Dear Agent,

I wrote a book. It’s called Shedding the Reptile: A Memoir.  You can tell from the title that it’s a memoir.  I wanted to make that clear.  That’s why I didn’t title it Shedding the Reptile: A Cookbook.  Incidentally, it has nothing to do with reptiles.  Rather the title is derived from our reptilian brain. Well, not really derived.  What I mean is that the title references the human reptilian brain, not that it is actually derived from a reptilian brain like some gross extract.  You probably already know that though, right, Agent?

Awesome.

Anyway, my book, right?  Pretty cool, huh?  I included between five and 30 sample pages, depending on who you are and whether my boss was lurking around the corner while I misappropriated company stationary.  As you can see from the onset, my book is going to kick your ass right in the balls.  It’s a true story about how I fucked and drank and did speed and stole and traveled and then fucked some more while drinking until I almost died (all the while trying to find love).  It’s a family book.  I sent my grandma a copy, and she hasn’t died yet, so I think it’s probably safe to give to the elderly.

It’s not a very happy book, obviously.  Think about the worst day you have ever had and then multiply that by some huge number.  That’s pretty much the feel of the book.  But there is some humor.  For instance, when I wrote about an abortion, I said….

Wait, you just go ahead and read that part, okay Agent?

In all seriousness, though, Agent.  I really, REALLY want this book to be published.  As nasty and disgusting as it is, it is redemptive.  It will be even more redemptive when you decide to represent me and I can give you the sequel which is far more light-hearted and addresses my clumsy child-like experiences in dealing with sobriety.

Then again, you can just give me the old standby, “This is not really something that I can put all my strengths into.  Good luck, though.”  If so, I am probably going to go on a murderous rampage followed by an outlandish suicide involving levers, pulleys and a pickaxe.  That’s not redemptive at all, is it Agent.

Anyway, Agent.  Take care. Enjoy my book, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Keeping it real,
David C. Garcia

Dear Earth,

Today all these retards are celebrating how awesome you are.  People are rejoicing your rivers, saluting your forests, praising your atmosphere.

Not me, Earth.  Today, I hate you harder than ever.  Don’t get me wrong.  I hate you all the time, but today, I am putting as much effort into hating you as I possibly can.

When I came into work today, dressed in a Styrofoam suit, one of your retarded fans asked me what my beef with you is.  I’ll tell you what my problem is, Earth.  Wait.  I’ll tell you what my PROBLEMS  with you are.

First: Ever since Al Gore made his insipid crockumentary, An Inconvenient Truth, I’ve had to recycle.  I hate recycling.  It’s stupid and it is totally inconvenient.  I drink A LOT of soda, and instead of just throwing my cans into the trash or on the floor or into a nature preserve where they belong, I have to walk ALL THE WAY to the recycling bin.  That takes like 10 seconds.  Like I said, I drink a lot of soda, and those seconds add up.  Trying to take away MY life Earth?  I don’t think so, bitch.

Second: Whenever I turn on the TV, I have to watch these retarded “green” commercials.  One or two is only slightly annoying, but like soda, I watch A LOT of TV, and I end up having to see like a zillion stupid commercials on how I can keep your shit clean.  You’ve been around for like 4.5 billion years, Earth.  Something tells me you can deal with me using CFC and DDT-laced aerosols so that my feet don’t itch. Fuck off, Earth.  Quit making people air these commercials. 

Third: You act like you are all benevolent, but let me point something out, Earth: volcanoes.  Volcanoes, while badass, kill like tons of people all the time.  I know this for a fact because I saw it happen in Dante’s Peak.  How come people are spending all this time protesting tire-burning and carbon-footprints when volcanoes are exploding all over the place?  I’ll tell you why, Earth.  It’s a corporate-backed conspiracy, and you are involved.  You are a dickface, Earth.

Fourth: While I’m on the subject of disasters, let me point out some other shit you let happen: extinction of the dinosaurs.  Dinosaurs kick ass.  I do more polluting in one day then those sweet, sweet GIANT lizards did during a hundred-million year period.  If you are so cool, Earth, why didn’t you move out of the way when that gigantic asteroid was coming at you?  AND, if your stupid atmosphere is so cool why did it trap all that dust and make the dinosaurs stop breathing fire and eating cavemen?

I could go on and on, Earth.  But it obviously won’t do any of us any good.  So I’ll tell you what I am going to do, you round piece of shit:

I am going to take like 30 dumps today, and I am going to use an entire roll of toilet paper to wipe my ass each time.  I’m not even going wad it up.  I’m just going to use the whole roll to wipe my ass.  Obviously, the roll won’t flush, so what I am going to do is douse each roll in gasoline and then light it on fire.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  I’m still going to flush 10 or 11 times per dump.

If you have a problem and want to step, Earth, that’s fine by me.  I will be in my apartment this evening stomping on endangered animals and leaving all the lights on.

Sincerely,
David C. Garcia

Dear MC Hammer,

I’m sure you won’t actually read this, but I figured I would try and reach you this way.

What happened to you, man?  Two months ago, you were totally cool.  When I replied to one of your Twitter tweets about some music video you made, you totally replied back.  We had a conversation, man.  You said something in 140 characters or less, and I replied in kind (minus the 9 characters your name takes up in an @ message).  Then you totally replied to me.  It was magical.

What happened to that magic, MC Hammer?

More importantly, MC Hammer, what happened to us?  Before Twitter, you and I were totally inseparable.

Like remember that one time a few years ago when we built that giant robot and drove it to 7-Eleven to buy nachos?  Oh, man, that was so awesome.  How you learned to drive that giant robot still cracks me up.

Okay okay.  Fine, MC Hammer.  Fine.  There was no giant robot.

Okay, whatever, that was all made up.  What I meant to say was, “Remember that time a few years ago when I was listening to Please Hammer Don’t Hurt Em on that Walkman I got from the retarded guy in exchange for a dead squirrel I found and then stole some nachos from 7-Eleven?  And even though you were not there with me in person, I could hear you rapping through that retard’s pudding-caked headphones.  And really, I couldn’t hear anything because the retard ate the batteries.  And really, Please Hammer Don’t Hurt Em was not even in the Walkman.  It was Vanilla Ice’s To The Extreme.  And I was still drinking at the time.  A lot.”  Remember that?

Fine, MC Hammer, be that way.  Listen, Broseph, I just want things to go back to the way they used to be.  You know, like when you would tweet about something I don’t really care about and I would reply just so I could tell my buddies I was chatting with MC Hammer.  Remember that one time that happened like two months ago?  Yeah.  That shit was totally um…fly.  And dope.  And I was um… illin’ after that.

I miss us, MC Hammer.  We were totally like Starsky & Hutch or Beavis & Butthead or um.. @davidcgarcia & @MCHammer.  Remember that?  Now I’m just some random @whomever to you.  Sheesh, MC Hammer.  Way to hurt a guy.

You know what really stings, though?  You decided to start following my friend, Brandon.  Oh look, it’s @MCHammer and @brandonjcarr hanging out.  Kickin’ it old school.  Oh, where’s @davidcgarcia?  Oh, he’s over there in the corner, staring intently at the TwitterBerry application on his phone, dehydrating from the tears of loneliness and betrayal as he waits for MC Hammer to say something to his dozens of pointless and possibly harassing tweets.  That’s right, MC Hammer.  You betrayed me, homeboy.

Hammer, you did hurt em…err…me.

Whatever.  Hit me up sometime, man.  We should start hanging again.  And building robots.

Your pal,
@davidcgarcia