Entertainment

Dear Mr. Lorre, I am a huge fan of "The Big Bang Theory." Will we ever meet Leonard's father and if so, would you consider casting Eugene Levy? He would be perfect. Also, I would love to see John Goodman as Sheldon's mother's beau.
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Dear Keith Olbermann, As a sports fan who is paid to cover TV news media, I need you. More importantly, sports fans need you. Your half-hour daily show is easily the best thing on the ESPN family of networks for passionate, educated sports fans. It’s refreshing to hear poignant commentary from a sports savant without having to sit through a group of talking heads essentially screaming over each other. Your takes are polarizing, controversial and must-see television for any true fan of sports media. Please don’t screw this up. Please, Keith. I’m begging you. But I’m also scared. A four-day suspension isn’t a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, but I’m afraid another lapse in judgment could result in a permanent vacation. The sports world simply cannot afford for you to...
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Dear sir or madam, I realize your job is not an easy one. You've been asked to take the pictures of the couples who have recently been married, and somehow enhance their looks. I understand that these couples, having sent in their pictures to your section to celebrate their marital union, would appreciate any enhancement that you might be able to provide. And I understand that the computer technology of the day allows you to work wonders. These tools allow a skilled professional to alter photos imperceptibly — to hide blemishes, improve dimensions, make the chubby thinner and the freckled less so. These are powerful tools. That said, I have to wonder why the couples in your photos look as if they've been eating powdered donuts while gazing into an atomic explosion. You know what...
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Dear Playboy poster, I pity you, Playboy poster. How very sad to be imprisoned in that expensive picture frame and hung upon the wall in Tom’s office, right beside the door, so that when the door stands open (as it always does), you cannot be seen. Of course you were shocking, initially. The first time I saw you, I had entered Tom’s office to steal quarters out of his desk drawer. I shut the door, so as not to be observed in my thievery by Annette, the “payroll specialist,” and there you were, Playboy poster, right there on the dirty wall in all your pornographic glory, smirking sulkily from under a pane of smudged glass, your hair all wet and sexylike; you holding some fluorescent-pink dice over your pointy nipples. I’m sorry I never mentioned that I thought you were beautiful....
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Dear Jeepers Creepers II, I see that a thin layer of dust is gathering on you. And that the blue on your blue-and-white protective case is turning greenish from the ceiling lights. Your laminated cover is curling up. No, Jeepers Creepers II, life just isn’t the fun-bag of buttered popcorn and dramatic tension it once was, back when you were the fifth-highest rental at the store that week last June. Now, I admire your quiet way and stoic demeanor, I do. But don’t think I haven’t seen the way you just sit there, blankly facing that window across the room. I recognize the symbolism in that. You feel suffocated, and restless. Truth is, your every manner reeks of metaphor, Jeepers Creepers II. And I can interpret you, just like I could all the others. It’s a gift I have. Listen up,...
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Dear TV Snobs, TV was invented because we were tired of talking to each other and needed something else to do. You, though, keep trying to have intellectual discussions about politics and the arts while we’re watching Dancing with the Stars. Despite your oddity, we’ve tried not to make fun of you. We learned how wrong it is to judge people by watching special episodes of Family Ties and The Brady Bunch. You, however, insist on thinking you’re better than us. You complain about how hard it is for you to find intellectual stimulation in a world that gives Flavor Flav his own show, but in fact you derive a certain smug self-satisfaction from it. Over the years we’ve tried to make you happy. We gave you PBS. We televised golf. Cable TV was invented so that entire channels could be...
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Dear Dude-Bros, Months ago we forked over the Ticketmaster fees and saved the date. We then endured the parking cartel of the Cincinnati Riverbend Music Center. We didn’t mind that the lawn seats turned out to be Astroturf. We ignored the perpetual bigscreen Skyline Chili ads, creating the need for a collective antacid. Not even eight-dollar Bud Lites could dampen our mood as we boogied to “What’s Your Name” and pretended that the lyrics to “That Smell” don’t creep us out. We even cheered for the new song. Whatever. By way of reward, the band ripped through “Sweet Home Alabama” and for a glorious six minutes and fifteen seconds we forget about our late mortgage payments. Then the lights dimmed and the band retreated backstage. The roadies hustled around the stage while we cradled...
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Dear Facebook, Go ahead, take whatever you want. I won’t try to stop you. Utilize those party shots with the awkward, uniform smiles. Do what you can with the pictures of casserole that not even Instagram could manage to make enticing. Use my poorly scanned baby photos. The first time I wrote with a crayon really was quite a remarkable event; I have no problem sharing it with millions of people. Feel free to use my exciting trip to a taco stand at Far Rockaway in any way you’d like. It might actually be nice to get those pictures out there a bit more. I was looking pretty good in June. My hair was shiny. Do whatever you’d like with the string of badly executed self-indulgent autumn of 2010 status updates. It was a confusing time for me, as everyone now knows. I recommend...
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Dear Today Show: During an episode I randomly watched while I was hungover, you invited a food writer on to prepare a small batch of oatmeal. At first this struck me as peculiar. Why do you need someone, I wondered, to illustrate how to microwave a bowl of water and Quick Oats? But I quickly realized my mistake. This was the motherfucking Today Show on NBC. To be fair, Mark Bittman, author of How to Cook Everything seems like a really nice guy. There’s something about the way he holds his whisk and banters with the smiling hosts clustered around him that makes me think, Hey, I can do that, until I remember I don’t own a whisk, or any food item that needs to be whisked, or a brushed aluminum bowl. And when my husband stands that close to me when I am cooking, it is usually because he...
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Dear Vogue, You recently published an article titled “We’re Officially in the Era of the Big Booty” by Partricia Garcia. You’d think, as a big-bootied woman, that I might greet this article with open arms, support, excitement, and a sigh of relief, but you’d be wrong. So wrong. I hated your article. For women like me, acceptance of a big booty is not a fad isolated to a singular era. Big butts are not bell-bottoms, nor are they grungy flannels, overalls, skinny jeans, or any other fashion trend that comes and goes with the seasons. Girls with big asses can’t ditch them as soon as they go out of style. Our asses are our bodies, not an accessory. I did not see a big ass on the runway at New York Fashion Week and run out to the nearest Forever 21 to get a knock off so that I could be...
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