Shroo

Twenty-five posts of sunshine coming out of my ass. Cripes. Now back to our regularly-scheduled ceaseless complaining.

Dear Method,

I love you. I love that you're affordable and available at Target (or what we Engels call "our other house") and smell nice and are good to the environment. I will use your products through thick and thin.

Just one question, though; your dish soap bottles used to look like this:So easy to grab with soapy hands. So lovely to look at--never any need to hide it from guests.

Now they look like this:

Lemme ask you. Did anyone at your packaging design hq actually try to wash dishes with this thing? How many times did the bottle slip into the sink before they declared, "Fuck it. What alternative do those Gore-loving hippies have?" Five? I'm guessing five.

Sincerely,
Housekeeping

**

Dear Person Who Put on Dash's Diaper Yesterday,

I was never any good at physics, either, so I totally see how you could get confused. But the thing is: the diaper has to actually be fastened at the waist in order to stay in place and most effectively absorb the effluvia.

Regards,
The Laundress

**
On a related note...

Dear Dash's Large Intestine,

Really? Ten minutes apart? Full on runs? That doesn't seem excessive to you?

Thanks for nothing,
Head Ass-Wiper

**
But there is some sunshine to report.

Dear Caillou,

Bless your high-pitched, innocuous, Canadian heart. Your mom looks like she actually gave birth to two kids,


and I would move into your house tomorrow if I could.


I'm glad Dash loves you.

Love,
The Entertainment Director

**

Dear Woman in Prada Glasses and Business Attire Walking Down Wilshire Eating a Chicken Leg,

You're flawless.

Warmest Regards,
An Admirer