Economic blues? Go orange!

Dear Mr. Secretary of the Treasury,

If your financial skills are as good as your tie-picking skills, then you've made a fan of me (IRS problems be damned!) Maybe with all the money you saved by cheating on your taxes you had just enough extra scratch to invest (wisely I might add) in that uber-tie pictured above. Deficits can be scary, but safety-orange is just the thing to calm the masses.

But let's be realistic, that tie has been all over every news outlet for days now—you can't wear it again. There's only one thing to do—roll that baby up and send it to me! Carefully though, we all know how hard it is to get wrinkles out of fine silk. I think this is an economic plan we can all get behind!

Give Obama a kiss from me!

Big British Hats!

Dear Duchess Kiera Knightly,

First of all, big congrats on the promotion to Duchess. That ought to get you to the front of the line, if you know what I'm saying.

Second, I'd like to call attention to your head ornamentation, what we commoners call hats. Now that you're royalty, you probably need to go get fitted for your crown and will not be needing the two wide-brimmed beauties pictured herein. So you know what's coming: Gimme. I live in California, which=sunny, which=protection needed for my lily-white skin (plus they would look fierce with my Uggs). You, on the other hand live in England, which=tea, crumpets and gloomy skies. And don't give me any bs about rain. Are you really gonna trot out a feathered hat in a deluge? Are you ever gonna be in a deluge? No! Your horse drawn pumpkin carriage will whisk you from place to place while mice sew your dresses at home and your tiny feet rest comfortably in glass slippers.

That might be a different story, I'm getting all mixed up. Let me get back to my point: Please have your Secretary of Hattery forward me these toppers. I'm an American; you know I'm just gonna keep asking til you do it.

Hail, Duchess.

My bloodshot eyes need some diffusing

Dear Mr. Transporter-man,

You need to transport those sick shades right over to me, pronto. Look we all know you can kick my ass. You ooze testosterone, you smolder and have abs of steel. These are all very good things, so why must you have it all? You can always snatch a new pair of shades from your latest movie. So don't be a crank and send these cracking stunnaz over to my house.


I love your frakin' dress, toaster.

Dear Ellen Tigh, Fictional TV Character from BattleStar Galactica,

Where'd you get that dress? I didn't see any consignment shops on New Caprica. And don't take offense, but you don't strike me as the stay-at-home-and-sew-from-a-Butterrick-Pattern type of gal. (Boozy.)

So where'd you get it?

If you can't come up with a simple answer and, since you are in fact a TV character--a TV character who only looks human but who is really a pale replica of humanity known as CYLON... a CYLON in a wicked hot dress!!-- I doubt you have an answer at all. Then I think you should, you really should fold that frock up neatly and put it in one of those space capsules made out of titanium and have it shipped straight to me, c/o Planet Earth, Human Race, U.S.A! Woot!

Give it to me and my relentless interrogation will stop, Ellen Tigh, and you can get back to your life, whatever that is, because you're not only a fake person who is a robot but you're also on TV which is fake, which means none of this is real.

Except the dress. The dress is all too real.


It puts the lotion on it's skin-coat

Dear Mr Eric Kim,

So far this year there is nothing so sweet as your motorcycle jacket. It is a work of art, that should be hanging in a museum. I hate you for making me feel this way. Slightly out-of-control, on the verge of laughing or crying—I can't decide. Is this what they call hysteria? Are you making me hysterical at the sight of your buttery, caramel-colored jacket?

Let's face it, this model doesn't deserve to wear such a perfect piece of outerwear. He can't appreciate it's perfection. He probably can't even spell perfection. I on the other hand, would never take it off. I would sleep in it, go to the gym in it and even make love in it. Hell, I will make love TO it. Slow, sweet love. If only you would send it to me. Heck, we're both in the same city, I'll stop by and pick it up.

[finger phone] Call me!

In need of a fabulous Hair Hat Helmet

Dear Mr. Duckie Brown,

I don't live in a cold weather climate, but after gazing my eyes on your dazzling pom-pom hat, I'm considering a move. In truth I hadn't heard of you before but am now worshiping at the altar of Duckie. Any designer who thought to himself, "With all the troubles in this world, well, the only solution is pom-pom." Guess what? I got a fever! And the only prescription.. is more pom-pom!

Now Spring is fast approaching and I'm sure you have a lot of orange pom-pom hats left over and what in the world will you do with them? I have an idea. Box one of those babies up and ship it on over. I'll shout out for the world to hear, pom-poms should, nay, need to be bigger than one's head.

Plus as a person who is follically-challenged, you could consider this a charitable action. Duckie, take pity and help a brother out.

bro hug

In possession of a rock.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

You've been talking about your high stress level making you so thin. I sympathize. And I'm not one to just talk the talk; I'll put my money where my mouth is. Or, more specifically, I will put a Big Mac where your mouth is if you give me your necklace and earrings. I might even be persuaded to throw you a McNugget or two. C'mon. You know you're just gonna lose the necklace in the bottom of your giant handbag where it will moulder with four empty lighters, a balled up pair of black leggings and a few now-empty ziploc bags that used to, what was that? Then, the next time you see that delicate, twinkly, too delicious sliver diamond, as you call it, it will have MAC VivaGlam smeared all over it and a Mento stuck to one side.

Should such a pretty bauble suffer such a Lohanical fate? Give it to me to hold until you feel better. I promise I'll give it back.*

*If you can pass a few simple tests...

So, just tell the hotel Concierge to call Fedex. They'll handle all the details, k?

Heavy, heavy ears. Let me ease your burden, sister.

Dear Angelina Jolie,

With all you do for the U.N., the poor of the world and your own diverse brood of wee ones, why must you burden your tiny self with such heavy earrings? Please, woman. You've done enough.

First of all, have you seen your neck? It's like a pencil for God's sake. I can only imagine that today, the day after the 09 Oscars, you are laid up in Namibia wearing one of those halo contraptions that broke-neck surfers always get themselves into. The headache must be intolerable.

Let me help. Let me give back.

Just pop those earrings into a bubble wrap envelope and have Brad run them over to the post office. I will wear them all the time when I am doing good works and if they make me ache with the burden of my own selflessness, then so be it!


Leslie's Dress/reflective garment

Dear Leslie Mann,

Did you see the Oscars last year? OMG, Renee Z.'s shoes!

But today I am writing regarding your reflective dress from last night's Oscar celebration. Shimmery, shiny, throwing-planes-off-their-flightpath-iridescent. My pupils are still dilated from the impact. Oh yeah, your dress is the Zellweger Glitter Shoes of 09! Are you thinking what I'm thinking? I bet you are! If we put your dress with Renee's shoes, we'd have the hey-you-got-your-glitter-shoes-in-my reflective-dress, no-you-got-your-reflective-dress-in-my-glitter-shoes..hey, wait,-they-taste-great-together" moment of the decade.

And I'm the gal for the job. You and Renee...well, you have things to do, meals not to eat and such.

Why don't you just send me your reflective dress (UPS is fine) and I can take it out three sizes and then pair it with the Glitter Shoes? Good? Right?

And I already asked Renee for the shoes so that's, like, pretty much a done deal.

Thanks Leslie Mann.

P.S. Do you have a sequined clutch?

Hey there, sweet feet.

Dear Renee Zellweger,
I am a poor country girl.
Last year, I saw you walking down the red carpet at the Oscars in some disco heels that changed my life.

Well, they would change my life if I had them. Did I mention I am a poor country girl? If I had your Christian Laboutin mirror-y, glitterrific pumps, I would wear them in my poor country kitchen when I make meatballs. I would wear them when I got my Netflix out of the mailbox. Hey, Postman Bob, did my shiny feet just blind you? Careful! Drive the mailtruck slowly for a few blocks until your eyes readjust. I would wear them when I folded my burly husband's tee shirts while softly singing a church song.

Anyways, I was thinking those shoes look like they pinch. You're a big movie star and not some country girl so you shouldn't have to tolerate such nonsense. I can handle pinching because I am a woman with strong legs who can lift a cow if needed. And I'd like to do it in those twinkle toes shoes. If you get them in Fedex today I could have them by Wednesday so I could wear them with Leslie Mann's disco ball dress from this year's Oscars. Which means I have another letter to write. What an outfit! Dear Leslie Mann...