Tag Archives: Chris Meloni

Open Letter


Due to my inability to focus this day, I have decided to write a letter to all the things running through my head.

To my feet,

It is not because I abhor you that I dress you in less-than-comfortable fabulous shoes. It is simply because there are enough people out there who detest feet, and I should feel badly if I didn’t do my best to make them like you. As such, I bid you reconsider your cruel decision to continuously crack and flake and generally appear unappealing. I shall punish you by making sure no one is allowed to lick and fondle you until you react differently.

To a certain annoying person,

You are irritating as fuck. No, you don’t know everything, and it galls me to no end that you think that you do, and that you think I care to hear your narcissistic self boasting of how you plan to take measures in hopes of making things better. Things could only be better if you went away. So please, do.

To bad tippers,

I pity you, because karma waits for no man, and when you are being eaten by governmentally-enhanced were-people, you probably won’t even realize it’s your own damn fault.

To my Rockstar’s Daughter,

When I tell you to go away from me, it’s because I want you to be quiet, and as you are 12, and have a voice that echoes through three counties, that is clearly impossible. Do not misunderstand. I love you. I just love you better when I can’t hear you.

To my mailman,

I appreciate your rubbernecking due to my choice in gardening attire, as it reconfirms my suspicions that I am not completely a disgustingly fat turd, as my mirror and scale repeatedly tell me. However, I do not appreciate you delivering only undesired bills to my house. Just once, could you perhaps leave a check or accidentally deliver someone else’s issue of Playboy, please? Hey…. are you listening?

To my Rockstar,

I find you to be completely adorable, and your tush to be an incredibly inviting place to rest my teeth and/or hands. I do, however, wish that for just a day or two, you would cease working on our beautiful house, so I could feel a little less terrible about being a pathetic, lazy piece of donkey poo.

To my book,

Get out of my head, already. Find a perfectly blank computer screen on which to sit, instead of my overwrought, bipolar brain.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

P.S. Chris Meloni, I haven’t forgotten you, no matter how hard I try. I suppose it doesn’t help that I see your daily posts on Facebook. I noticed you never even bothered to respond to my comment on your page, which made me sad.

 

 

 

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Nice To (Kind of) Meet You, Mr. Deniro


Dear Robert Deniro,

I will begin this letter by saying I adore you as the lightning pirate who wears corsets and can-can scarves in the movie Stardust. Though you have made a career out starring as tough mob bosses and mentally unfit taxi drivers, I must admit that I did not truly appreciate your talent until I saw you parading around with a heart-shaped mole in this film. You may star in my future films as a sexually-confused air-pirate anytime.

That being said, I would like to point out that while you were equally as brilliant in your role as Jack Byrnes in Meet the Parents  and it’s sequals, I was so disgusted with that Ben guy that I couldn’t fully enjoy your performance. He seems to end up in a lot of movies I immensely enjoy, causing me great distress.

I’ve just gotten finished watching Everybody’s Fine on Netflix, and I without a doubt think that you should have received an Oscar for your performance as a lonely widower on the edge of death. While I watched, I thought to myself that I would surely not mind being your daughter, because you did love your children so. I am glad that you did not die at the end.

Thanks to Netflix, I was also able to watch The Big Wedding, where you played a horny old man with an ex wife and a girlfriend. Might I just say here- yay for you! If you can so easily play a randy seasoned patriarch, perhaps you are not acting at all, hmm?

Side note: While my previous letters to greatly-matured actors such a Anthony Hopkins have hinted at my possible lust for them, I must admit that I bear no such funny feelings in my pants for you, dear Robert. That is not to say I do not find you to be quite smashing in other categories. So sorry.

After having adored you so in the last few films of yours I’ve watched, I have made a point to put all of your movies that were available on my Netflix list. Sadly, Cape Fear and The Deer Hunter were not among these. So if you happen to read this letter, and find it even mildly amusing, would you be so kind to send me signed copies? If not, I guess that’s ok. It was only a suggestion.

I would like to congratulate you on the fact that you haven’t aged a day in the last 20 years. You don’t look a day over…. 65. Well, there has to be a few grand actors in Hollywood who aren’t just there for their looks, right?

If at any time you wish to produce a movie that requires that I play your daughter, or hired hooker, feel free to give me a call. It would be a great honor to work with you. I would even include a booby squishin’ hug upon our initial meeting, but don’t get any ideas. I’m saving myself for Chris Meloni.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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A Valediction to Chris Meloni


My pulchritudinous Christopher,

I have come to the heartbreaking conclusion that this shall be the last letter I shall ever compose to you.

“But why, my sweet luscious Sparklebumps?” You ask? (Or more correctly, you so blatantly do NOT ask.)

I must admit, my (or not mine) amazing specimen of a man, that the thought of never again typing up a letter of blatant lust to you has got me a bit misty-eyed, but no- I cannot go on as we have. (Or have not.)

I cannot help but notice that my multiple attempts to gain your attention have, in fact, received no attention at all from you. My birthday post for you HERE and my first confession of love HERE lack the sufficient comments from you necessary for me to continue my unrequited love for you. Despite the numerous offers of boobie squishes I have promised you upon our initial meeting, you remain ever distant- living with that very tall wife of yours and scowling beautifully without any thoughts of me whatsoever. I cannot bear it, Chris.

Though I do not consider myself high-maintenance, I have been assured by a number of the male species that I do, at times, require excessive attention. Since I have received not one iota of attention from you, I do no think that I am being unreasonable in ending our bond; it was doomed from the very start.

I will no longer dream of your strong Stabler arms around me, nor shall I pine to stretch myself to the very max to reach your very kissable lips with my own. (Which would be completely impossible anyway, since I haven’t shoes tall enough to make ME tall enough.) No more shall I imagine you scowling at me in your very Christopher way when I have denied you my delicate lotus-like privates. (Which is also quite incredible, as I would never deny you anything, my dearest Bald Man.)

I hope with this, my last goodbye, you feel anguish at never having experienced my magnificent boobage in all its glory, and contrition over never having donated your sperm to me in such a way that would produce little Mini Mes and Yous. (Our unborn children wail in grief.) It brings me great sadness that your hardened manhood shall never find its way into my mouth, for I surely have wanted to know exactly how many licks it would take….

Know this, my once darling Chris, my future love life shall ever be slightly grim and jaded, even if I have moved my attentions on to Sean Bean.

For Never Yours,

Sparklebumps

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Things That Make Me Angry


It makes me angry when people are out for a Sunday drive on Tuesday. I got fuckin’ places to be and I don’t be having the time to be poking along at 35 mph.

It makes me angry when stores that shall not be named here (except for that their names rhyme will Narget and Walfart) have 47 lanes to cash people out at, yet they only have 2 open.

It makes me angry when my stretchy jeans that hug my ass in just the right way also hug my front butt enough to give me camel toe.

It makes me angry when people in places of higher power than I insist on “coaching” me, even though they are only at my place of employ one day a week.

It makes me REALLY angry when I am horny and my Rockstar insists on going to bed without assisting me in the making of me being not horny.

It makes me angry when Minnesota Revenue continues to steal moneys out of my checking account at various intervals without asking. As if my $82.73 is going to heal the national debt.

It makes me angry when my Rockstar’s Daughter insists on saying, ” Our house is OUR house, not yours.” Even though she’s been repestedly told to desist.

It makes me angry when the disastrous mess of curly pubic hair that resides on my head refuses to listen to my Big Sexy Hairspray.

It makes me angry when I have to go to work when I’m in the middle of deciding whether Fifty Shades of Grey is worth reading.

It makes me angry when I answer the phone at work to take a delivery and when asked what their address is, the person on the line says- “Ummm, well I don’t know the EXACT address.”

It makes me angry when I try on shirts that are SUPPOSED to be my size, and then must call for a dressing room attendant to come and assist in the removal of said shirts when they get stuck going over my excessive boobage.

It makes me angry when no matter how often I clean the kitchen floor, there is always crud lurking.

It makes me angry that Carrie Underwood is considered a country music star.

It makes me REALLY angry that Taylor Swift is considered ANY kind of music star.

Most of all, it makes me angry that despite my numerous attempts to contact him, Chris Meloni still hasn’t shown up to receive his booby squish.

 

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3 Questions


I was disappointed to find today that on my new email account, the Spam is not so blatantly advertised. In fact, I had to go searching for it. Searching for spam, you say? What a strange and demented habit, you say? (I must point out here that many things I do are strange and demented. That’s what makes me me.) When finally I found the hidden spam, I was delighted to see that the contents therein were enough to supply me with ideas for blog posts for weeks to come. One of the first was an advertisement that looked something like this:

Ask these three questions and women will love you forever!

Since it was spam, I could in no way justify clicking on these curiosity-inflicting words; however, this got me to wondering what mysterious three questions men could ask that would make women fall madly in love with them. These are just a few that I came up with:

Will you marry me?

It seems this is a question most normal women long to hear. I have no doubt this could be one of the three, though if someone were to ask me this exact question at this moment, my response would be, “Shut the fuck up. What is wrong with you?”

Do you want to see my twelve-inch dick?

This also seems a likely choice for one of the three mysterious questions. While I do not understand the allure of such a thing as a ruler-length schlong, I know that there are many women who would love a man forever simply because he possesses one.

Would you like to live in my castle?

I would have to say, “Hell, yeah!” to this one. It is probably pertinant for any man with a castle to follow-up this question with an explaination of what capacity he would wish you to live there. You never know, he may have a full S&M dungeon that you mightn’t be able to handle.

Do you want to meet Chris Meloni?

Again, this question may be especially tailored just for me. It is unlikely that most women would be impressed with the chance to meet Elliot Stabler…

Can I turn you into a vampire?

This would be the best way to ensure that a women would, in fact, love you FOREVER. What with the Twilight craze and everything, I have no doubt that there are masses of women willing to evolve to soul-less undead creatures.

Will you be my first?

This one is a bit tricky, simply because if you are to take a man’s virginity, you must plan on the probability that he won’t be the best. However, if he happens to be beautiful and innocent, I can see where this question could hook a few women.

Can I buy you an endless supply of shoes? Or Books?

One or the other would get women. I know it.

Can I love you forever?

Depending on if he’s an annoying butt-sucker or not, a woman might go for this. I would call bullshit.

Please let me know if there are any questions you know of that I haven’t thought of? I’m deeply curious to figure out what the “three” are.

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I Am A Green-Eyed Monster


So you all know that I’m a happy girl who loves everybody and is extremely self-confident, right? Boy, have I fooled the shit outta you.

I embody the first two qualities perfectly, yes. However, I will tell you something now that you might not know yet- I go through life with a Jealousy Monkey fucking me in the ass every single moment. That being said, it may come as no surprise when I tell you that the constant butt-drilling I get leads to Jealousy becoming my dominant personality trait.

One of the things that makes my jealousy acceptable is the fact that I do not begrudge people for whatever happiness they receive from whatever it is that makes me jealous of them. I am jealous of those in perfect relationships, but I would never wish them to NOT have a perfect relationship just because I don’t. They say Misery loves company; the truth is- I prefer solitude.

I will give you just a few examples of the things that I am jealous of:

I am jealous of Carrie Underwood and her perfect face and her perfect voice, and the fact that she gets endless commercial deals despite the fact that she has the inability to choose good songs to sing with her perfect voice.

I am jealous of my friend Delightful, and the fact that she possesses one of those tiny bodies that make you want to stick her in your back pocket. She also has amazing sparkly eyes that are not poop colored, like mine are.

I am jealous of the people that own Mustangs, because I haven’t one; and I am jealous of the fact that these people have the dollars to afford the Mustangs in the first place.

I am jealous that deceased celebrities such as Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston are talked about more than I am. Why can they not have the decency to share the fame they no longer need?

I am jealous of all the excessively talented pianists on Youtube who can play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu, because no matter how much I try to practice it, my timing is off and my fingers do not carry enough dexterity and speed to play it properly.

I am jealous of Nicole Kidman and her porcelain white skin, because though I possess the exact paleness she does, I just look pasty and all my veins show.

I am jealous that  untalented writers such as Stephanie Meyer have become household names because they had the gall to write about such ridiculous things as sparkly vampires and werewolves falling in love with infants.

I am jealous of the fact that my Rockstar’s Daughter received cuddling so much more easily from my Rockstar than I ever will.

I am jealous of Taylor Swift and the fact that her unimaginitive choices of subject matter for her songs has made her rich enough to buy a castle if she so chooses.

I am jealous of the fact that my douchebag of a former boss gets to continue working in MY bookstore, despite the fact that he hates books, and hates customers, and ogles young women, and sexually harrasses his underlings, while I slave away as a Pizza Slut.

I get jealous of people flirting with other people when I am readily available to be flirted with. This one is a bit confusing, because yes, I get jealous of the girls who are getting flirted with by men I don’t even find attractive. It IS all about me, you know.

I am jealous of those people that go around being happy all the goddamn time. I try that and find it utterly exhausting.

I am jealous of people that live in all the places that aren’t here. Sadly, if I were to move to any of those places, I would probably be jealous of the people that remained here.

I am jealous of those women (and men) who have perfect straight hair that can just wake up, run a brush through their hair, and go about their day. The fact that they can run a brush through their hair without creating an afro irks me most of all.

I am jealous of the fact that no matter how good of a writer I become, I will never be able to write lyrics as excellently as the band Black Stone Cherry.

I am jealous of Chris Meloni’s wife, and the fact that she gets to booby squish him whenever she wants.

I am jealous of women with babies, and pregnant women, and babies, and little children that are still adorable and not evil spawn from Hell.

One of the things that you all can be jealous of, though, is the fact that I have awesome readers who actually want to read this shit. 😉 XOXO

 

 

 

 

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In The Event of a Zombie Apocolypse


Since the chance of a Zombie Apocolypse ensuing in the near future is relatively high, (after all, there are all kinds of crazy scientific lab people messing with virus strains and shit) I have given great thought as to what I will do when the mostly dead start over-populating the earth.

First, I will need a reliable vehicle. In order to procure one, I may have to actually pose as one of the Walking Dead to scare of any of the remaining salesmen at the Ford dealer. I shall do this only long enough to grab the keys to the Boss 302 Mustang that’s sitting on the lot before I drop my charade and laugh maniacally while crying, “HAHA Suckers!!!!!!”  You may think a Mustang is a poor choice for such an event, but I assure you, it is not. I shall be able to outrun any highly-speedy super zombies that may be lurking about, and I will have a good excuse to NOT pick up stragglers who are unprepared for Apocolypse-like times- “I’m sorry, my backseat is small and full of ammunition; I haven’t room for dumbasses.”

Next, I would make a stop at a sporting goods store and stock up on guns (and let us not forget a 357, since one well-placed shot will explode an Almost-Dead person’s slow-moving brain.) Don’t forget the ammo- it’s been a few years since I shot at anything, so I will make sure to grab plenty in case of probable non-excellent aim. I’ll grab a bowie knife to further arm myself for close-contact attack.

Thirdly, a trek to the grocery store. Normally, I would detest such a journey, but since I would be shopping for sustenance that keeps for a long time, I think that I shall enjoy say trip, as candy has a very extended expiration date, and is necessary to keep one’s blood sugar at the level needed for Zombie Annihalation. Once I was fully equipped with a sufficient supply of Mars Bars and Smarties, I would slip down the chip aisle and grab necessary assorted flavored Doritos and be on my way.

I suppose now that I would be supplied with all that I’d need, it would be time to seek out those worthy of saving from the Mostly Dead. (Starting with Chris Meloni.) I would also seek out those who have pissed me off throughout the years and use them as Zombie bait. (Such as my former manager from the bookstore, who was not fittest, which we are talking survival of)

Then I would drive on down to North Carolia and hole up in the Biltmore Estate, which I’m quite certain is structured with many alarms good for warning me of Zombie approach. After that, I would forage daily for supplies, but I think if I rescued Chris Meloni I’d have everything I’d need.

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