In an open letter to the woman in stretchy pants,

“I simply did not understand the physics of your pants. They didn’t appear to be shifting around. In fact, they seemed rather snug. The exception, though, was the crotch baggies. I just don’t understand how your pants could be so tight, yet so loose. Is there a class on this for which I can register?”

In an open letter to her son,

“Dude, today I heard you snapping as music played…and let’s just say this; it is intentional that I did not describe it as snapping to the music. How is this possible? You were weirdly early, sporadically. I never understand this in people. The beat is so audible, so predictable, so hard to snap/dance/move against….”

In an open letter to the NSA,

“We’ll, I’m pretty sure that you know about my TSA fantasies. Now I don’t know where it is safe to be embarrassed.”

In an open letter to tater tots,

“I always think I want you, that I love you. Until, that is, I’ve had you. You know those poems that are full of longing, desire, and regret? Lust? I could write you a chapbook of those….”

In an open letter to Lyndon Johnson,

“You are right up there with Bill Clinton with respect to presidents entering my dreams. Last night, though, was a doozy. What were you doing jumping from such a height directly into a building? How did you defy gravity like that, your feet sticking out from the building at about a 35 degree angle? And […]