Dear Rob Dyrdek,
How do I put this? I am not really good with feelings.
I’m breaking up with you.
I did enjoy your skate tricks, your dog, Big Black, your silly childlike brilliance.
You inspired me to the point of asking you to email me, our private relationship became my personal cell phone message, which I can’t figure out how to change back.
The same five people who call often get pissed about that one, Rob.
Maybe I should blame it on the Gingers mostly, Baby Bro, and my girl, Kat.
Baby Bro is a freedom lover, a Ron Paul supporter, and a great lover of documentaries.
He picks the best ones and when a clear day comes and he has a certain smirk on his face, I consider myself lucky, sit back, ready to really think and talk.
Not really a political girl, am certainly not Libertarian, Democrat, or Republican.
I like to imagine you like me, and the political bullshit ends when you fart on Big Black.
There is nothing to fear, nothing to defend, nothing to hide.
That is why I love people who can really know how to spit truth. I certainly can not.
It is so easily seen but so cleverly disguised.
And for all you who preach nothing, I hunger you, so I watch and observe how you ooze with such awesomeness, you of course, have nothing to say.
I wish to be like you.
It took my friend Harpua, a Ginger, which is a mean name for a red head, but not from me, seeing as I have one of my own.
He believes red heads have been persecuted for years and deserve special attention.
Total bullshit. Lola stops traffic when she swings her red hair.
Gingers can’t really be trusted. It’s part of their charm.
So my Ginger friend Harpua and I agree that the most important question to answer a child with is a question, so that they think for themselves. Smart people tell you what smart people tell them so the questions leading back are all just answered from similar shades of the same “smartness.” But perhaps all the kids and the Gingers, or those in disguise, are the few who don’t even tell you what the smart people say.
Perhaps they just ask you the question right back.
Kat shot through a doctor today with this one simple question,
“Why sir, do you want my mommy to take medicine her body says isn’t okay?”
The man was holding up samples of LEXAPRO, promising me the only side effects were money, which he could take care of, seeing as he had so many samples.
No side effects? I asked again.
He laughed, the way smart old men with papers that tell them they are smart laugh when questioned by silly blonde girls, blonde girls who actually believe they know their own bodies.
Kat is a Ginger, disguised with brown hair, and intuitive.
That is my Kat. Asking questions with questions.
I wondered who I would become if I did the same.
And so, through Harpua, I have found someone you, Dear Rob, you can not even hold a candle to.
He looks for terrorists, to help police officers he assumes are impersonators of the police, mostly to offer hugs, and make announcements into megaphones, important messages like if you see a human body in another religion, to please physically attack them to change their minds.. I have 7000 people this silly blog reports read daily, and so, if one person knows how I can find this man, I don’t know what I would do with myself.
I might find a big black man to fart on too, Rob.
Stay tuned for Harpua and I to hit Atlanta, come join us with your questions as well, or for a lot of fun. I have a feeling Lola could draw a crowd, except Divorcee may not approve it for a school sick day. It would make a awesome school bus trip, a photo documentary, and if I don’t get kicked out of PTA for it, I’ll be pissed. Thank you Gingers, or if you are one in disguise or have wronged one in your day, stumble this on.
Stumble and Google “The Love Police.”
As far as Rob, I am pretty sure he would agree, “Everything is Okay.”