To: Miss Scarlett Johansson and her gorgeous tresses
From: uber-fan Dirk Mancuso

Scarjo…honey, baby, sweetie, lamby-kins. You know I love you. Always have, always will. You’re in my top 3 dream beards/hags along with Jennifer Aniston and Keri Russell. And it’s no secret I consider you a classic beauty of the old Hollywood style. To wit:

And remember that awesome fucking hair you were sporting in THE ISLAND?

That’s when I knew we were destined to eat Ben and Jerry’s till dawn, talking about boys and giggling while I gave you a mani and a pedi — a pedi! How much do I adore you to touch feet? — and brushed your hair. The hair, my dear, that cemented your place in the Dirk Mancuso Hair Hall of Fame.

And remember the Golden Globes?

I do. Vividly. Which is why when I went to see a bargain matinee of THE NANNY DIARIES, I was not expecting to have my eyes seared by this:

Scarjo — no. No. No. NO. I understand your desire to stretch as an artist, portray a multitude of characters, embody different personas but don’t make your hair suffer for your art. It’s not right, it’s not fair, and a nation of gay men died a little inside when they saw this — and by this I mean both your dye job and the rather lifeless adaptation of a pretty good book.

I hope your turn in THE OTHER BOLEYN GIRL marks a return to the epic beauty that is your hair, because let’s face it: your golden tresses and a corset is what’s going to pack the house, certainly not the colorless Eric Bana and Natalie “look at me phoning this shit in again” Portman.

Big hugs,

- Dirkie
_______

To: the Do-It-Yourself clerk
From: the highly annoyed Dirk Mancuso

Hi — remember me? I’m the guy that wanted to exchange a hinge I had purchased in error for the one that matched the others. Not ringing a bell? Hmmmmm…maybe this will help: I didn’t have my receipt, so I very clearly stated my wish to leave the $1.14 hinge with you and go get the correct $1.14 hinge and let you do an exchange. Yeah…that’s right…the dork in the Tigger pullover. Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you on your exemplary customer service skills and that unerring sense of savvy you have about the public. Kudos on being far too streetwise to be taken in by a crafty charlatan con-man such as myself. You knew I was up to no damn good whatsoever when I floated that story about an exchange so all my hinges would match. Good ear. And to let me know just how much power you had and how I was no match for your infinite insight into my duplicitous ways, you told me with nary the hint of emotion that an exchange was not a possibility on the table today. No, you were the sheriff in this town and you would be deciding how things went down. I like the way you sized me up when you asked for a photo ID and proceeded to tell me that without a receipt I would be receiving an in-store voucher for the full amount of one dollar and fourteen cents and said voucher would be good only for merchandise.

I particularly like how the process took about 5 minutes and how you wouldn’t let go of the voucher until you made it very clear that if I were to find merchandise of a lesser value, I would not be receiving cash back — the balance would go onto another voucher to be spent another time. Way to let me know I wasn’t going to be playing any reindeer games in your store, Jami. Oh, and I hope I did pronounce your name correctly when I called you “Jam-eee.” That is how you say it, right? If not, then please accept both my apology and my most fervent prayers that you are chosen for an upcoming episode of WHEEL OF FORTUNE so you can buy some fucking vowels.
_________

To: Expectant mothers feeling the need to give their baby a distinctive name
From: The tired of misspelled and just generally fucked up names Dirk Mancuso

Hi. I see from that bump under your shirt that you’re expecting. That’s great. I’m happy for you and, honestly more than a little jealous. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about today…I was actually hoping to maybe get a feel for the name you’ve picked out for the lil crib lizard. See, I realize that right now your body is going through some wondrous changes what with the precious new life growing inside of you and the exciting future you’re planning with your baby. So what say you don’t fuck it up by hanging a lame ass name on that kid, m’kay?

I know I’ve talked about this before, but obviously it’s something that bears repeating as evidenced the past few weeks by some of the names — and I use that term loosely — I’ve seen being sported on name badges at the various establishments I’ve frequented (see above mention of Jami). But allow me to illustrate further:

Destiny. This is a noun. It means the inevitable or necessary fate of an individual. Know what your daughter’s fate is? To be made fun of thanks to the stupid fucking name you hung on her. Know what your fate is? To have the world’s palest goth girl with multiple facial piercings wonder what “that fucking bitch wants now” when a co-worker tells her you are on line 1.

Treasure. This is also a noun, meaning accumulated or stored wealth. Know what you might want to accumulate? Some intelligence before you try naming a child again. The whole time I was staring at her badge all I could think was how much I was hoping she would marry a man with the last name Hunt or Trail. Now do you see the ridicule you have brought upon your own child? For shame.

D’ nairo. (Pronounced just like it looks — duh-nair-oh.) Trust me, all the money in the world can’t make it up to your pimply faced, Stephen Hawkins look-a-like son for the number of ass kickings he’s most likely gotten over the years thanks to the dainty lil moniker you hung on him. I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say that this is a case where any jury would acquit the defendant of patricide/matricide/elder abuse.

Jewannuh. (Again, pronounced like it looks.) I’m sure when you held that cooing bundle of joy it never occurred to you she would end up working retail and have to hear “Jewannuh, do you wanna go to break after this customer?” because if it had occurred to you, I’d like to think you’d have ripped your lips off before uttering “Jewannuh” when asked your child’s name.

See what I mean? One stupid, hormonally imbalanced moment and not only have you ruined your child’s life forever but cemented both their eternal hatred of you and the perpetual disdain of educated people around you. Think once, think twice, think don’t be creative.

And on that note, may I suggest Michael, Seth, or Joel for a boy and Diana, Kate, or Samantha for a girl? Anything but La Fondia or Marshallton.