Dear You:

Dear Dance Team Tryout Kids,

This is a night club!  I came here to ingest several Vodka-based drinks and attempt to bring a young lady home with me.  I did NOT come to watch you and your friends do a choreographed dance routine.  There are no judges here—except for the people who’ve already “judged” you a loser in their minds (I happen to be standing next to one).

Save the poppin and lockin for Randy Jackson, dog. In the club you just look retarded (and that may be an insult to retarded people).

Yours in truth,

The Postman
P.S. - Randy thought it was a little pitchy…

——-

Dear DJ IMG,

Please burn in hell…  Look, I understand the need for people to remember your name.  For a DJ that is important.  But the way you scratched in a track with your own name it for 45 seconds before your set began was beyond stupid.

Congratulation…I remember your name.  And I fucking hate you.

Your in truth,

The Postman

——-

Dear White People At Mood On Saturday Night,

Kudos.  I didn’t expect so many of you to get so, “low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low” with the Flo Rida song.  Please be sure to thank your black friends/dick donators.  I’ve never seen that many white people move in unison outside of an Olympic swimming pool.

But I’m naive like that…

Yours in truth,

The Postman

Trackback URI | Comments RSS