To the Quiet Broken Fridge

Soon our time will be over. Today, someone suggested I carry you out of here by myself. I politely explained it would too great a task and I would need help. Then I said, “I’ll only be able to do it is if it is in parts.”

I was serious. There is a hammer in the hallway.

The kitchen looks like you vomited all over it. There is a crummy feeling where the good used to be. Everything went bad when you walked away from our relationship. The kitchen stinks and I think you are a douche bag. Ruiner!

I’ll never trust your kind ever again. I should have known better. It’s not like your type hasn’t given up on me before. I naively thought you were better than that. I naively thought you were committed.

Though I hate to admit it, I’m finding it extremely difficult to live without you in my life. But don’t think for a minute that I can’t manage to survive without you. The bitter taste of your betrayal keeps me going.

Sooner or later I’m going to need to eat. That will force me to clean the kitchen…I’ll feel bad all over.

Why?! Why have you done this to me?



PS: I wish I could quit you.

Dear Christmas

This Christmas Eve I find myself in a basement with a nearly empty bottle of bourbon on the table and Kill Bill Vol. 1 on the television. I’ve got to work tomorrow. Uma Thurman is trying to wiggle her big toe. There are weird clicking sounds in the kitchen that I can’t seem to find a way to stop no matter how I stack the filthy dishes in the sink.

When I was a kid, I’d play with my toys under the tree for the entire week after Christmas. I remember playing with a my new Punisher van in the space under the tree branches, beside the wall. It is a good memory. Christmas is better earlier in life.

I got my brother two action figures for Christmas. He’ s six. I’m in my 20s. Both the toys have spring-loaded projectiles. One is a Transformer. The other is a stealth-flavoured Venom. I hope he likes them. Kids might not play action figures any more.

Christmas, treat everybody as well as it has treated me.


Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: Turns out the weird clicking noises in the kitchen were the sounds of the fridge dying. Now everything smells like rotting beef. Its red juice covers the freezer. Sick.

Sure hope Stanta brings me some ice for Christmas.

Dear Edson, Alta.

Alberta is a big place. Big enough that greasy spoon diners can charge four dollars for a grilled cheese and place the bathroom soap in a yogurt container by the sink. Maybe Alberta is too big.

Up yours,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Fergis T. McGillicuddy

I found your last letter lazy, sophomoric and crass. I thought you were more professional than that. You’ve got to get your shit together Fergis. Bourbon doesn’t grow on trees. You won’t get the scratch for it by penning smarmy celebrity gossip. Who knows how you’ll get it? You certainly don’t.

Put some effort in boy. Craft a witty and well-thought out letter to Frankenstein’s Monster, a wine decanter or foreign politics.


Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Britney Spears’ Crotch

You’ve been hanging out lately. That’s cool I guess. I hang out when I’m at home. It’s no big deal though. I don’t have photographers trying to snap pictures of me exiting vehicles. Plus, I don’t normally wear skirts out in pubic. Uh…I mean public.


Fergis T. McGillicuddy

PS: Tell the rest of your body to go easy on the post-natal Mojitos.

Dear Bed

This needs to stop.  I am a productive member of society. I can work. I can do more with my life than sleep for 15+ hours a day. The only thing stopping me is you…and a coffee shortage…and maybe a job that requires me to be somewhere at a certain time. Never mind that for the moment. The important thing I need you to do is stop being so damn comfortable. Right now the dial is on 11. It needs to be on seven or I might not be able to wake up one day.


Fergis T. McGillicuddy