To: CBS and the producers of BIG BROTHER
From: always a viewer, never a houseguest Dirk Mancuso

I filled out my application. Again.

I made another video displaying my full on gay.

And I put all that shit in yet another manila envelope and once more sent it to you.

Now put my big flaming ass in that house already — a nation demands it.

Plus, the fella I’m seeing deserves nice stuff and I need the cash.

Thank you — that is all.
_________

To: the insipid bitch who insisted on writing out her entire fucking check even though the store had auto-check to print the fucker AND they give it back to you
From: the losing valuable time he’ll never get back Dirk Mancuso

Excuse me — you…in the clam diggers and that too fucking lame for words Garfield t-shirt that looks like it could double as a king sized bed sheet when it’s not threatening to burst at the seams from encasing your voluminous gut.

Oh, good…you can see me. And the other 40 goddamn people behind me in line waiting for you to get your shit together and join the 21st fucking century.

First things first, you have duplicate checks — write the goddamn total in the box and give the cashier the check, whore. And you can skip that fucking bullshit chitchat where you ask what day it is and then go on about how time is just flying. No shit — I lost 20 mother fucking minutes when you dug around in that body bag you call a purse to find that stupid fucking Precious Moments checkbook and then rattled off some brain numbing story about your granddaughter always getting in your purse for Sucrets.

Sucrets?

As big as you are, bitch, I’m guessing the little heiffer was looking for a gross of Cadbury eggs or a fucking case of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

But I digress.

So you write the total on the check. Then you write out the amount in the Queen’s English. Then you survey your fucking penmanship for a month of Sundays. And when all that is said and done, you decide to scribble your stupid fucking name at the bottom with a flourish in a vain effort to separate yourself from the other mouth breathers who don’t get the whole automated check printing thing.

Wake. The. Fuck. Up. And smell the coffee chocolate covered deep fried chicken wings.

Despite being able to lay claim to having your own fucking gravitational pull as well as your own zip code, the black hole that is your worthless life does not entitle you to suck every goddamn ounce of attention you can from random minimum wage slaves who have no choice but to be civil to your hideously clad ass while the rest of the world stands idly by drowning in the cloud of ennui and Jean Nate that surrounds you.

Lonely? Join a fucking book club. Better yet, join Weight Watchers ’cause Christ knows you got plenty to watch. (And I’m not hatin’ because you got some extra junk in the trunk — I’m just saying what God knows: you’re fat. And that Carol Brady pixie cut ain’t helping.)

And as for that little crack you made when I ponied my ass up the credit card scanner (“I better move — looks like this fella is in a hurry…”), you know what? Yes, moving (or more accurately in your case, lumbering) was a very good idea as “hurry” didn’t quite summon up the heady cocktail of claustrophobia and homicidal rage I was experiencing after being trapped for what seemed like hours between you and “crying baby that should’ve been home in bed not out scoring Fritos and Miller Lite with its crackhead whore of a mother at 12:45am.”

As Mama M is fond of saying, “take a flying suck at my asshole, Piss Easy.”