“Public Notice” w/ t.j. peters

An Open Letter to the Motorist Who Frequently Drives His Souped-up, Two Door Honda Civic On St. Andrews Place and Honks at Me When I’m Trying to Parallel Park

Dear Fucker,

Let me begin by saying I think your dual-strapped racing seat belt is super cool.  Like seriously, the coolest.  And practical!  When you’re swerving around my car at fifty miles per hour into oncoming traffic—one block away in either direction from an elementary school and a retirement community—I’m sure it keeps you very snug in your driver’s seat, which appears to have some kind of mesh cover on it, probably to match the skin tight shirt you’re wearing.

Furthermore, I like the statement your cockpit sends to your girlfriend, who sits in the passenger seat wearing a normal seat belt, rattling around like that bitch in Death Proof (who I’m sure you’ll agree “had it coming”, much like your woman does).  It’s unfortunate, though, that you probably couldn’t hear the loud thud produced by her head hitting the side window as you so skillfully maneuvered around me, seeing as you have replaced your exhaust pipe with a holiday noise maker, not to mention the extended period of honking (which sounded badass, by the way).

But outside of the obvious fact that you have a totally awesome car and know how to drive it, I’d like to point out that I think you’re making a wise behind-the-wheel decision when you recklessly endanger nearly everyone on St. Andrews Place, because in this situation I’m the only one who’s safe.  If you were to not valiantly avoid my stationary car by jerking your Honda into opposing traffic, we might both run the risk of me carelessly backing into your vehicle at high velocity, or, worse yet, you might have to slow down and allow me to parallel park my fucking car, you God damn dolt.

Ahem, please excuse me.  I didn’t mean to drop the “d” bomb on you.  I promised myself I would only refer to you as “fucker.”  Insults aside, the real reason I’m writing this letter is to put to rest the burning question that I’m sure has got you scribing away to the blogosphere, as well:  No, I could not fit into that spot.

Best,

t.j.

Saturday White Live

After finally winning over the crucial urban demographic last week with Charles Barkley and Alicia Keys as host and musical guest, Saturday Night Live promptly disenfranchises their new audience with an episode as white as the cocaine SNL was founded on. Sigourney Weaver and the Ting Tings reprise the roles made blacker by Barkley and Keys, respectively.

I’m not saying this episode won’t be funny. I AM saying, if it is funny, the world we know is no more. Up is down, black is white. And I don’t want to live in a world where Sigourney Weaver is black. I have too much love for hip-hop.

If you’re in Portland, Oregon this weekend go catch a screening of MYSTERY TEAM, featuring members of DERRICK at all the weekend showings!

My name is Ben and I blogged this and Char titled it.