Letters, I Get Letters, I Get Stacks and Stacks of Letters

As you might imagine, my mailbox overflows with hate mail. Most of it from the AARP. Old fucks. But a lot of it comes from Viewers Like You. People I've offended or outraged, people I've insulted or hectored, people who wish I would be nicer, more like 1WineDoody or other bloggers who personify the success of Electroshock Therapy. What's crazy about folks who write hate mail is that they even bother. It takes a lot of energy and time to write a nasty letter to someone you hate. It's like going on a lousy date with someone so ugly the waiter serves their food stuffed inside a mackerel and having sex with them anyway. Which is how I learned to like mackerel, but that's a different story. I love hate mail. Here are a few of my recent favorites.

I was surprised to hear from this person. But you never know who's reading your blog...

Dear Mr Master of Hose,

I was referred to your natural disaster of a blog by someone who felt sorry for me. I've had it rough the past few weeks, what with my company turning the Gulf of Mexico into a giant toilet. BP makes one mistake, one little explosion on one offshore oil rig, and you'd think that was the only thing in the world that mattered. Sheesh. Let's look at the bright side. The fish that will be caught will be pre-packed in oil! This should save those whining fishermen lots of money. And, anyway, it's the damn Gulf of MEXICO, not the Gulf of USA, but you don't hear the Mexicans complaining. Not that it would matter if they did. When Meg Whitman becomes Governor of California she's going to buy Mexico and have them all evicted. And speaking of Whitman, how about the disgusting slick she left on her little eBay? How come no one is calling for her to clean up all the crap floating around there? Homemade Bert and Ernie merkins and crocheted iPads for Depends and all that other disgusting flotsam. All we did was spill a little crude out in the middle of the damn ocean where, frankly, it smelled bad to begin with from all the pollutants our refineries have pumped into the water for the past fifty years.

And, by the way, we expect to have that well capped very soon with a new plan I devised inspired by a movie I recently watched on the Adult Channel in my New Orleans hotel room. I've got my engineers designing a gigantic BP! Get it? Butt Plug! Slide that sucker in and, bam, no more icky gooey leakage. The BP BP is sure to work. And it's about time the Earth learned the joy of anal erotica. It changed my life.

Speaking of which, your blog spews more disgusting stuff in one post than our well does in a week. Why the hell hasn't someone tried a Top Kill on you? Oh, that's right, you're not at the top. Maybe someone should try a Loser Kill on your blog. I know you think you're funny, Mr Master, but, really, your jokes are about as funny as an oil spill and twice as toxic. Do all your readers have to wear hazmat suits? You're such a lowlife, I wouldn't abuse you with somebody else's dipstick. Though it does give me great comfort at a trying time like this to know that when it comes to polluting the United States of America, BP cannot compete with the HoseMaster of Wine.

Sincerely,
Tony Hayward


I guess I shouldn't have been surprised by this piece of hate mail.

You No-Talent Fake,

How dare you aim your petulant, pedantic, pusillanimous, puerile, pissant blog at the esteemed judges of the Wine Blog Awards. The eleven of us have more talent put together than you have in your little finger! Our selections for the prestigious Wine Blog Awards, which are not called Poodles, Right, Wine Blog Awards Trophy by the way, but the Doodies, after the greatest wine blogger in history, the very wet dream of wine marketing people everywhere, 1WineDoody (and don't go making any scatalogical remarks about how Poodles Doodie all over the Wine Bloggers' Conference either, Enema Breath, we don't appreciate that sort of name-calling), are perfect. Hey, you don't even know us, how dare you insult us! We weren't asked to judge the quality of wine blogs because we're stupid. That was just a bonus.

We know that you think you deserved a nomination for Best Writing on a Wine Blog. Yeah, right, fat chance. We're giving it to Heimoff and that's the end of it. The guy won't speak at the Conference if we don't, and our first choice, Ron Popeil, turns out to be dead. We want to give the Doodie to the Negress because she's cool and, well, now that Obama has made it hip, it just made sense, but we have to give it to Heimoff. By the way, that voting thing, well, let's just say the WBA uses the same vote counting technique as Kim Jong Il. There are always fools that vote and believe the popular vote carries 50% of the weight. Sure it does. And Kobe Bryant never travels. We, the judges, picked eight winners and thirty-two randomly generated competitors. You don't think we read all that blog crap, do you? Have you read Bigger Than Your Head? The guy writes like Ted Kaczynski, but without the interesting hobbies.

You weren't nominated this year and you won't ever be nominated. You suck. All you do is insult the art of wine blogging as exemplified by our fine nominated wine blogs. These are blogs that are as comfortable and predictable as a "Gilligan's Island" rerun, but with far less drain on the intellect. The nominated blogs know that their job is marketing. Their job is to sell pedestrian wines and fraudulent gadgets and sanctimonious events nonstop and without questions. Is this so hard to understand, CrapMeister? You weren't even close to being nominated. We almost did give you a special award, though. Best Wine Blog to Read Out Loud to Gitmo Detainees.

There's a reason we eleven judges chose to be anonymous, and it wasn't to avoid lobbying from pinhead wine bloggers--as if the predetermined awards could be changed by poorly written emails. We chose anonymity because we deserve it, that's why! Shithead.

Sincerely,
The Eleven Wine Blog Award Judges (not one of whom is a marketing person, we swear, not even one of us, why would that be?)


And, finally...

Listen, Pinhead,

I can't believe you told him. What the fuck were you thinking? You and I had a good thing going. You were the first man in a long time to melt my glacier. You raised the temperature of my globes with your man-made emissions. I worshiped your hanging chad. But now you've gone and ruined it. You just had to brag about it, didn't you, HoseMinuscule? You just couldn't help yourself. And now Al wants a divorce and we have to pretend it's amicable and all just fine for the press, to save Al's jowly face. You just had to post about your affairs with me and Liv Tyler and Robinson Cano, you whore for fame. You just had to declare, "Tipper, Cano and Tyler Too!" Well, I hope you're satisfied. I know I never was.

Goodbye,
Tipper