To The Rat Bastard That Stole My iPhone - A Letter

Dear Sir/Madam:

Well played. I don’t know how you managed to sneak off into the muggy Houston night with what was essentially my electronic life, but I guess you deserve it for the level of skill you exhibited. As I myself am not a thief (unless you count street signs in 6th grade, which my dad does), I don’t exactly have a lot of respect for your profession, and truth be told, my Sunday hangover didn’t get any better by spending an hour at the AT&T store trying to maintain a safe distance from a certain employee’s unibrow lest I start a brush fire with my gasoline breath.

That being said, I feel as though I owe you an explanation on several fronts. Yes, an explanation. To begin with, you didn’t walk off with a credit card or even a purse, you walked off with an iPhone, which probably gave you more insight into my bizarre little world than anyone could ever possibly want, myself included. You probably thought you hit the jackpot, didn’t you? Sell it on ebay or just use it for yourself. Unfortunately for you, there is an inevitable moat of mental filth surrounding that gadget. You may be a thief, but you’re still part of society, and I’m fully aware of society’s reactions to my uncensored humor and ideas. Suffice it to say, Tipper Gore I am not. Let’s take a little trip down to my daily gutter, shall we?

1) Text Messages
Go ahead and give these a good scroll through. Chances are you’ll find a lot of senseless drivel about bar locations, who owes who money, maybe a little good natured shit-talking– you know, the usual. You may also stumble across a Sunday morning message to Maverick asking “Wanna go halvsies on a hunchback baby?” Now, I don’t doubt you’ll cringe. After all, who honestly talks about the divided components of making a baby, much less a hunchback one at that? Well, I do, good sir. I do. Before you get all kinds of offended, let it be known that I love kiddos of all situations, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame just happens to be one of my favorite movies. Show me someone who doesn’t love Quasimodo at the end of those 91 magical minutes and I will show you a Nazi. Additionally, I can think of no better set of parents for any child than Maverick and myself. We’re caring, we’re diverse, and the goddamn zoo comes to town every time we get together. Added perk: we love reading aloud to each other from smutty romance novels we buy for $2.99 at Walgreens. Nothing says "sweet dreams" like Rose's step-brother gazing at her wantingly from across the rustic log cabin.

2) Internet Searches
Say you’re just trying to go into Safari Finder and Google the location of a good Pen store, maybe even the year Pepperdine University was created, or the number of a Pest Control service. Chances are when you type this in, “Penis Dragon Tattoo” is gonna pop up as the first automatic choice. If you haven’t ever seen this miracle of horror, I suggest you take a gander. Seriously, Thief, my treat. I spent a solid 20 minutes staring at that beast trying to figure out whether or not it was Photoshopped, because, after all, who on God’s green earth would tattoo their penis (AND testicles!)? Not me – and I don’t even have one! The extensive level of purple and green coloring indicates that this nutcase (pun intended?) went back SEVERAL times to get his fire-breathing friend juuuuuuuust right. For several hours, on several different occasions, this guy had a needle repeatedly jabbing at his manhood. Mull that over. The whole situation just sounds about as appetizing as sex with Spencer Pratt.

3) Pictures
These are relatively harmless upon first glance. Barbara eating paper confetti out of a Styrofoam cup, a misspelled valet sign (“Parking for Front Porsche Pub” – come on, people), Duffy wearing a shirt with a Texas flag that says “Secede!” while giving the thumbs up. But wait – what’s this? Why is there a 20-something girl with green paint smeared all over her face shoving an old and decrepit dog into a microwave? Well, Bob Hope, it’s called a joke. If you dress up as the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween, the costume clearly isn’t complete without Toto. CAN A SISTA GET A SMALL, TERRIER-ESQUE DOG??? Fortunately for me, my parents’ old and graying Schnauzer, Freemont (RIP), fit the bill AND happened to be at that senile age where you can do anything with him and he didn’t mind it much – probably because he didn’t really know what was going on. Kind of like the dog version of Walter Matthau. Hence, lift him up near an open microwave, smack a sinister sneer on your face, email the horrifying image to your easily-horrified sister, and call it a holiday.

So there you have it. If you need me, I’ll be banging away on the Teddy Ruxpin battery that is my new Nokia. Jerk.

Most sincerely,

Wendy