Dear Luluemon Chris

Thanks for the response to my previous letter, which follows:

“this is pure loser talk. spend the time you spend hating on everything, and go get something for yourself!”

It’s obvious you are a sweetheart, so I’ll kindly respond with a few things:

I’m assuming the advice you have graciously provided is coming from a position of experience. I’m assuming you consider yourself a winner. I’m assuming you spend your time not “hating on everything.” I’m assuming you use that time to “go get something for yourself!”

Note: I’m well aware “assuming” makes “asses of you and me.”

That said, I’m sort of confused about the general spirit it was written.

“go get something for yourself”

What does that mean exactly? A glass of water? A large TV? An $82 T-shirt claiming to utilize seaweed to absorb sweat yet does NOT actually contain seaweed? How ’bout a state of enlightened state of nirvana that is free from the burdensome trappings of modern consumer culture.

Note: Yoga does not require an $82 T-Shirt nor seamless pants.

“this is pure loser talk”

First, this is pure loser writing. There is a difference.

Secondly, there is safety in numbers and there will always be more losers than winners. I like that.

Besides, without losers there would be no one to envy you and your winner comrades in your yoga loft engaging in an endless circle jerk to end all circle jerks.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: Words beginning sentences require capitalization. I know you know where the shift key is because you used an exclamation point at the end of your sentence.

PPS: You are a douche.

PPPS: Seriously.

PPPPS: I don’t have anything against circle jerks or yoga even… Just stupidity.

PPPPPS: I think you are stupid.

PPPPPPS: No. Seriously.

Dear Leprechauns

This year is the year. Come March 17, I won’t fall for the old “your shoelaces are untied” a second time. Nah, this year I’m stylin’ velcro and you’ll have plenty of time to scope out my snazzy kicks while I’m shaking you upside down, emptying your pockets of their gold and Lucky Charms.

I’ve been practicing my Leprechaun freezing stare, boning up on Leprechaun reverse-psychology and I’ve been running the scenario over and over in my brain.

I remember one year, I thought I’d done it, I was elated, I’d finally caught one of you mangy buggers.

I’d gone to take out the garbage, noticed some suspicious movement by one of the bins, went to investigate and saw a tiny little bearded humanoid.

“Ha! Finally!” I screamed. “Take me to your gold! You can’t move while I stare at you cobbler!”

“No dude. You’re thinking of leprechauns. I’m a Clurichaun.”

I was devastated. A quick look at its grease-stained, tiny blue jeans and miniature leather jacket with accompanying pompadour confirmed he was surely not a leprechaun. It got me very smashed on its mystical wine as a consolation. But I could tell the it did it so out of pity and not camaraderie.

Leprechauns beware.  I’m not going to be denied.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Hillary Clinton

                              

It’s time. Cut your losses and give up the campaign. There are better ways to spend your time.

Head back to one of your multi-million dollar mansions. Re-connect with Bill. Watch some 24 together. Share a romantic meal .

See, the thing is, deep down, you are scary. It’s true. You know it. I know it. And, well, America knows it.

“I’m not scary,” you say. “Look at my track record on human rights, women’s rights, and other rights. etc. etc.”

Yes, that may be true, but you appear as if you want to eat America.

I don’t think that is a quality the majority of Democrats want in a leader.
Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To your mom

Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Red Arrow

It is with much pleasure I travel from Edmonton to Calgary on your motorcoach. It even has wireless internet capabilities, which makes it simple to maintain correspondence. However, I cannot condone the choice of film on this particular journey.

Across the Universe? Really? What would make you think anybody with ears or eyes could enjoy that film? The brutal sodomy performed on the Beatles’ beautiful music? The clichéd plot and characters? Bono?

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the songs enough. It’s that I love the songs so much I can’t bear to witness them used to prop up such an overwrought script.

I just wanted to see a bad sports movie during my three hour bus ride. Is Mighty Ducks too much to ask?

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Five Fantastic Fergis Facts

1. Fergis wishes to die in a plane crash piloted by John Travolta, but only if he uses the intercom to utter his final words: “Oh my god!”

2. Fergis thinks it is beautiful when fat people have children.

3. Fergis’ favourite historical dictator is Chairman Mao. Coincidentally, Chairman Mao is also his favourite name for a cat. Chairman Meow is his second favourite cat name. Steve is his third.

4. Fergis is unable to add prime numbers in his head.

5. Fergis always cries at the end of Jurassic Park.

Dear Visitor 60,000!

While you may be simply visiting here for the celebrity gossip, I ‘d like to offer you a personalized message nonetheless.

Here it is:

Thank you Visitor 60,000. I wanted to do this for Visitor 50,000 but I forgot and then the numbers ballooned to limits not thought possible. I had to be patient. You see Visitor 60,000, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.

It’s been a fine year for me. I’ve written meaningful correspondence with various objects and people, earned a pair of robot boots and a sack of gems, built a homunculus, killed a homunculus etc. etc.

This is well and good, but sadly something is amiss within the meaty cockles of my chest. I’m not sure why I feel the need to share this information with you Visitor 60,000 but I must. I can’t seem to put my finger on it. Perhaps my enemies have been secretly increasing in strength and it is indeed time for me to flee. Maybe my odd sleeping patterns are having an effect. In an effort to be considered to colonize Mars, I’ve recently switched to Martian time. The Martian day is only 39 minutes longer than an Earth day, but I’ve started to think the subtle change is producing unintended effects.

We have a connection you and I, a connection that I intended to have with Visitor 50,000. But like so many things, it wasn’t meant to be. But you and I are different. One day we will travel to the Red Planet…

I can see it now…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Lululemon “Manifesto”

Recently, a bag told me what to do and what to think. I thought it made some ballsy assertions. Though this is obviously a “wall poster,” one can purchase the same misguided philosophy on a “shoulder bag.”

1. Do one thing a day that scares you.

I just tried crack. Does that count? I had to go to a really freaky part of town to buy it.

2. Jealousy works the opposite way you want it to.

What does this even mean? Never end your sentences with a preposition.

3. Life is full of set backs. Success is determined by how you handle setbacks.

This is basically a description of basic economics re-interpreted through the eyes of a new-age marketing department. A sports company could put “the best way to win a game is to score more goals than your opponent” onto their bags. But even hockey players know better.

Here’s some mental jujitsu for you:

4. Don’t trust that an old-age pension will be sufficient. 

Damn right, especially if I’m buying clothes at Lululemon. I better start working 24/7 and my job is so stressful…

5. Stress is related to 99% of illness.

The highly trained medical staff (even the people who take out the garbage at Lululemon have extensive scientific credentials. It’s a little known fact those “yoga studios” are top shelf medical research facilities.) have changed my life! I’m going to quit my job that is obviously conspiring to end my life to do yoga all day. Which will be easy because…

6. Friends are more important than money.

I get it now. I just need to pour my hot bum into a pair of seamless yoga pants and get somebody wealthy enough to pay my way through life. Live Lulu!

7. Listen, listen, listen, and then ask strategic questions.  

Having heard, heard, heard, I’ll ask this question: “Do you actually believe this crap?”

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Cough Medicine Jim

Howdy. It’s been a long time. But despite my best efforts we always spend a few days together this time of year. We enjoy some steaming mugs of Neo Citran together, down a Tylenol cough cap and do some DVD-watching. Later, when everything settles down, we listen to some sad music and muse briefly on the nature of the universe. You got some profound insight to share with the world Cough Medicine Jim. But understand our time needs to be short. Any longer and I’d be unable to reintegrate with society.

I’d need to give up my gainful position at the office. Any semblance of an intimate relationship would be obviously unrealistic to pursue. My bank account would slowly dwindle into the red.  I’d eventually succumb beside a lonely dumpster located in downtown Edmonton with a very sticky medicine beard.

When its time to say goodbye, don’t make it harder than it needs to be.

Sincerely,

Fergis

Dear Brett Ratner

It seems as though you took my advice and made Rush Hour 3. Congratulations on that. You, like a Hollywood Nostradamus, were able to predict Chris Tucker’s meteoric rise to celebrity A-list fame and capitalise on it. Who knew he’d be in so many wonderful films since…uh…wait…It turns out Tucker hasn’t been in any movies
since Rush Hour 2. Now that the Rush Hour thrillogy is complete, Tucker will be able to remove the elastic bands you’ve forced him to wear on his scrotum during the last six years. Why else would his eyes be so wide? I bet you kept him in a cage in your basement.

Now he can finally start work on his dream—self-producing/directing /acting an updated adaptation of Lorraine Hansberry’s classic play A Raisin in the Sun.

“Damn my eggs…damn all the eggs that ever was!” he’ll shout.

I can see it now. It will be glorious.

I think it is prudent to mention that I’ll never see Rush Hour 3 if I can help it. I’ll certainly never pay to see it. I’ve seen the syndicated episodes of Friends that you’ve stolen Rush Hour’s brand of “humour” from.

After X-Men 3: The Last Stand, I thought it was the worst movie I’d seen in a while. So by default, you were the worst director of recent memory. Now, I realize you may be the worst director in history.

So you turned down an opportunity to direct Ocean’s Eleven citing that you’ve got no interest in making “little movies.” Instead, you’d like to remake Ocean’s Eleven with an all-Black cast, with the characters playing janitors instead of thieves. What planet are you from again?

Now I realize my previous advice was wrong. I’ll offer a new piece of advice—please throw all your cameras, director-chairs and crew jackets off a cliff, ensuring you tether something particularly heavy on to your legs beforehand, you evil monster.

As Always,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy