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Millard Kaufman's final novel has arrived!
Pick up Misadventure now—or, see what
you've missed out on thus far by picking up
both Bowl of Cherries and Misadventure
for 27% off the retail price.

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O P E N   L E T T E R S T O   P E O P L E   O R   E N T I T I E S W H O   A R E   U N L I K E L Y T O   R E S P O N D . - - - - [Send your open letters to openletters@mcsweeneys.net.] - - - - An Open Letter to Sara's Sister-in-Law, Who Planned Sara's Bachelorette Party. February 8, 2010 - - - - Dear Sara's Sister-in-Law, Who Planned Sara's Bachelorette Party, I have a theory that I'd like to share with you. I suppose it would have been helpful to tell you this before Sara's bachelorette party, but I'm going to say it now anyway, just in case the duty of planning one of these parties ever falls to you again. My theory is this: Nobody actually enjoys strippers. We all just collectively pretend like we do. Why do we pretend? Well, because—and granted, this applies particularly to men—if you admit to not liking strippers, you open yourself up to such comments as, ''You don't like tits in your face? You must be a homo.'' It is this fear that leads us to go to bachelor and bachelorette parties where we emit half-hearted whoops and whistles at the faux fireman, cop, or nurse who has been hired for the occasion when in fact we are all counting down the minutes for the techno mix to end so they can put their clothes back on and leave. Take this past Saturday, for example. Now, I don't want to bash the party you threw: the Mighty One Bites were delicious, as was the corned beef dip. There was more than enough wine and beer on hand, and the phallic-shaped cake you baked was moist, buttery, and frosted in exquisite detail, right down to the brown chocolate sprinkles of pubic hair. And maybe I'm overstepping my boundaries here, and if I am I apologize, but truly, the only problem I'd like to call to your attention is the one I mentioned at the beginning of this letter. Here's how it all went down: First, you plunked Sara down in the middle of the room. Then, a strobe light was activated. Then, you fled to the kitchen, ostensibly to call Hogs n' Honeys and confirm our table reservation, or possibly to clean up the dishes. Either way, your rapid departure from the strobe-lit room only serves to strengthen my theory. If you didn't want to watch, I have to ask, why did I have to? There were a few moments of whispering and speculation before the opening chords of ''Rhythm is a Dancer'' piped into the room. And there he was: our ''police officer''. How did I know it was not a real officer of the law? Was it the plastic badge? The fuzzy handcuffs hanging from his belt? The tear away pants? It's hard to say exactly. ''Hands behind your back,'' he instructed Sara in a very thick Eastern European accent. ''I hear you've been a very bad girl.'' I took a very long sip of my wine. I'll give you this, Sara's Sister-in-Law: From an objective point of view, the stripper actually was pretty good looking. He clearly spends most of his non-stripping hours at the gym. But you see, there are a few things that I'm just not into when it comes to men. This includes nipple piercings, full body waxing, spray tans, chain link underpants, tramp stamps, blond highlights, tooth caps, thongs, and tattoos that are strategically placed to cover an enormous back scar which was probably inflicted in a Siberian labor camp. So while he began humping his way around the room, I tried my best to make myself scarce. I'll admit, not everyone was as reticent as I was—some even rummaged through their purses for singles. I had plenty of singles, but there was no way I was sticking them in the rim of my shirt—why invite his attentions? I also seated myself next to Jenny—you know, the girl who is eight months pregnant—reasoning that a stripper would have reservations about grinding up against a living fetus. Turns out I was wrong about that. At first, my precautions worked. I managed to fly under the radar for most of his performance. But towards the end I got careless. I made a cardinal error. An amateur's error, really. Every school kid who doesn't know the answer to the teacher's question knows that you must keep your eyes down at all times. If you don't want to get called on, you don't make eye contact. I don't remember now what exactly it was that made me look up—it could have been the game of pecker ring toss that was going on in the corner, or maybe Sara's screams as the stripper shoved his face in her crotch. I may have just been disoriented by the strobe light. But whatever it was, I looked up, our eyes locked in what was by no means a romantic exchange, and before I knew it he was mincing over to me, menacing me with his nightstick. I tried to resist, to reason with him, to beg, but all my pleas were drowned out by Britney Spears' warbling threat, ''You want a piece of me?'' He climbed on top of me in a nightmarish cloud of Drakkar Noir, the hoop in his nipple grazing my cheek. ''Are you ready to be searched?'' He wanted to know, his Slavic accent trilling over the r's. ''Actually, you know what, I think I'm—'' but my thought went unfinished as I was now dealing with the more immediate problem of being spread eagled in a dress, my thighs clenched around his bare ass, my feet about level with my ears. Also, I had come to the realization that the only thing separating my face from his dick was a thin layer of tiger print nylon. He finished me off with a nice, decisive thrust, then moved on to his next victim. Instinctively, I grabbed for my wine, like a cowlicky child finds comfort in his pacifier. Finally, when it was all over, the music stopped and the strobe light unplugged, you conveniently decided to return to the room. Now, I understand that you just had a baby and therefore you were drinking for the first time in at least ten months, and so I'm going to go ahead and assume it was out of character for you to scream out, ''Come on, let's see some cock!'' Or perhaps you just felt it was your duty, as hostess, to put on an air of salaciousness. But I hardly think that's fair, given that you were not at any time subjected to his grinding boner on any part of your face. Either way, you know the rest: the stripper, a slave to his art, obliged your request. He pulled down the small scrap that one might describe in technical terms as ''underwear'', and whipped it out. I screamed. Now, you can call me a prude if you want, but before you do, let me ask you this: is it really prudish to expect to have a say in whose genitals you do and do not view firsthand? Hey, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it is just me. Maybe there are some girls out there who enjoy having a stranger's balls jiggled in their faces. But I will tell you this, Sara's Sister-in-Law: once he left, a vague air of shell shock remained behind at what had started as a very nice party. Jenny wondered aloud, shivering, ''Did he really show us his cock?'' Meg mused, ''I didn't like it when he held his fake gun to my head.'' Alicia said, glumly, ''I think he ripped my shirt.'' And Sara, the bride-to-be, summed it up more succinctly: ''I feel dirty.'' There was nothing to do from that point on but stick a tiara on Sara's head and go to Hogs n' Honeys. And, as a final insult to my sensibilities, you might also recall that I had to pay for the cab ride there. You see, I was the only one with any singles. Yours, Jessie Morrison - - - - PREVIOUS OPEN LETTERS An Open Letter to the Person Who Stole Our Diaper Bag An Open Letter to Dove Heart-Shaped Valentine's Chocolates That Feature Romance Tips From Martha Stewart An Open Letter to the Lady with the Leg Warmers in My Salsa Class An Open Letter to Sara's Sister-in-Law, Who Planned Sara's Bachelorette Party An Open Letter to My Cubicle An Open Letter to Facebook An Open Letter to My Libido An Open Letter to the House of Pain (aka, Pain Management Resources) An Open Letter To The Inanimate Objects In My Apartment That Just Sat There While I Was Heartbroken. An Open Letter to the "Wild" Ponies of Grayson Highlands State Park An Open Letter to the Illegal Amphibian Inhabiting our Suburban Pond An Open Letter to My Artistic Potential An Open Letter to the Guy at My Gym Who Screams When He Lifts Weights An Open Letter to the Soundtrack of My Life An Open Letter to My Last Pack of Cigarettes An Open Letter to Seat 13C on American Airlines Flight 263 to Dallas An Open Letter to John Hennessy, President of Stanford University An Open Letter to the Venue Where I Almost Got Married on September 30, 1995 An Open Letter to One of the IT Contractors at Work An Open Letter to HBO Re: It's New Television Show Hung An Open Letter to My Unborn Daughter An Open Letter to J.J. Abrams Re: Lack of Fat People in Star Trek An Open Letter to Jonelle, Who Sent a Three-Song Radio Dedication to Her Boyfriend, Rob An Open Letter to the Burglar of 244 Wicker Avenue An Open Letter to Shirley MacLaine From a Former 11-Year-Old Who Was Sent to Her Apartment by George McGovern's Presidential Campaign in 1972 An Open Letter to My Across-the-Street Neighbor Who Always Does His Yard Work in His Scrubs An Open Letter to American Express An Open Letter to the Intestinal Parasites I Managed to Pick Up in West Africa This Summer An Open Letter to Cambridge University Press, Regarding Odor An Open Letter to Geraldo Rivera, Who Witnessed Me Getting Fired for Stealing a Cherry Danish Two Summers Ago An Open Letter to My Local Newspaper With Advice for When It Runs Its Next Two-Page Photo Spread on the Beautiful Colors of the Season An Open Letter to Mr. James Thatcher, Brand Manager, Procter & Gamble An Open Letter to Anna Louise Jordan, Author of What Does an EMT Do? An Open Letter to Norwegian Aid Minister Erik Solheim An Open Letter to My Sister's Psychotic Dogs An Open Letter to My Cats, Who Are Jealous of My New Baby Daughter and Are Acting Out Now That She Receives All the Attention An Open Letter to My Lost Bikini Bra An Open Letter to Mark Zuckerberg, Founder and CEO of Facebook.com, From a New Yorker Magazine Fact Checker An Open Letter to Wendy An Open Letter to My 80-Year-Old Parents' New Buick Park Avenue Ultra An Open Letter to James Randi Regarding His "One Million Dollar Paranormal Challenge" An Open Letter to the Birds Nesting in My Air Conditioner An Open Letter to My Neighbor Who Frequently Sits Alone Inside His Truck An Open Letter to the Amazon Parrot I Have Been Supporting for Over 15 Years Who Still Tries to Bite Me for No Apparent Reason An Open Letter to My Neighbors a Few Buildings Away in My Apartment Complex An Open (Love) Letter to Taco Bell's Crunchwrap Supreme An Open Letter to an Ultimate-Fighting Referee An Open Letter to the People Behind the "Now That's What I Call Music!" Series An Open Letter to My Cat, Abbie An Open Letter to Orcas An Open Letter to Foie Gras An Open Letter to the Man Wearing a T-Shirt That Says "It Isn't Going to Suck Itself" An Open Letter to the Occupants of a House on the Nintendo Game "Paperboy" An Open Letter to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer An Open Letter to the Man Who Installed the Carpet in 1974 for the Previous Owners of the Home We Just Bought An Open Letter to the Vice President of the United States, Dick Cheney An Open Letter to My Husband's Pillow An Open Letter to the Squirrel Trying to Chew Its Way Through My Roof An Open Letter to the Spider in the Upper Right-Hand Corner of the Skylight in My Flat An Open Letter to the Cat, Who Pushes Glasses Off the Kitchen Counter While We're Trying to Sleep An Open Letter to a Guy I Work With Who Always Comes Into My Office to Tell Me He Sent Me an E-mail Right After He Sends Me an E-mail An Open Letter to My Doppelgänger An Open Letter to the Leader of the Ant Nation Residing in My Bathroom An Open Letter to My Ability to Lose Interest in Things Easily An Open Letter to My Sonicare Electric Toothbrush An Open Letter to the Human Resources Department of the Superfriends An Open Letter to the Eight-Hour Workday An Open Letter to the Manufacturers of Infant Sleepwear An Open Letter to the Totally Impractical Size Chart for Women's Clothing An Open Letter to the Couple Who Found My Panties in Their Yard Last Summer An Open Letter to the State of New York An Open Letter to Shrink-Wrap An Open Letter to the Dead Joints in My Feet An Open Letter to the Exorbitant Sum of Money I Just Inherited From My Grandfather, Whom I Didn't Really Like An Open Letter to the Fake Boobs My Husband Bought His Ex-Girlfriend An Open Letter to Ryan Funk An Open Letter to Global Warming An Open Letter to Everyone Who, When Approaching the Door to the Office Suite Where I Am the Receptionist, Turns the Handle Down, Then Pushes the Door In, Thereby Causing a Loud Obnoxious Banging Sound, Looks Up at Me With Fear and Frustration in Their Eyes, Turns the Handle Up This Time, But Still Pushes the Door In, Causing That Same Obnoxious Banging Sound, Giving Me the Same Terrified Look, Then Rings the Doorbell, Which Is Even Louder and More Piercing, Then Stands There, Petrified, Angry at My Incompetence to Unlock the Door With the Remote-Control Device Three Open Letters to the Telephone Joneses With Whom I Cannot Keep Up An Open Letter to the Gentleman at the Bar Who Asked If I Would Like a Piece of Him An Open Letter to Lifetime Television for Women An Open Letter to the Women and Gay Men Who Want to Read That Copy of Sex in the Window An Open Letter to Whoever Broke Into My Car This Morning An Open Letter to My Turtle An Open Letter to Keith Richards' Immune System An Open Letter to Omaha Steaks An Open Letter to My 22-Year-Old Self An Open Letter to My Eyebrows An Open Letter to the Gym Shorts That Are Not in My Gym Bag An Open Letter to the Enormous Bruise on My Upper Right Arm, Kind of Near the Bicep, That I Acquired Last Weekend While Playing Football An Open Letter to My Inner Child An Open Letter to Low-Cut Pants An Open Letter to the Rental Video Sitting on Top of My Television An Open Letter to Herman Miller An Open Letter to the Unemployment That Awaits Me An Open Letter to Officials of the United States Government Regarding What's New in My Reproductive Area An Open Letter to Cable News Organizations An Open Letter to Nepotism An Open Letter to Whole Foods Supermarkets An Open Letter to My Dissertation on the Correlation Between History and Identity Formation in Colonial Massachusetts and Pennsylvania An Open Letter to Women Who Won't Sit Down An Open Letter to the Elephant in the Ikea-Furnished Room An Open Letter to Chris Robinson, Lead Singer of the Black Crowes An Open Letter to the Look on Our Leadership Consultant's Face An Open Letter to Hummingbirds An Open Letter to the Current Boyfriend of the Girl I'm in Love With An Open Letter to My Boss, Who Was Recently Fired An Open Letter to My Sony Vaio An Open Letter to the Radioactive Spider That Never Bit Me An Open Letter to My Three-Year-Old Daughter, Sylvie An Open Letter to My Deep Fear That My Girlfriend Will Be Really Fat Later in Life An Open Letter to My First Five Girlfriends An Open Letter to Saran Wrap An Open Letter to Poached Eggs An Open Letter to My Eighth-Grade Long-Term Substitute Science Teacher An Open Letter to My Computer's Insert Key An Open Letter to My New and Old Furnaces An Open Letter to a Playboy Poster An Open Letter to Graydon Carter, Editor of Vanity Fair Magazine An Open Letter to the Twenty-Year-Old USC Intern That I Slept With An Open Letter to My Male Gynecologist Open Letter to People Who Stare at My Boyfriend Because He Is More Attractive Than Me An Open Letter to William Kristol, Richard Perle, and President Bush's Other Neoconservative Puppetmasters An Open Letter to the Hollywood Movie Machine An Open Letter to That Mother on the Sidelines of My Daughter's Soccer Game An Open Letter to My Attractive Coworker at the Pool An Open Letter to Sergeant Smith An Open Letter to My Summer Interns An Open Letter to My Personal Trainer An Open Letter to the Strange Red Bugs with Many Legs Living in My Basement, Which Is Where My Roommates and I Sleep An Open Letter to the Makers of Glaceau's Vitamin Water An Open Letter to the Many Leafhoppers Destroyed in My Phylogenetic Research An Open Letter to My Eighth-Grade Yearbook Photograph An Open Letter to the Customers at the Tattoo Shop Where I Work An Open Letter to Baseball's Bill Madlock An Open Letter to Penguins An Open Letter to Robert Mugabe An Open Letter from Milton Bradley to Milton Bradley An Open Letter to Vice President Dick Cheney's Underbite An Open Letter to To the People at Mott's An Open Letter to Two Young Women at the Clothing Store in the Mall An Open Letter to the Whites of Jim Lehrer's Eyes An Open Letter to the Young Woman on the Subway Who Screamed at Me September 21, 2003, at approximately 11:30 p.m. An Open Letter to Paul Bremer An Open Letter to the Nobel Committee for Literature on Behalf of Dr. Raymond Damadian An Open Letter to My Superintendent, Hugo An Open Letter to DirecTV An Open Letter to People Who "Tut" on the Tube An Open Letter to Young Women Who Work in Chain Bookstores An Open Letter to Yuppie Mummies (or Yummies) An Open Letter to the Guy Who Scored Only 12 "Fast Money" Points on Family Feud in the Mid-Seventies An Open Letter to Lance Armstrong An Open Letter to Alcohol An Open Letter to Centripetal Force An Open Letter to the Makers of "Valtrex" (Glaxosmithkline) An Open Letter to Little Children Who Play in the Alley and Like to Throw Stuff At My Car An Open Letter to Louis XIV An Open Letter to Apartment W5 An Open Letter to the Man Who Tattooed Me An Open Letter to My Dot Matrix Printer An Open Letter to Umlaut An Open Letter to Toshihiro Nishikado, Designer/Programmer of Space Invaders An Open Letter to Chicago Public Library Desk Vandals An Open Letter to Illusionist David Blaine, Currently Spending Forty-Four Days in a Perspex Box in London An Open Letter to My Hairline An Open Letter to Saint Nicholas An Open Letter to Mr. Tastee An Open Letter to the Panda Handler at the San Diego Zoo An Open Letter to Claire Forlani An Open Letter to the Song Artist Barry Mann An Open Letter to Parkay An Open Letter to My Spanish Host Family An Open Letter to Asthma An Open Letter to the Listerine Girl An Open Letter to Google An Open Letter to Melanie Murray, Romance Novel Manuscript Reader An Open Letter to Miramax Home Video An Open Letter to Ann Coulter An Open Letter to the New York Times Style Section Photo Retoucher

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