Dear Karl,
While I appreciate your concern that I might oversleep, your flatulence is not a great alarm clock.
I mean, I let you come in here and cuddle, but this is how you repay me?
Seriously, dude, that was foul, and when we’re sleeping on a couch together, there aren’t a whole lotta places I can go.
Right now you’re moping in the corner and I think that’s probably for the best… you know what you did.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Karl,
You are not a lap dog.
At 53 pounds you are most definitely not a lap dog.
No matter how small of a ball you curl up into, not a lap dog.
The way you crush my balls as you walk across my lap? Not a lap dog.
In short, you are not a lap dog, so please stop trying to sit on my lap.
Love,
Calhoun
Dear Dog,
There are plenty of things I’ll never understand about you. Partially because you can’t talk, but eh, partially cuz I’m just not that invested… anyway, moving on, one of the things that I’ll never understand is why you sleep with your ass in my face. Don’t get me wrong, it normally isn’t a big thing, but well- there’s the whole “darting in your sleep” thing. You see what I’m saying? When you fart yourself awake, it’s kinda funny, kinda cute. When I wake up cuz you farted? Less amusing. So here’s the deal, Karl. All bets are off. From now on, whenever you fart in my face, I’m gonna Dutch Oven you so hard, people are gonna be calling Animal Protective Services… Too far? Yeah, okay, that felt a little too far. But still, the gloves are comin’ off and I’m eatin’ a helluva lotta beans tonight! Consider yourself warned.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Fly,
I’m just lookin’ out for you, okay dude? I know, I know, you’re just doin’ your thing, flyin’ around and whatnot, but I just don’t think that’s a great idea around here.
You see, I’ve got a dog.
Not always the brightest dog, but a fast dog.
If you don’t die by my hand, I can guarantee you’ll die by his mouth.
You have been warned.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Hot Dog Walking Guy,
I understand how your title could be confusing to some, it’s just- I don’t exactly know your name.
Still, for the sake of clarification, let me be clear that there is no hot dog being walked. I am, instead, referring to your insane prettiness.
And ya know what, call me crazy, but I think you feel something to. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m nowhere near as handsome as you but after yesterday? Well, at the very least you noticed me.
See, we’ve been doing this polite head nod exchange for a while now. Then it gradually formed words. Sure, they were monosyllabic “hi”s but I take what I can get. But yesterday was a game changer.
As I walked up from the dumpster, having just tossed out a busted lawn chair (there’s no context to that, I look just as crazy as I sound) I was shocked to see you walking your tiny, little Ewok-looking dog.
I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t recognize you at first, probably because I was still choking on the rancid smells from the dumpster. You smiled and said, “Ya know, I see you more than anyone else…”
I choked. I’m not good in situations of crisis, okay?!? Because, don’t get me wrong, I heard what you said, but what it sounded like to me was, “I’m totally secretly in love with you and would like to take you back to my sweet ass condo and we can get married and have some adorable babies that look nothing like us.”
In actuality I think I managed to chuckle and ask how your day was going, but whatever I came back with, I’m sure it wasn’t as charming as your imaginary proposal.
I hope it’s not too late to say yes now. I mean, I’d hate to think you missed out on all this just because I was too nervous…
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Dog,
I don’t expect you to understand the subtleties of human flirtation.
Hell, half the time I don’t.
Then again, back when you had balls, I guess it was a little easier. I mean, you saw a chair or leg you liked and bam, ya just went for it.
Well, us humans, with all our flaws, have a much more tedious ritual.
It involves smiling and hair tossing and the obligatory meal or at least drink before you get naked, but I’ve never been good at that sorta stuff.
But lemme clue you in to something, when I’m looking at somebody and I smile or whatever? There’s usually a reason that I’m smiling.
So, for instance, when we are on our morning walk and don’t see anyone for about half a mile and then I smile at the one guy that we see?
Well, popping a squat and letting one loose isn’t the greatest conversation starter.
Plus, do you realize how hard it is to flirt with dog shit in your hand? Not easy, my friend!
So quit bein’ such a cock block and do what all good dogs are supposed to do and help get me laid, Karl!
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Morning Drivers,
Hi, you might have seen me before. I’m the guy walking his dog at an ungodly early hour?
Anyways, it’s not important if you’ve seen me or not, but this letter is to the ones on Crescent Heights this morning.
You may have noticed me cross the street with my dog, only to cross back about a minute later sans one shoe. Allow me to explain.
The dog had to go to the bathroom and somewhere along the way I had lost the dog waste bag, so I left my shoe as collateral to, ya know, prove that I was actually coming back to clean up the mess.
Look, I’m not saying that it was the most logical thing, but I wanted the owners of that lawn to know that I’m not a total asshole.
Okay, I thought explaining this would make me feel a little less insane for doing it, but ya know, on page, it actually sounds even crazier.
Like, Zelda Fitzgerald-style crazy.
My bad, forget I said anything.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Gentleman with the Tiny Terrier,
Look, you seem like a nice guy. I’ve enjoyed our minimal, monosyllabic exchanges at 7:30 in the morning. Well, as much as anyone enjoys anything at that ungodly hour.
But I will not hesitate to let my dog eat yours if your piss-poor excuse for a dog starts yapping at me again.
It’s not the “barking.” It’s not even the unbearable shrillness of it.
It’s the fact that it happens every single day.
So knock it off.
Love,
Calhoun
Dear Roommate’s Girlfriend,
I call you that because, well, I don’t really know what else to call you.
“Fuck buddy” or “emotionless slut who is slowly breaking his heart ever since you two started sleeping together again after you broke up with him on his birthday” seems like a little too much… plus kinuduva mouth full.
Anyways, I don’t really care what you two are to another. That’s something you folks can sort out on your own time.
Let’s shift focus back to our interactions. After all, that’s the only fair way to judge a person, based on what they’ve said or done to you, right?
Well, for starters, I don’t love when the two of you come home completely unannounced and three sheets to the wind. At least gimme some time to catch up… or, ya know, put some clothes on.
This is the third time you’ve walked in on me half-naked.
We’ve only met four times.
But let’s fast forward, to the portion of the evening where you tried to feed my dog chocolate-covered fruit.
Are you high?!? Dogs can’t eat chocolate and as a woman who has at least three canines living in her house right now, you should probably know that.
Ya know what? No, that’s not fair. Of course you’re not high, cuz as soon as you got home, you hit me up for some pot.
Luckily I didn’t have any, otherwise I would’ve been forced to list the numerous reasons why I wouldn’t share my weed with you.
My personal favorite part of the evening was actually the end. No, not just because it meant that I no longer had to talk to you, but rather because, as you chain smoked on the balcony, I heard every word you said.
No, there was nothing about me, it’s just… well, as you were jokingly telling me about how my roommate was eating you out, I couldn’t help but recall the time our downstairs neighbor came upstairs and asked me to stop listening to Lionel Richie so loudly.
I was playing it on my laptop.
You, miss, are louder than a laptop.
So I hope you really liked that joke you made because I’m pretty sure everyone in our apartment complex heard it.
For the aforementioned reasons, and more, please don’t show your face around here anymore.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
Dear Garbageman,
I understand why you might be in a bad mood.
I mean, shitty hours, shitty smells… in short, most of what your job entails is, well, pretty shitty.
Still, I’m not quite sure you’re as entitled as you think.
See, when I was walking the dog and I heard the scrap of the metal dumpsters as you pulled them out of the alley, I stopped to let you pass.
My dog, considerably less aware, was startled when you emerged.
Then you asked us a question.
“What, he sees a garbage truck and doesn’t put two and two together?”
Now, I’m not sure if you were talking to me or about me, since you used the word “he.”
If, in fact, you were talking about my dog, I’m sorry to tell you the answer is no.
Dogs don’t quite have the mental faculties to put those sorts of things together.
If they did, do you really think they’d eat their own poop?
So next time, why don’t you save your smart ass question for someone else (although I hesitate to call your ridiculous question “smart ass” given how dumb it was), because I’m not really in the mood for it.
Sincerely,
Calhoun
