An Open Letter to Brunch…

Dear Brunch,

Fuck you.

Every weekend you saunter in all beautiful and delicious looking, wooing all the customers into ordering you.  And every time someone says “I’ll have the Brunch…” I think Of course you will.

You, Brunch, are a slut.  Stop cozying up to the customers with your attractive array of fruit and flash of greens.  Stop luring them with your creamy scrambled eggs, telling them they can have what ever kind of scone they want. Just stop it.

You know why, Brunch? Because you’re high maintenance, that’s why.  We need three people to prepare you in a timely fashion, and even then when you strut around in-front of everyone the way that you do, we just can’t make you fast enough because everyone in the place has ordered you.

Then people get all up in my craw about how it’s taking too long.  We’re not fucking McDonald’s, okay? I’m not thawing an EggMcMuffin back here! What I’m doing takes time, and love, and as little rage as possible.  Because when I start making Brunches with RAGE NO ONE IS GONNA HAVE A GOOD TIME.

It’s always about you.  BRUNCH. You’re sooooooo special, aren’t you? Everyone shows up just for you, and nobody even thinks twice about who prepares you.  If I’m not making Brunch, who is? No one. That’s who.  You know what that means? It means I’ve never, ever, after making 10,000 brunches, EVER eaten one myself.  Sure I’ve snacked here and there, but I’ve NEVER experienced the pleasure of sitting down with a nice HOT NEVER BEEN RE-HEATED (6 times) IN THE MICROWAVE coffee on my nice Sunday-off.  Cause I’ve never had a Sunday off.  Nor a Saturday.  And those are the only days we serve you, Brunch.

So, yeah.  If you could stop whoring it up with the customers, that would be greatly appreciated.  Then maybe I wouldn’t have to scream about jamming forks in my eyes and the kitchen wouldn’t look like Cosovo when we’re done at the end of the day. That’d be great.  Or if you could even just help us clean up, that would be a step in the right direction.

Jerkstore.  You know what I mean, don’t pretend you don’t get it.


P.S. I hate you.

P.P.S Since you have such a nice relationship with the customers, maybe you could suggest to them to calm the fuck down on their days off, and let them know that other people don’t get to spend Sunday at the cute little Cafe down the street, and that those people preparing their food probably haven’t had breakfast yet, and probably won’t eat for about six hours.  Remind them that that would be a really sucky position to be in, and that service people are a lot nicer when they have good blood-sugar levels and really nice, respectful customers around.


October 1, 2007 at 12:57 am 2 comments

An Open Letter to Myself ?… set the mood: the sound of my own ignorance

Dear Dumbass,

Congrats! You’ve officially (and unwittingly) announced yourself pretty pretty pretty precharded — that’s the politically correct term for ‘pretty retarded’ at my place of work where there is an open kitchen and we must swear in code — right here on the internet, potentially for millions to see.

You often complain about others stating facts without doing proper preliminary research, and yet you’ve overstepped your bounds by assuming that something was not what it actually was — in a previous post you accused Elvis Radio of not playing Rhinestone Cowboy out of personal spite against you.


You need to tone down the sass and do some goddamn research before you write your open letters; it’s about the quality of the rant, not the quantity.


P.S.  Elvis is rolling over in his grave at the thought of you confusing WAYNE NEWTON for THE KING!

September 21, 2007 at 2:04 am Leave a comment

An Open Letter to The Voice of the Voiceless aka Crazy Man… set the mood: Bad Moon Rising – CCR

Dear Mr. Harold C. Funk,

This morning, your most recent letter to the HEAD OF THE NATION has reminded me once again why living in the city is far more interesting then living in suburbia. No one in suburbia prints up hundreds of open letters to the government and sticks them on car windshields at the crack of dawn. Conspiracy theories first thing in the morning are much like a good cup of coffee or a can of Red Bull. So thanks for that.

As far as your presentation is concerned, I’d like to point out that typing everything in capitals, although it is clear that you’re trying to make a VERY LOUD POINT, defeats the purpose of using capitals in the first place. I suggest perhaps WRiTiNG LiKe THiS IN ThE fUTuRE bECauSe iT’s EfFEcT iS fAr MoRE JaRrInG.

Second, though you’ve got some interesting stuff in here (“Stop the mass murder” – note: I’m not actually referring to the context with which you wrote this, but it’s a good – however ‘Granola’ it may be – point to make), but there seems to be a bit of an issue with your spell check and grammar check on your computer. Perhaps it just underlines everything in red because YOU ALWAYS WRITE LIKE THIS AS THOUGH YOU ARE SHOUTING OVER THE READER’S SHOULDER.

You see, when people are ranting and saying things that are construed as crazy by others, it is best to use discretion with the presentation. If everything you write is in capitals with little to no respect for general grammar rules (not only of the language you are writing in, but of ANY language), no one will take you seriously, least of all the Government. They just think you’re a nut.


Suggestion: Romona has clearly outlined the “Rights of the Child” immediately after conception. It is the duty of each nation to not only legislate protection of the rights of the child, but that said rights be valid from conception on rather then from birth. (Or something along those lines… I had to read this several times in order to understand your point)

See? Yours looks a little crazy, whereas mine like I did some research and clear-headed thinking before I sat down to write. And it’s only 8:57 am!

As far as your facts go… I’m not sure if claiming that children have a language called DNA is going to support anything; to me using language to equate the genetic makeup seems to compare children to computers, since computers have languages written for them to run. In my mind, this reduces the concept of the child to that of something mechanical and inhuman, and I thought that was going against what your rant is all about.

And appearing to yell about how abortions are HATE CRIMES doesn’t say anything but that you don’t know the general definition of the term hate crime. Abortions would be hate crimes if women were going out and getting pregnant on purpose, then aborting them because they hate children. Aborting a zygote because one doesn’t feel as though they could give a child a loving, supportive environment (for whatever reason: selfish, drug addict, soul-less, disinterest, against the continuous overpopulation of the planet…) isn’t hateful towards the child.

Additionally, I don’t understand what the follow means:




Proof-reading is your friend. So are antipsychotics, but I certainly don’t want to tell you what to do with yourself, especially since you are entertaining just as you are. The downside is that when people see this kind of sloppy output, they start to think things like “Damn crazies, why can’t the government just get them some handlers?” or something along those lines, and all of a sudden not only are your rights as a mentally unstable person put into question, but the concept of “Freedom of Speech” is at stake. If I was to adjust my thought patterns to reflect yours, I’d say that you, Sir, can be solely responsible for putting the Canadian Constitution at risk of disembowelment!

Wishing you the very opposite of a good day,


September 20, 2007 at 1:05 pm 2 comments

An Open Letter to Elvis Radio (Sirius Satellite channel 013)… Rhinestone Cowboy – the One and Only KING, BABY

Dear Graceland Inhabitors,

So I’ll admit that three weeks ago I couldn’t stand the thought of listening to your station for longer than a busy lunch hour. And yet this morning I found myself going for an all Elvis day, actually listening to the King from 7am until 4pm today. Wow. That’s a lot of King.

And while I spent many a moment saying “Awesome, this song!” I never once was able to proclaim such a thing when Rhinestone Cowboy was played. Know why? BECAUSE YOU WOULDN’T PLAY IT ALL DAY.

I heard Suspicious Minds played at 11:23, then again at 1:31, and yet again at 3:18.

And no Rhinestone Cowboy.

I remember hearing that song that sounds like Shake, Rattle, and Roll twice, the song that sounds like Great Balls of Fire twice, and at least a handful of other songs that were played more than once. And you know, I do give you some credit for playing multiple recordings, some of which aren’t available to the public (like the version of Ghost Riders in the Sky you played today, thanks for that), but these songs repeated today WERE THE SAME RECORDING DATES.

You bastards. Did you seriously think no one was going to notice? I know, you’re sitting there in Graceland thinking your hot shit because you control Elvis Radio. I could very easily go out and start a Johnny Cash radio station and control it from Folsom Prison and maybe I’ll even learn to cross the airways and take over your petty little station in an effort to help the world understand that simple black is a far stronger statement then sequins and capes.

Over and Out,


September 17, 2007 at 9:49 pm 1 comment

An Open Letter to the “physician” I “poisoned”…

Dear Liar,

There are many things in this world that we don’t like. I don’t like ABBA. They make me want to shove screwdrivers in my ears until I puncture my temporal lobe by which time I might have dropped the screwdriver because the cerebrospinal fluid has made the Robertson handle too difficult to grasp and twist.

Other things that suck: missing out on getting tickets to see a show, getting an apartment right next to the airport, and having a 24h bug that has been going around.

And you.

That’s right, Sir. I said you. You suck because this morning you brought me down from my fabulous ‘Sunday Morning and I’m Working My Ass Off Again for Ingrates Who Don’t Appreciate Western Living’ self by calling me and informing me that baked goods I sell gave you, your wife, and your baby diarrhea.


Second, WHY DID YOU EAT THREE IN ONE SITTING? Do you know how much fat that is? 75 grams of fat, you stupid fuck. 1500 calories. “Oh, I got diarrhea, poor me, feel bad for me, give me free scones.” You obviously don’t know how to maintain LIFE properly, because three scones isn’t a meal. It’s more like a binge, and that’s the sign of an emotional problem.

Third, you proudly informed me that you, your wife, and your baby know for sure that it was the scones because “that’s all we had to eat yesterday.” YOU BOUGHT THE SCONES AT 1:30 IN THE AFTERNOON. I should call the CSA on your ass if you haven’t fed your baby anything by 1:30 and even then all you gave it was a couple of pieces of scones.

I was nice to you. I kept my mouth shut about how absurd the whole idea was, all the time questioning if perhaps you and your wife and your baby have lactose intolerance, since there are few things that cause diarrhea other than a parasite or virus (neither of which are present in scones, as they are baked at 375 degrees and go from fridge to hot oven experiencing nothing in between like a toilet bowl or hospital sheets) and are handled with tongs. I don’t recall having rubbed your six cheddar scones on my ass before boxing them, but who knows. I’ve been known to do many a crazy thing at work on a busy Saturday.

I said that the whole thing was very interesting since I’ve never heard anything like this in all the years I’ve been working in the bakery, and that myself and my fellow coworkers, as well as our hundred or so regular customers who eat scones on a daily basis have never experienced anything like diarrhea.

Your response: “Oh I’m a PHYSICIAN, I’ve heard these things reported.”

Oh, so now you’re a Physician. That’s a vague term isn’t it?

A) I’ve since done some research on diarrhea and I’ve found nothing that could indicate that what we sell made you, your wife, and your baby sick.

B) Why is it a physician, his wife, and his baby had eaten nothing before 1:30 in the afternoon then chose to have a healthy scone binge? That doesn’t sound responsible at all.

C) I looked up your name in the white and yellow pages and there is no listing of you being a physician. And as I’ve come to learn, anyone who has paid six figures to obtain any sort of letters of importance will go out of their way to make sure they are clearly listed on everything they own.

D) I remember you; you weren’t over 27 and you looked kinda like a stoned bum jonesing for scones. I don’t believe you for a second when you say you’re a physician.

E) Go fuck yourself.


I found this fact sheet on managing diarrhea which you might find interesting.

September 16, 2007 at 9:54 pm 1 comment

Gross Shoes… set the mood: Dancing Shoes – Arctic Monkeys

I am the slave of gross shoes.

It’s not my fault.  And I honestly don’t think they are all that gross; my knowledge of how gross they are comes from my family, my friends, and my embarrassment when I go into a shoe store to try on some cute little pink kitten heels (as though I need another pair…).

My gross shoes are great.  I haven’t replaced them or thrown them out altogether because they are comfortable.  And despite their grossosity, they are so versitile.  I can wear them with jeans, capris, shorts, skirts.  Yes, I actually will ruin a perfectly nice ensemble with my gross shoes, just because I know I’ll be walking a lot.  The myth most people believe of cute shoes is that they are ultra comfortable.  That’s not always true.  Regardless of how much they cost, how well they fit, and how broken in they are, you can’t wear them forever.  Forever  being 10 hours.  Most shoes will hurt after ten hours.  These shoes, not so much.

But, alas, they are “gross”.

So why will I not get rid of them?  If it’s gotten to the point where I’m saddened when people notice them and their weirdness (yeah, they are kinda funny looking too… I originally bought them because a friend found a pair in red, and they looked beautiful, like silk slippers, but I could only find ice blue, which apparently look like “future shoes”) and when people like, say, my mother, make fun of them.  Clearly I’ve taken them too far, but what can I do?

I went to the Diesel website in a vain attempt to find something comperable.  No such luck.  I’ve found a couple of pairs that don’t look too bad, but let’s face it I am picky and I’m rarely impulsive.  Mostly because I don’t like to be wasteful, and it seems silly to buy something just because it seems brilliant in the moment, then get home and try to find a place to shove it becaue it’s not at all practical or even me. 

I’m begining to think that perhaps my gross shoes are some sort of obvious metaphor for a bigger problem, but which one? The fact that I love my job even though it provides me with little intellectual fulfilment/is physically bad for me because I work long hours without breaks and become stressed out far too easily? Is it because I never really let go of people in my life because I like to let everyone impact me somehow (always positively, I don’t like to hang on to negative feelings because it’s an imroper use of energy)? In all honesty, I think of everyone I’ve been really close to at least once a week for no real reason other than I allow random things to revive these people in my mind.  Is that bad? Do other people do that? I’m weird, aren’t I?

Will throwing out my gross shoes make this stop?

August 3, 2007 at 11:21 pm 1 comment

An Open Letter to Fashion… set the mood: Big in Japan – Tom Waits

Dear Fashion,

First off, I’d like to fully support your existence from the late thirties through to the mid 1950s. Body-hugging pencil-skirted suits with 4 inch heels and a cute little hat and matching handbag? Brilliant. Full-circle skirt, crinoline, and 4 inch heels? Love it. Floor-length silk dresses with modestly-sexy necklines and plunging backs appropriately accompanied by 4 inch heels? Fabulous.

Hm. Perhaps I’m not fussy about the outfit, so long as 4 inch heels are involved.

Regardless, I’m a fan of the classy-yet-sexy period. Why can’t we do that again? I just don’t understand why it is that every season something has to come out that a) only looks good on someone with the body of an eleven year old boy and b) is either too revealing or too tent-like.

Example: Skinny Jeans. Why? Why brings these back? The average female is 5’4″ and a size 8. That’s me. I’m average on the outside, awesome on the inside. Putting me in skinny jeans would be… how could I word this? An exercise in mutilating the self-esteem, that’s what it would do. Why? Cause I have hips. That’s why. That’s okay, I’m supposed to have them, and I think they are all right. But skinny jeans… skinny jeans don’t like hips because they make the hippy (again, the majority of society) look like a giant inverted triangle. And that’s not what women are. We are regular triangles, and men are inverted triangles. Therefore, skinny jeans make women men.

Leggings. Leggings are useful for two things: to stay warm in the winter (under jeans, a long skirt), and for running in the winter because wearing shorts to jog in -20 degree weather is a sign of sociopathy. Aside from that, leggings are no good. They are not good under short skirts. Or dresses. Or baggy t-shirts. Or tight t-shirts. They are not good with lace trim. In fact, they are so bad with lace trim that other garmets, garmets that should be trimmed in lace such a silk slips and bras and the like, cringe in disgust, becoming intensely ashamed of their highly appropriate and alluring lace trim.

The Maternity Dress. These are bad. Bad bad bad. Why you ask? Because they MAKE EVERYONE WHO WEARS ONE LOOK PREGNANT. That’s why they are called the MATERNITY DRESS. The empire waist with the short but oddly full expanse of fabric that falls from just beneath the bust hides the highly distinguishing aspect of the female form: the hour glass (or close approximation). Take, oh, and hour glass. No, a watch won’t do. Just imagine it, you don’t have to have one in your hands. Now take a handkerchief (like a tissue or Kleenex but made from cloth) and mentally drape it over the top of the hour glass so that it is hanging down evenly on all sides. Now take a tube (tennis ball display box) about the same size as the hour glass and mentally drape the handkerchief over it similarly. Notice anything? Yeah, they look EXACTLY THE SAME. And that’s not a good thing.

What I’d like to know, Fashion, the reason I’m writing you in the first place, is why is it that you insist on pushing this kind of crap on us? And who the heck decides what is going to be ‘Hot’ this year anyway? It certainly isn’t me. I find it interesting how every store just so happens to always put the same styles and colours out on the racks every season. What sort of Fashion Getaway do you have for designers? Do you all sit around, wondering what colours you can convince us to buy this time? “Let’s try to get them into Lime this year. We’ll pair it with Coral and see if they go for it.” Then, after deciding that stirrup pants are the greatest thing since low-fat no-whip orange-mocha frappucinos, you have a short-lived pillow fight and then eat smores while having a contest to see who can make the most stylish dress from tinfoil and banana peels. That’s what you do, isn’t it?

Don’t lie. And for the record, I’m not falling for it.


August 3, 2007 at 1:53 am 2 comments

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