Return to Sender.

IDFK if this was addressed incorrectly or what, but I stumbled across the following little gem of a letter in my mailbox this morning. It reads as follows:

Dear Steve Phillips:

I heard of your recent termination with ESPN. I also received word of your entering a rehabilitation center to address some "personal issues." Sorry I'm not sorry. We all know that's what you get for banging an ugly chick.

Luv Alwayz,
God

Damn it.

Have you all missed me as much as I've missed you? I know you have, you don't have to act tough just because its me. I won't judge. Aha! Suckers.

Listen, I had a crazy fucking bosses day and have really been working hard on outfits to wear for the "This is It" premiere in 2 days. Oh yeah, obvi I've got tickets for the midnight showing, and a few more times later in the week. Let me tell you, iron-on transfers are not as easy as their instructions make them out to be. And to top it all off, I mentally had to prepare and make up a medical condition to get out of work this past week so I could mentally prepare for the Backstreet Boys concert that was ahhh-fucking-mazing and also last night in Charlotte. Yes, I know you're way jeal.

Anyway, I'm sorry for the week respite. And long story long, I'll be back in black tomorrow, for your pleasure, as per usual.

You're welcome.

"Myagi have hope for you." and/or "Put him in a bodybag, Johnny."

Riddle me this, little ones. Pretend that every single morning you stroll into work and every single afternoon as you depart for your three-hour lunch, you noticed a small middle-aged Asian gentleman with large gold-rimmed bifocals sitting in the lobby for everyone to see. Said man has a laptop out (odds are its a Sony), earphones on and a phone book open (no, you jackass, not to stand on, even though we all know Asian men are especially short) on a table.

What would you do? Let's also imagine that, in addition to having been born with killer hair, Jesus also graced you with a keen sense of intuition and incredible problem solving skills, too. And that upon realizing years ago that these characteristics are can be both a gift and a curse, let's just say that you've noticed, upon the face of this lobbyist (I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself), a slight twinge of pain, a hint of remorse, and an aura plagued by sorrowful lamentation. What would you do? Would you answer "the call" to action?

You're goddamn right you'd answer that call. I mean, you're a giver, right? While at first, you surmised his look of despair was a result of squinted eyes paired with a bright computer screen, you quickly begin to understand that the issue has to go deeper and is probs far more complex as you address the problem internally. You start each day asking yourself what you could do to brighten this man's day, despite the fact he is probably a direct relative of Jon Gosselin and that motherfucker who forgets to utilize his right turn signal every morning in his Toyota Corolla.

Okay, fuck that, I can't keep up these guessing games anymore - but I will continue with the story. For like three days I wondered what I could do to help out, and add yet another middle-aged individual to my ever-growing United Nations band of office building friends.

To get a better feel a few afternoons ago, I sat, square across from homeboy, just to get an idea of his mindset. You know what happened? Not a fucking thing. After vowing to figure out which Honda Accord (with the Beijing Olympics bumper sticker) belongs to him in the parking lot (calm down, I just wanted to leave a note of good cheer), it hit me. I, being a typical American, was totes making this all about me. I changed my mantra myself, "What does Albert (IDFK what a good Asian name is, sorry . . . Wang?) need?" and "How can I make Albert grin and show me those communist-cared teeth?"

I'll tell you what Albert fucking needs, besides to start teaching me karate and helping me prune my bonsai tree. He needs a friend, an ally in this bitter world of lobby politics. And if there's one thing I can do (albeit begrudgingly) its that, provide my shoulder to cry on and open my heart, in essence, I can be that friend.

But first, as per usual, I've gotta break the (r)ice. The thing is, the bitch is ultra-unresponsive. Maybe right now he thinks he doesn't want to be bothered, or he's jealous that I can pronounce the "l" sound, but as soon as we're pal(r?)s, he'll change that tune. I've decided that all I need for a "friendship go-ahead" is a basic salutation, or at least acknowledgement. This might be tricky for the following reasons: (1) I'm not sure if he's blind; and (2) I'm not sure he knows a lick of English! I mean, both of those are totally fine, I do love a challenge.

I think I read somewhere that there are like 100 million Asian dialects -- like Chinese and Taiwanese and North Korean (the communist, American-hating dialect plus any others) and then South Korean and Japanese and Mongolian, the list goes on forever. But, for my friends, I've got all the time in the damn world. I've already tried sitting across from him and confronting him the American way - head on. That was unsuccessful. Yesterday, I waved as I walked in . . nothing. Today, I bowed, as if he were my Sensei or that teacher in Karate Kid. Not even a bite.

The next step is obvious. I'm going to have to figure out how to say "Hi! What's up?" in every single Asian dialect, language and colloquial slang, put it in a list and then mark them off as I try them out.

Let's cross our fingers that he isn't like the bitches that do my nails, though. I will not have him freaking the fuck out & ruining my manicure just because I address him as Vietnamese when he's really from Taiwan, or whatever! You know all that shit is "Made in China" anyway. I'm also going to take it a step further and put a Hello Kitty cell phone charm on my Blackberry and a spoiler on a P.O.S Honda I'm going to have to borrow.

At this stage, I'm confident in our budding friendship. Sure, it may take time, effort and a whole lotta love, but, as Confucius said: "the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step," and let's be honest, I'm in it to win it.

Male, middle class & white.

No, I'm not petitioning to bring back Ben Folds (or Ben Folds Five even though they write a mean ballad about ab-whore-tion) but I do want to take a second to address some rather disturbing news I've just heard. MTV today announced their definitive top ten list of the top MC's in the game. As if the recent VMA's didn't turn me off from that god-forsaken channel enough, this was maddening.

Now, before you judge, just realize that while I'm not male, and the closest I've been to the middle class is re-instructing our maid on how I like my sheets tucked in but damnit. I do know the pain in the ass it can be to be a pretty, intelligent, tall, hilarious white girl. Before you hoodratz start bitching, gimme a second. The list is as follows, well okay, I only remembered a handful because I was so blind with rage. I think its something like Jay-Z, Wayne, some other bullshit and then 50 cent at No. 9 and so on (to No. 10). You know who was missing? Exactly, a white dude. But not just any white dude, one of my favorite jort-wearers, Eminem.

You know, because I love you so much, I've copped the list, it is as follows: 1. Jay-Z; 2. Lil' Wayne; 3. Drake; 4. Kanye West; 5. Rick Ross; 6. Gucci Mane; 7. Young Jeezy; 8. Fabolous; 9. 50 Cent; and 10. Raekwon. Now, I'll leave 1 and 2 alone, I'm a fan and I feel bad that God has punished those two with insanely unattractive faces. But Drake? Eek. My fucking Dad can karaoke Nelly's "Hot in Herrre" better than homeboy (and my dad, always the Jerry Seinfeld of the family, continually says things like: "Have you heard that new artist Drake? He's a quack!" . . . if you can't put that together, please, never let me know). Further, Rick Ross? Like I know homeboy has a raging fake cocaine addiction but come on! My rap sheet (wrap sheet? public record?) spans longer than his, and my blow habit was real. I will say No. 6 is totes legit. Any artist that can include the line "white-boy wasted" in a track and know exactly what it means probably has a grandpappy in his family tree thats caucasian. Truth. But, this list! Its pathetic. And its more pathetic that I've got to note this travesty in my J. Crew ballet flats and freshly pressed Brooks Brothers oxford shirt. Sick.

I haven't taken the time to look at the panel of judges, or read why they feel that my homeboy (after Jesus and Michael Jackson) totes got the shaft in this list. I mean, give me a fucking break. Like, I won't even get started, or take the time to put my cup of syrup down to address the fact that any/all notable Texas MCs were neglected, but Slim Shady? Bitch please! Didn't he win an Oscar for "8 Mile" . . . ? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did.

The thing is, and I hate thinking this, but it just effects me to the core for a number of reasons. I am a staunch Eminem fan, mainly because he broke the color barrier for so many white MC's. I mean, fuck a glass ceiling and Hil Clinton (not literally, I wouldn't do that to you), but I'd rather make my "6 figures" on the turn tables and not underneath the desk of my boss. Go figure.

I don't have the time or energy to write a strongly worded and lengthy letter to the inventor of affirmative action (pretty sure I'll give Abraham Lincoln credit on that gem) but its one thing to keep me out of a sub-par university because I'm just another privileged Wake County white girl, but it is certainly another to rob the half dozen (give or take) white people from the upcoming hip-hop generation from a hero to hold on to. Sure, 50 Cent is awe-inspiring and has really had some great love songs, and otherwise. But lately? I mean go shawty.

No, seriously, Shawty, get the fuck out of here with that list, MTV. I thought you were better than that, I thought we were better than that.

You've been poked!

But this time, I guess it was a bit more literally. Thanks but no thanks, Dad.

http://tinyurl.com/yfnswol

P.S. In case you were curious, its only 35 weeks until Father's Day 2010.

Thank you, Tuesday.

18 year STD