To the man standing behind me at Hartsfield International Airport at 6am on Friday:
That security line sure felt long, right? Especially considering how early in the morning it was. I mean, the line moved like molasses. Speaking of moving, if you step forward and your over sized duffel loaded up with shit collides with the person in front of you, the proper thing to do is apologize, not do it again and again and again. And while I’m on the topic of personal space, if the stranger ahead of you is able to identify which brand of toothpaste you used an hour earlier, you are clearly too close.
Damp Neck P
To 80% of the Philly folk who travel through Philadelphia International Airport:
Hey guys, listen up - I know the luxury of air travel has diminished. I know that the seats are smaller, the peanuts are fewer and the lines are longer. I also realize it is important to be comfortable when you travel. That’s why I always pack a pashmina; it’s the perfect accessory to barricade against the cold air pumping out of the vents. And if I’m flying for more than five hours, I try to wear a loose skirt or comfortable jeans. But this whole tattered sweat suit shit y’all are donning these days is despicable. And bedazzling BeBe across the chest or Juicy across the ass doesn’t make it any more appropriate. No wonder people curiously looked me up and down as I slipped out of my pressed blazer before going through security. Blazer? Huh? What’s that? But forgetting that I’m a fashion plate and you aren’t, let’s get one thing straight – you represent our fair city and from the ridiculously high murder rate to the uneducated twangy accent, we already have enough working against us. So perhaps you can bypass the elastic waist, the scrunchy and the sneakers for something a tad less sloppy?
To the smelly footed asshat on my Philadelphia bound flight:
Put you’re fucking shoes back on. I should never have to spend half of the time in the air breathing through my pashmina. Never.
P in 15F
To the prick who hit my bumper in the airport parking lot and departed without leaving a note:
Karma’s a bitch and I can’t wait until you get what’s coming to you.
Zen Master P
To my sister Leslie:
Even though schlepping to Atlanta for a 16 hour visit wasn’t my first choice, spending the day to help you celebrate turning forty was and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Sure I tormented you in your youth. I told you other girls were prettier even though they weren’t. And whenever we shared a hotel bed I farted and fanned the sheet like a mainsail to ensure you were subjected to the stench. But with age came maturity. You’ve taught me priceless life lessons like how to give a blow job and when to get the best deal on overpriced designer shoes at Sak’s. You have also taught me that no matter how tough life gets, it’s good. As much as I hate that you live so far away, I love the fact that whenever we talk on the phone, it feels like we are in the same room. If we lived in West Virginia and were both lesbians, I would marry you in a heartbeat. Or to put it another way, I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Happy birthday, Big Boogie. May the year ahead be the bestest one yet.