An Open Letter, To Hell In a Handbasket, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Here, Dear Abby, I fleshed out the unfinished paragraph in that column for you.

“It appears you and that boy had a severe breakdown in communication, which led to your being sexually assaulted.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Abby. Whoopsie! Looks like a line got left out, Abby. I’m sure what you meant to say was:

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An Open Letter, Fatty McChubberson, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Got a second, racist white dudes?

Of course you don’t; not for me. But just in case…

I recognize that white dudes generally do not feel a need to protect me, avenge my honor, or care if I’m sexually assaulted at all; after all, I’m a hairy-legged, unabashed feminist. Shrieking harridans are not high on the damsel-in-distress-o-meter.

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An Open Letter, To Hell In a Handbasket, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Forbes Errata

Dear Forbes,

There was an egregious typo in a column you recently published on your website. In the forward-thinking and insightful piece “Drunk Female Guests are the Greatest Threat to Fraternities,” you accidentally spelled “Entitled Sexist Frat Brothers” as “Drunk Female Guests.”

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An Open Letter, Fatty McChubberson, Jesus H. Christ

I am a fat woman. Here’s what you should say when you see me at the gym.

Nothing at all. If you’re tempted to say something to me, close your eyes and pretend you’re looking at a not-fat person. Would you say anything to that person? If not, don’t say it to me.

That would be a short and boring blog post, so I will expand.

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An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Hey, gym? How long would it take you to redecorate if you hung a dick pic and a single bodybuilder complained?

This is an actual email I had to send to my gym. I don’t want to be driven back into the grasping arms of New York Sports Club or, god forbid, Crunch, but I will if it means I get to lift weights without having to stare at porn.


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An Open Letter, Building teh Interwebz

To whoever’s in charge of viral marketing at the toy company that just left a bunch of spammy comments here: your work is, perhaps, slightly misdirected. Although I don’t doubt that many King of States! readers enjoy a good plastic dollhouse, there are likely other blogs where you could more profitably focus your spammerfic efforts.

Also not appropriate: spam from “Women Against F-Bombs.”

An Open Letter, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

To the Housekeeper Taking Care of the Ninth Floor of My Hotel

I bought an apple yesterday, intending to eat it this morning. I like apples cold and crispy, so I left it by the open bathroom window. Then I decided to shower, so I moved the apple to the bedroom window. In the night, it was too cold to keep the bedroom window open, so I shut it, re-opened the bathroom window, and moved the apple back there. This morning, I forgot to eat the apple. As I was getting ready to leave for the day, I heard a gust of wind roll the apple off the sill, but I was running late and promptly forgot about it.

And that’s why there’s an apple in the bathtub of room 909.

UPDATE! When I returned to my room tonight, the apple had been neatly replaced on the sill.