma be impacted for mashing your brains into the concrete?
Here's the deal, bucko...I hereby serve you an official, signed eviction notice -- get the hell out of my house!
In angst and despair,
Emily
I hate you! You're a worthless, vile insect. You crawl everywhere, you invade my home, you haunt me in my sleep. And you stink after I've crushed you into mush.
I understand that everything has its place, that you're part of the multitude of creatures that feed and feed off each other. You just might have your place in that chain of all things, but I'm skeptical as to what it is you can offer this world other than serving as a nasty, freeloading pest.
I dislike ants, but they serve a worthwhile purpose in decomposing waste, playing a part in ecology's biological makeup. Spiders, which really creep me out, make ingenious contraptions that catch their foes -- and then they eat them. Muahhhh haaaah haaaah! Bees, with that annoying buzzing, those poisonous stingers, and their sick fascination with my picnic baskets, at least provide me with honey for my tea.
So what the hell do you have to offer? Why should my karma be impacted for mashing your brains into the concrete?
Here's the deal, bucko...I hereby serve you an official, signed eviction notice -- get the hell out of my house!
In angst and despair,
Emily
A Letter to U.S. President-Elect Obama
My dearest Obama:
The sound of your name rings so nicely in my ear. It's exotically romantic just saying it. Seeing you, in your finely-tailored suit, standing in front of thousands of teary-eyed spectators -- all of whom are both in your debt and admire you so -- brought up fantasies that a young woman dare not speak aloud.
You're incredibly attractive, well educated, rich, cultured, and successful beyond what most American men can ever dream of achieving. And you're married! But that never stops a girl from dreaming.
You have a long road ahead of you, my dearest. The challenges you face will be astronomical. I dare not say they are unsurmountable. I am here for you, to support your efforts and gains, along with the billions of others who watch eagerly for you to take your crown.
I'll be watching here from my little perch, awaiting your gallant approach and the sight of your white horse, my king. If ever your travels bring you to Wonderland, you'll see me waiving from the tower located just past the end of that rainbow.
Be well, my knight, and do good deeds. I'm proud of you.
Anonymous Little Me
The sound of your name rings so nicely in my ear. It's exotically romantic just saying it. Seeing you, in your finely-tailored suit, standing in front of thousands of teary-eyed spectators -- all of whom are both in your debt and admire you so -- brought up fantasies that a young woman dare not speak aloud.
You're incredibly attractive, well educated, rich, cultured, and successful beyond what most American men can ever dream of achieving. And you're married! But that never stops a girl from dreaming.
You have a long road ahead of you, my dearest. The challenges you face will be astronomical. I dare not say they are unsurmountable. I am here for you, to support your efforts and gains, along with the billions of others who watch eagerly for you to take your crown.
I'll be watching here from my little perch, awaiting your gallant approach and the sight of your white horse, my king. If ever your travels bring you to Wonderland, you'll see me waiving from the tower located just past the end of that rainbow.
Be well, my knight, and do good deeds. I'm proud of you.
Anonymous Little Me
To Chocolate
Dear Chocolate,
How are you, my old friend? I had a small party this evening with Malbec, Smoked Gouda and Aged Cheddar. The only thing missing from making it a perfect night was YOU!
You're really the most wonderful friend a man (or woman) could ever ask for. You're always available, like 7-11. You can adjust to the mood of the moment -- sometimes bitter, sometimes smooth and cool, and sometimes you're so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. Alone, you're terrific and satisfying; with others, you go even farther and complement with your magical ability to blend into any occasion or circumstance. What more could a lonely man ask for in a friend?
When I'm in need of a pick-me-up, you do the job. When I feel like being treated to something sweet and reminiscent, you're the perfect match. When it's pouring down rain outside and I'm blue, you're only a stone's throw away, in unlimited supply. You're my vice, my not-so-secret indulgence, my favorite "anytime" companion.
The surgeon general not long ago made a claim that friends like you are even good for the heart, and aid in fending off certain types of cancer. How is it, my friend, that you can be so perfect?
I love you!
Always,
Brently
How are you, my old friend? I had a small party this evening with Malbec, Smoked Gouda and Aged Cheddar. The only thing missing from making it a perfect night was YOU!
You're really the most wonderful friend a man (or woman) could ever ask for. You're always available, like 7-11. You can adjust to the mood of the moment -- sometimes bitter, sometimes smooth and cool, and sometimes you're so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. Alone, you're terrific and satisfying; with others, you go even farther and complement with your magical ability to blend into any occasion or circumstance. What more could a lonely man ask for in a friend?
When I'm in need of a pick-me-up, you do the job. When I feel like being treated to something sweet and reminiscent, you're the perfect match. When it's pouring down rain outside and I'm blue, you're only a stone's throw away, in unlimited supply. You're my vice, my not-so-secret indulgence, my favorite "anytime" companion.
The surgeon general not long ago made a claim that friends like you are even good for the heart, and aid in fending off certain types of cancer. How is it, my friend, that you can be so perfect?
I love you!
Always,
Brently
08 November 2008
To His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama
Your Holiness,
I'm sure you hear that title all the time. So, would you mind if I call you "Dalai" instead? I'd rather not call you "Lama" because it sounds too much like the animal "llama." And calling you by your birth name would obviously rob you of the respect that you deserve.
I'm sure you get this everyday, too, but I'm a huge fan. If I had my home, dignity, and everything else taken away from me, and then be ridiculed and insulted by the leaders of that Red Army next door, I'd be really pissed off. But, you, in all your greatness, have kept cool and even extended warm wishes to those commie bastards that run that monstrous bullying nation. I admire that peaceful, gentle selflessness
that you embrace. Like so many before you -- Christ, the Buddha, Gandhi, Mother Teresa -- you are a living example of the human soul at its purest.
I wish I were rich like those lucky Hollywood guys, Richard Gere and Stephen Seagal. I don't want money for the purpose of being wealthy. I want only to have the opportunities that they have, getting to hang out with you. I can only imagine what it's like for you guys sitting and chatting over butter tea, overlooking the Himalayas.
A old acquaintance told me that she met you some years ago, and that being in your presence alone was inspirational and life-changing. She also said that she witnessed you poke a young guy in the belly. This might sound ridiculous, but that's something I'd give an arm or two for, to be able to someday tell my grandchildren that not only did I meet HH, but that he poked me in the belly. That tickles my insides just thinking about it.
Anyway, I want to say that you're great. If ever you're in Taiwan, look me up. I'll buy you a cup of coffee or something, and we can kick it like buddies.
Humbly yours,
Brently
I'm sure you hear that title all the time. So, would you mind if I call you "Dalai" instead? I'd rather not call you "Lama" because it sounds too much like the animal "llama." And calling you by your birth name would obviously rob you of the respect that you deserve.
I'm sure you get this everyday, too, but I'm a huge fan. If I had my home, dignity, and everything else taken away from me, and then be ridiculed and insulted by the leaders of that Red Army next door, I'd be really pissed off. But, you, in all your greatness, have kept cool and even extended warm wishes to those commie bastards that run that monstrous bullying nation. I admire that peaceful, gentle selflessness
that you embrace. Like so many before you -- Christ, the Buddha, Gandhi, Mother Teresa -- you are a living example of the human soul at its purest.
I wish I were rich like those lucky Hollywood guys, Richard Gere and Stephen Seagal. I don't want money for the purpose of being wealthy. I want only to have the opportunities that they have, getting to hang out with you. I can only imagine what it's like for you guys sitting and chatting over butter tea, overlooking the Himalayas.
A old acquaintance told me that she met you some years ago, and that being in your presence alone was inspirational and life-changing. She also said that she witnessed you poke a young guy in the belly. This might sound ridiculous, but that's something I'd give an arm or two for, to be able to someday tell my grandchildren that not only did I meet HH, but that he poked me in the belly. That tickles my insides just thinking about it.
Anyway, I want to say that you're great. If ever you're in Taiwan, look me up. I'll buy you a cup of coffee or something, and we can kick it like buddies.
Humbly yours,
Brently
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