Thursday, August 24, 2006

Dear DMV,


dmvdinks
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
Your website sucks. Your automated call system sucks even harder. I just have a teeny tiny question and have kept me on hold for over thirty minutes. Please don't patronize me by saying " You're call is very important to us" because we both know it clearly is not. If I were so important to you, then you would call me. If I were important to you, then you would be open on Saturdays for us folks who work during the week. If I were so important to you, then you would at least play enjoyable tunes for hold muzak instead of just making me wait with awkward silence that caused me to repeatedly think w had disconnected and say “hello? hello?" only to be scared by the recorded bass voice teasing me with the "please hold/you're important to us" recorded lies.
Tell me, does the D in DMV stand for douchebag? Please let me know because I was unable to find the answer in your FAQ's


Love Always,
Giulia
PS. While I realize the DMV is in no way associate with the department of tax and finance, I decided to torture myself today and also call the NY department of revenue to follow up on my 2005 return I have yet to receive. I was placed on hold for 25 minutes only to be told I am actually not getting one because I failed to pay the "residency tax" ( the tax New Yorkers pay to live in the tiny, windowless apartments). Sadly the amount of money I thought I was owed by the state wouldn't have even been enough to pay the cost of my cell minutes I used waiting on hold. Isn't it ironic, don't ya think? A little too ironic, causing me to assume that all these bureaus are the epicenters of douchedom. That our tax dollars pay for lessons on how to be a complete and total douche. Write about that Alanis.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Dear prioritysupport
@laptopreportcard.com,


dicks
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
I have admitted many times that I feel utter despair when my email inbox is empty. When I open my yahoo account to find a "0" in front of "new messages" I wince. The internet is my high school and that "0" tells me that no one will in fact take me to my junior prom.
Yet, no matter how I long for cyber popularity validation I NEVER get excited when I receive an email from you people at www.laptopreportcard.com ( I won't even hyperlink your name, I hate you that much). No matter how lonely I feel while shopping for MySpace friends only to go home empty handed ( "Yeah, I just didn't see anything I really liked') I NEVER get excited when I receive an email from you people at www.laptopreportcard.com. Even when I am drinking wine and crying as I stay up at night to google other writer/performer/creative types to see if they are more successful than me ( as their bios always seem to indicate) I will NEVER get excited when I receive an email from you people at www.laptopreportcard.com.
You have sent me a dozen spam messages everyday for two months and I still have not taken advantage of your offer for a free laptop. Don't you get the hint?Now I didn't write a book, go on Oprah, and get my own talk show but If a person doesn't return your messages they're "just not that into you."
So yesterday, after my fifth time entering my email address in to the "unsubscribe" box on your lame site, I emailed you folks at douchebags@laptopreportcard.com I mean prioritysupport@laptopreport.com letting you know that I want out of this twisted one-sided love affair you have with me and my box. My inbox. Twenty minutes later you sent me four more spam emails.
Now, it's on.
For every email you send me I will send 100 to your prioritysupport@laptopreportcard.com address. I will sign up for every newsletter, mailing list, and porn site using your email address. I will post your email address on this site and encourage my readers to send you emails whenever they are in the mood to make contact with a douchebag.

Love Always,
Giulia

Friday, August 18, 2006

Dear beggars outside of Bank of America ATMs and all your friends,


images
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
Don't you dare get mad at me! I don’t recall ever agreeing that I would pay a douchebag to hold the bank door open for me. Clearly I cannot “spare a quarter” when the smallest bill ATM’s don’t give out change. Did you honestly expect me to ask if you could break a twenty? This is a prime example why “beggars can’t be choosers” perhaps, next time you should say “spare any money?” rather than a specific coin.
Oh and here are a few more pan-handling tips for ya:
*When reject your donation request, don’t mutter “stupid ass bitch” under your breath. It doesn’t get me to change to mind.
*Don’t make your cardboard sign more than two sentences long. Nobody wants to get that close to read the find print about your lost job, home, mind, cat, stamp collection. Keep it short, sweet, and honest like “Please give me some of your hard earned money so I can finish my beer in a bag”
* When begging for change, don’t make announcements on the subway like “ Excuse me ladies and gentlemen I am not a crack addict” It just confirms that you are in fact a crack addict.
*Remember to leave Ugg boots at home when begging for change. I have actually seen a few of you sporting fancier shoes than me while shaking that damn change cup in my face. If you are really that hungry, go eat your boot.


Love Always,
Giulia

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Dear Giulia,


images
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
You were wrong about the cast of the Real World as posted on this site Thursday, July 13, 2006. After watching the final episode last night we realized they are pretty cool peeps. Jose has feelings, Paula has healed, Sveltlana and Tyler are friends, Jon is still cool, Zack is a real nice guy, and Janelle,...well Janelle is still sort of boring but not so douchey. I am proud of you, the cast of the Real World Keywest and I can admit perhaps I was the douchebag in judging you all before the season ended.

Love Always,
Giulia

ps. If any of you end up on "The Gaunlet" ( I bet it'll be Jon) I will take back my apology and consider you a douche again.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Dear group of girls at H & M who were trying to decide which color "wife beater" to buy and anyone else who refers to undershirts as "wife beaters",


images
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
“Wife beaters” are people who should be in jail, not a cutesy name for a tank top. Is the word “undershirt” too hard for you to say? Have you ever been hit by a man? I assume not as the word “wife beater” rolls off your tongue so nonchalantly. Let me guess, you justify your inner feminist by sporting an opposing “boy beater”.
If the fashion police come out when your “wife beater” is out of style, do they only reprimand you for the fashion crime or for the beating of the wife as well? Do some stores have sales like “buy one wife beater, get a restraining order and a one month stay at an abused women’s shelter for free” ?
Can you solve this quandary? My dad once wore a “wife beater” when he beat me, if this a fashion fau pau? Perhaps there is a “child beater” sweater out there? If so, does is it navy blue with white snowflakes and reindeer?
Why don’t they name other pieces of clothing after violent acts? Like “child molester jeans” or “rape blazer”?
Maybe you should go spend your douche dollars on this book rather than those ten tanks made by slave laborers in India.


Love Always,
Giulia

Monday, August 14, 2006

Dear co-workers who like to comment on other people's lunches,


salad
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
I know, oh how I know, that food is one of the only things that office workers have to break-up the monotony of the day.. That we all clock watch, deciding how early is too early to leave for lunch. That when we hear a wrapper crinkling across the office we fantasize about the taste and texture of whatever treat our officemate is about to indulge. That in company-wide emails, before you even finish reading the line " free cookies in the..." the stampede from cubical to kitchen has already commenced. That, at noon when you finally read the threatening email from the office manager of “all unlabeled food will be thrown away by 11:30 am on Friday” you are sent into a tizzy because you forgot to put our name on that 1/3 of a Panini left over from last Tuesdays lunch meeting and it was in fact going to be the most exciting part of your day.
As a food lover and off again-on again office special guest star, (real live office, sadly not the show) I totally understand.
However I still would like to make the following request: when I choose to make a salad for lunch and make the mistake of eating it in the break room for all to watch, please, please, please do not say to me “Wow! Aren't yooooooooooou healthy?" It makes me feel praised yet accused at the same time which ultimately makes me feel uncomfortable.
How do I respond to such commentary? " Yeah I'm super healthy unlike you fatso!" or "Yup, I am healthy now but I used to have a severe eating disorder and super high cholesterol, perhaps we can pencil in some time in the conference room and I can tell you all about it" or "actually no, no I am not healthy. I am very, very, very sick." Tell me how you want me to respond as you pour your douche dressing all over my once enjoyable meal!
You are the same people who before eating a slice of birthday cake feel the need to announce "Oooh I am so bad, I feel like being sooooooooo bad!" Yes, you are bad, bad at acceptable social human interaction but luckily you are great at hoarding frosting.
Sometimesthe best small talk is no talk at all , so please shove a doughnut in your mouth and scram.

Love Always,
Giulia

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Dear Time,


clock
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
Yeah this letter is to time, not the magazine but actual hours,minutes, ya know what I mean. I realize you are not a person (class, this letter is an example of personification, say it out loud-per-son-i-fi-ca-tion) but you can still be a little bit of a douche, let me explain.
You are not there when I need you most. I feel I spend so much of you, looking for you. Yet when we are together and nothing is happening, I get anxious. You prolong the future from arriving, and make things like buses, planes, visitors, vacations and tomorrow seem like they will never arrive.
I do not know what to do with you. I make a list of activities for us, like laundry, grocery shopping, and work, and what do you do? You grab my lists and jumble them up, you interrupt my schedule with phones calls as I am running out the door, misplaced keys, traffic, and long lines. I can’t make definitive plans with you, because you are so unreliable. I try to manipulate you by setting my clock faster but you always catch on, and I end up late.
Why whenever we are having fun together, you decide to fly? Oh, but when things are bad you stay put, you linger, as if you enjoy misery. You are very unpredictable.
I have to stop stressing about you, it’s a waste of me, and especially a waste of you. It's just so frustrating how you keep going no matter what. You wait for no one. Perhaps I envy your freedom.
I want you all to myself. I can never get enough of you. you make feel greedy and that is why I think you are a douchebag.
I suppose I am stuck with you until the end of you. Or rather, until the end of me. Dammit I just wasted more of you by writing this letter to you.
I am now going to waste more of you by watching MTV.

Love Always,
Giulia

Monday, August 07, 2006

Dear Spin Instructor,


dance
Originally uploaded by Giulia1.
Forgive me, did I mistakenly enter Ministry of Sound? Nope, my bad it's just that spin class tonight was taught by...what's your name again? Ugo or Aref or Big Joe of ambiguous European decent? Whatever your name is you are wearing a tank top that reads "This is House Music" which tells me all I need to know.
I am not at all prejudice against guito meathead spin instructors, although your intimidating and aggressive screams of "KEEP FOCUS!" reek of the ability to actually strike a woman. I will not however accept the volume of the "beats" that are "bumping." I know you warned us at the start of class that there would be loud music, but I felt like I was trapped in an Iroc T-top cruising through suburbia screaming "Heeeey Bay-bee!!!" at womens frightened vaginas. After about ten calls from the CD of "Arrrrrre yoooooou READYYYYYYY?!" I began to scream out "No, NOOOOO I am not ready. I was never ready! Stop asking if you aren't going to acknowledge my response!" I hate to leave class early but the whole scene made me want to run or take a pill of ecstasy.
Did you just call me Grandma?
Listen dude, I like that you want to get us pumped and the forty minutes of class I was able to handle did justify my inhalation of a rather large burrito this evening, but you are paid to spin bikes, not records. So next time, please turn the volume down a bit DJ Douche.

Love Always,
Giulia

Friday, August 04, 2006

Dear Pole Hugger On The Subway,

Today on the subway I sat in front of you and your fist is at my eye level. Should the subway come to an abrupt stop as it so often does, you would have indirectly given me a black eye. Do you want to be know as the kind of guy who gives little ladies black eyes? You don't look like a bully, with your professor like white beard and reading glasses. What will your PHD students think of you after you give a sweet young thang like me a shiner?
You could very easily unhook your arm from the pole in front of my face and hold onto it with one sturdy hand like a real man. But no, you insist on embracing the pole like an awkward lover, hand outstretched less than one foot away from my big brown eyes just so that you can more comfortable read your newspaper. Just because you are reading an article about the war and you probably are the kind person who actually does something to change our foreign policies and impeach Bush and because you own an impressive collection Birkenstock and bring your own canvas bag to the grocery store to buy Vegan cheese and only allow your children to watch public television does not mean you cannot be a douche, in fact it makes you an even bigger douche for invading my space.
How could you not notice my sighs of disgust and obvious head bobbing to avoid contact with your Burt's Bee's hemp lotion covered hands? Or did you notice and just felt like douching it up on your way to grab a soy chai before your Greenpeace meeting?
Hey, Grandpa Douche, I hope your barista accidentally makes your chai with real cows milk and your protein deprived body react so horribly to it that you miss the Peter Paul and Mary concert.

Love Always,

Giulia