Open Letters

Dear Bloomfield Rite-Aid,
What the fuck? I understood that for whatever reason, the corporate office was making you lock your rubbers up and embarrass the hell out of your customers by forcing them to ask for the 36 count box of Lifestyles with two bottles of lube and seven pounds of candy in their arms. I got it. What can you do when those corporate bastards are forcing your hand? I know what it's like to have a boss you have to answer to. I can sympathize. But guess what, Bloomfield Rite-Aid? Monroeville Rite-Aid doesn't have their rubbers locked up. I waltzed right in there and grabbed some makeup and some Pepto-Bismol. And when I turned around, and saw that the rubbers were red-lock free, my heart soared!! Birds sang and rainbows appeared across the sky. I would not have to run down the one employee in the store (who incidentally, was also a 15 year old boy - what's up with that, Rite-Aid?) and tell him that I'm going to paint my face up like a whore and have my va-jay-jay annihilated. I would not have to hang my head in shame. I was free to take the rubbers of my choosing to the counter on my own. I stood in the "Family Planning" aisle and shouted, "FREEEEEEEEDDDDDDOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!" God bless Monroeville Rite-Aid.
So it isn't a corporate mandate, Bloomfield Rite-Aid. So what's the deal? Do you have to lock up the prophylactics because you're relatively close to/within walking distance of an area that some might call "the Hood?" If racism is the motive, I would think you'd be aware of the stereotype that black men don't use rubbers and what you would have on lockdown is your menthol cigarettes and fried chicken.
Whatever the reason, you can suck it, Bloomfield Rite-Aid. Stick your little red locks and the condoms that it protects up your snobbish, paranoid, racist ass!!!
Kiss my white ass,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Readers,
I know what you're thinking and no, I have not gone through a 36 count box of condoms in two weeks. While Mr. Pitsberger and I do have mind-blowing and frequent sex, we also have full time jobs and a fixer-upper. I bought two boxes of condoms because it was double rebate week...and my entire purchase price will be refunded. Yay for free rubbers!!!
Gettin' my swerve on,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Honda driver on Baum Boulevard,
When I was still behind your swerving ass, I could see that you were digging in your bag on the passenger seat for something. I can't imagine what it might have been. Cell phone? Ipod? Bottle of Jameson? Whatever it is, I hope it was important enough to warrant you crossing into my lane and almost side-swiping me. I wouldn't have even taken my life into my own hands by pulling up next to you if I hadn't had to make a right. Really? You need something that bad? Nothing is that important that you can't wait until you reach your destination to find it. Which, hopefully in your case, is Driver's Ed. People like you are the reason I want to carry a potato gun in my vehicle and unload it on the idiots who try to kill me on a daily basis. I desire nothing more than to pull the trigger on my spud cannon, releasing a giant tuber, and watch it fly into the side of your car with a satisfying crunch and hopefully a shattering of glass. Listen. You are behind the wheel of a 1,000 + pound vehicle made of metal and powered by flammable liquids. You could kill someone. And I wasn't really in the mood to die in a fiery car crash this morning, but thanks for checking. Get your head out of your ass and learn to drive, you stupid bitch.
Hooooonnnnnnkkkk,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Mr. Mayor,
While the war on snow is probably over for this year, the potholes are kicking the shit out of you. You are getting a red ass beat down. My suggestion is to call out a full scale retreat. This is Pittsburgh, Mr. Ravenstahl. People have stepped in potholes, never to be heard from again. Compact cars have been lost forever. The potholes always win. You never had a chance. Sort of like my bracket.
Godspeed,
Mrs. Pitsberger