An Open Letter to the Dude Living Across The Hall

Hey Guy,

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. I think we said “hey” to each other once while moving in. And I get that. You’re a private person; I am too; that’s why we live in Plex. And I realize that there comes a time when a private person wants to open up a little, and share that privacy with a significant other, be it a man, a woman, or one of those weird things from Star Trek. And I understand that too.

But I am not writing to you simply because you’re a private person. I’m writing to you because at 3 goddamn 30 in the morning, your privacy has encroached upon my privacy. Specifically, I speak of the Air-Raid Siren which you seem to be fucking nightly. And do not think I am simply being hyperbolic, because even though your room is the furthest from mine of all my neighbors, and even though my door was tightly shut, and even though I was listening to Death Grips through my headphones, I could still hear the cacophonous moaning of your girlfriend.

Magic Underpants: The Mitt Romney Story

Experience “trickle-down” like you never have before!

Obama always threw the best parties in town. Liberal with the booze and democratic with the music, it was the perfect place to get socialized, but America wasn’t having much fun. She felt like she’d been here for four years now, and though the energy was still high, Obama’s party hadn’t quite lived up to expectations. It didn’t help that she had just come from G.W.’s party, and so threw up pretty early into the night, and Obama had to spend most of his time cleaning up the mess. GM got pretty sick too, and a lot of other people had go home early, even a couple guys who everyone swore were too big to fail. America suspected the unregulated punch bowl.

But even still, now that she was back on her feet and mostly recovered, America couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place at Obama’s party, and the music was giving her a headache. Setting her drink down, she went to look for some place quiet where she could rest for a while.

After turning down a few halls, she found a small guest room, mostly insulated from the constant music. Assuming it to be empty, she flipped on the lights.

And there, on the bed, she saw him: his hair perfectly coiffed, his smile rigid and semi-lifelike, his tight temple garments highlighting his impressive fiscal policy.

“Oh, Governor Romney, I’m sorry, I thought this room was empty,” America stammered.

“Please, no need to be so formal. Call me Mitt,” said Romney as he gestured America to come sit with him. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just getting a little tired of Obama’s party, and looking for a place too cool down.”

“Mm,” Romney nodded, “I know the feeling. You know I’m planning my own party soon? Much more tasteful and conservative. I think it’ll be a grand old party. I’d like it if you were there with me.” America only now realized how close Romney had gotten to her. This close up, he almost looked human. “You know America, I’ve got binders full of women, but I always had eyes for you.”

“Oh Mitt you’re joking with me.”

“I actually like jokes as well as things that are sort of fun. But right now I want something a little more spontaneous.”

America watched in stunned silence as Romney pulled out his fiscal policies. She had seen Obama’s stimulus package before, but this was something completely different. She was a little afraid it might hurt her. “Oh Mitt, your tax cuts are so… so big!”

“That’s just the 1%, babe.”

“But, don’t you think we need a safety net?”

“Nonsense, my dear. A friend told me that your body has a way of shutting that whole thing down.”

And thus, with some reluctance, America let Romney take her.

The End

-Dolphintail Espinoza