Bunny Angry Letter to Apple

Above is a picture of the last rabbit Steve Jobs would ever want to come across in a blind alley.

Below is a complaint letter from Reggie, the world's most frustrated lagomorph, detailing his issues with the wildly popular Apple iPad.

Dear Apple,

I hope all is well over in Cupertino.  I’d love to check the weather there -- but my iPad won’t respond to the touch of my fuzzy-wuzzy bunny paw.  WTF, Steve Jobs? W...T...F?!

You think I slaved away stealing four hundred ninety-nine dollars worth of goddang parsnips and yams from that d-bag Mr. McGregor’s farm for nothing?

Considering I can only count to five, four hundred and ninety-nine is a shit ton of crap.  Do you even know how many rabbit turds are in a shit ton of crap? I sure don't know.  I’d love to ask Wolfram Alpha -- or hell, I’d stoop to use Yahoo, but again, I’m too friggin’ fuzzy to interact with your “game-changing” device. Game-changing my woolly cottontail butt.  Part of me really wants to go all Bunnicula on your ass.

Well, Apple, that’s really all I have to say.  I guess I’ll just invite my pals Christopher Robin, Donnie Darko, and Brer Fox over so they can take turns playing Angry Birds while I sit and watch...sick with envy. 

-Reggie Rabbit 

Dog Diary Entry

The above is Fifi (left) commiserating with her pal Buster on the rec room couch of the La Veranda Assisted Living Home in Boca Raton, Florida.

The below is a diary entry of a dog suffering from an identity crisis.

Dear Diary:

It was on again today, that documentary about the wolves.   I feel a certain irrefutable kinship to those beasts, yet when I look in the mirror all I see is an innocuous poofball staring back at me with glistening adorable eyes instead of the cold stare of the wild.  I somehow doubt those magnificent relatives of mine suffer the luxury of living in a retirement home.

Speaking of self-esteem issues, I fell down them again today, the stairs.  I ass-slid for what seemed like days before regaining my footing. Thought I’d ass-slide for miles into some horrifying abyss where I’d lose all hope of finding out what’s at the top of those damn, humiliating steps. 

I’m in the midst of some existential crisis, I think. I cannot seem to come to terms with the incessant fluffiness of my very being.

I suppose I should think deeply about my place in the world.  I will have to do that later as now it’s knitting time and I have a lap to keep warm.

Duties are duties, whether it be killing antelopes for sustenance or holding down a ball of yarn for the duration of craft hour. 

Sigh.

~Fifi

Kraken Letter to Santa

The above is an artist's rendering of a festively adorned sea beast (not to scale.)

The below is a letter to Santa Claus from a frustrated kraken:

Dear Santa:

I hope this letter makes it to the North Pole in time.  I gave it to a mackerel who said he was meeting an eel buddy of his about halfway to the arctic who’s delivering a Yule log to a polar bear who - as luck would have it - is intending to eat a penguin that hangs out near where you and Mrs. Claus live.  

At any rate, my Christmas Wish this year is just some advice from one fictitious fellow to another: How do you get people to believe in you, Santa?   I think it’s amazing what following you have and if I could just get a cruise ship captain to acknowledge and maybe even fear me a little, I’d be soooo happy.

So, if you could just write back with some words of advice, I would really appreciate it.  Also, if you want to toss one of those tasty elves overboard when you’re above the Indian Ocean this Christmas Eve, I’d be deeply thankful.  I’m having some mermaids over for cocoa later and they just go nuts when I put the little dismembered pixie parts in with the marshmallows.

Hope all is well. Give the missus my love.

~The Kraken

Starfish Letter to the Editor

Above is Burt's "happy place," an illusory safe haven Burt retreats to when his anger management issues get out of line.

Below is the letter from a very upset starfish to the editor of a very popular line of self help books.

Dear Guy Who Came Up With That Stupid Inspirational Starfish Story,

You know who you are.   Every time I hear that story about the guy walking on the beach who throws the beached starfish back in the ocean because “it makes a difference to that one,” I spew a little in my mouth. 

You might as well get together with Guy Who Wrote The Ubiquitous Jesus Footprints On The Beach Story and take turns immersing each other in a bowl of extra hot chicken soup for the soul. 

No, seriously.   Here I am, a tired, weary starfish (my name is Burt, not that you care) out for a serene ocean-side stroll when POOF some holier-than-thou brat tosses my spiny ass back into the cold dark sea without even asking how I feel about it.   And all in the name of sentimentality.

You know what, last time I did something that sentimental I was sixteen. I made a mixed tape for a girl -a scallop named Delia, dang, she was smokin’ - who I intended to shtup after junior prom.   Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot since I put a Death Cab for Cutie track anywhere near The Beta Band.

I mean I get it, you’re one of those do-gooders.  That’s nothing to go to hell for, I guess.  But you know what, dude: I am a person, not a metaphor!

You know what would “make a difference” to me?   If you would just shut up!

Kindly,

-Burt [Last Name Redacted]

Flamingo Break-Up Letter

The above is a photo of Fernando (front, center) at his "mental health retreat" last summer. 

The below is letter from Fernando the Florida Flamingo to his boyfriend Arturo, upon Fernando’s decision to end the relationship.

Dear Arturo,

I hate you.   I hate everything about you.  I hate the way you won’t acknowledge me in public.  I hate that you spend so much time in that dank, cramped closet.

I hate your deep, soulful eyes, and the way you don’t look at me the same with them anymore. 

I hate that you made me change for you.  I hate that I spent all my winter savings buying you that hideous Christmas scarf you wanted so much.  I hate how you look better in it than me.

I hate that we don’t talk anymore.  I hate that we never talked. I hate that you never said a goddamn word to me.

Most of all I hate that you are plastic.  I hope you melt in hell.

-Fernando

Cat Manifesto

The above is a snapshot of Fangs, taken by a hostage whose ransom was never met. 

The below is a manifesto of a housecat who has watched one too many Bond movies:

Dear World,

It’s high times you were introduced to your new supreme leader of all things criminal and fiendish.  I won’t use my real name as I must maintain anonymity as I unveil my devilish plans.   You can refer to me as the “Clawed Menace,” or maybe “Fangs McCoy.”  Perhaps “Mousewrath” is more suiting.  Take your pick.  Just know that I now control the whole of the criminal element.

Anyways, you don’t know who I am but it’s high times for change, I tell you.  It’s time to take back the city!  I, and my legions of felons, will control, nay, destroy you!

And unless you want that to happen, I suggest you take a look at my list of demands: 

I would like my genitalia reattached. And pronto.  Well maybe not mine, but if you have any spare tiger genitalia, I would like that, please.

Then I would like a meeting with Pope Benedict XVI.  I’ve always wanted to curl up inside his hat.

Then I would like a teacup yorkie flown over my penthouse by chopper and then dropped from the air in front of my bay window.  Repeatedly.

Then I would like all YouTube video clips of cats in human clothes removed from the internet. 

Then I would like the Internet presented to me, atop the finest china, on a tray of dead mice, covered in pureed chicken.  Then I will eat the Internet and videotape myself doing it and the post it on the – damn.

I will get back to you, world, when my devilish plan is complete. Until then, watch your back.

-Fangs McCoy

  

Seagull Suicide Note

The above is the only remaining picture of Seymour: Taken on Halloween when he dressed up like a blue heron. 

The below is the last known entry (perhaps a suicide note) from the diary of Seymour: a Marina del Rey, California Waterbird.

19 December 2010

It’s a Friday night and I’m bored again. Ennui descends on me like the fog. Oh that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? I’m bored! Bored as hell!    Sitting here on the spring line of this same old codger’s boat waiting for him to finish his can o’ beans makes me question my very purpose in life these days. It also makes me question why all old men insist on eating like Limeys. I’ve become fat off Spam, I have.  Fat and tired and bored.  I have it all now and maybe that’s just the problem, too much success, not enough motivation.   I should enjoy my own palm tree free of other feathered assholes… plenty of food from Captain of The Third Circle of Hell here. Life isn’t even interesting anymore.  There aren’t any more cats to worry about -- what with the recent influx of little foofoo dogs in the delightfully yuppie apartment complex across the way. Ah, I do appreciate dogs, slobbery and yippy as they are.  They keep the four-legged meowing death threat at bay and they do quite a number on the squirrel population.  Nothing worse than a squirrel, well maybe a typhoon.

 Years ago on a night like this I would be scouring the patios down Admiralty Way at the Ritz seeking out discarded rehearsal dinner bits. Crab Rangoon was my favorite. The crunch, the gooey insides, the aftertaste.  Much like a good, sun-crisped, well-squashed beetle.  Then post spilled aperitifs, I’d probably fly around Venice for a spell in search of a randy pack of finches to spend the rest of the cold night with.

Years before that I would have found myself stowed away on a singles cruise ship, spying on one-night-stands and getting tipsy off recently regurgitated Mai Tai puddles.  Those were the glory days.  Not these days, not now. 

Ah, looks like the codger’s tossed his beans aside and is settling in for the night.  Somehow I’ve lost my appetite, though.

I think instead of beans, I shall fly out to the sea and see what’s new on the horizon, if anything.  The sun has just set now and the winds are strong, but after these last few years, I need a challenge. 

The spring line will stay taught and wait for my landing, and I doubt my palm tree will mind a night without its tenant.  If I don’t return, there will be beans aplenty for some other wretched, bored soul.

 Smooth sailing, world.

~S