Lindsay It Ain’t So

Dear Lindsay,

It’s been a while since we last talked.  I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ve been a bit busy.

So have you, it looks like.  That’s why I’m writing.  I’m very worried about you.

I’ve supported you since the beginning.  I know the terribly difficult road that you’ve had to travel during your short life… experiencing the rough and tumble childhood living on Long Island.  You were never tutored or privately schooled.  You did it the hard way by the way of actually attending public school.  But you did it girl… way to go!  I know it was hard with all those nasty kids driving their Acuras to school.  Ick.

Your relationship with your father never concerned me.  He loves you and is so very proud of you and the wonderful role-model that you’ve become.  He also wants you to bring two cartons of smokes on Saturdays when you can visit him in the clink.

I know the stresses of your early success were difficult to handle.  No one could expect you to experience all the attention, money, and new friends without experimenting a little bit.  Riding the white lightning definitely relieves stress, and you couldn’t feel more loved having Wilmer Valderrama snorting a line right off your ass.

I never criticised you for getting breast implants.  Your selection of the Sleepnumber Rack was pure genious and keeps everyone guessing.  Hillary Duff would have never thought of that.  I mean, come on, she mistook a pack of Chicklets for veneers!

The smoking was something I wasn’t really thrilled about, but you did cover your tracks by joining a Tobacco Free Kids campaign.  Besides, you already have asthma… so it’s not like you have a lot of breathing to miss anyway.

I’ll admit I’m even a little jealous that you get to spend so much time outside.  Forget all the pish-posh about the depleting ozone, UV rays, and SPFwhatever.  You’re a young, vibrant, incredibly freckled, fair skinned redhead who should run free on sunlit shores.  I always thought Magda was hotter than Mary.

I heard that some old asshole over at Morgan Creek Productions sent you a letter that you’re partying too much.   Senile prick probably is upset because he isn’t getting any at home.  I just think he wants to hit it.

Your fights with Paris (stuck up bitch), leaving your Hermes bag at Heathrow (it could happen to anybody… I would have forgotten about the jewelry too)… all of these things aren’t a big deal to me.  All the haters just love to blow this all out of proportion.

But girl, when I heard about what happened most recently,  I knew I needed to write you.  I mean, come on.   I can’t believe you did it not once, but twice. 

Will you please put a lid on the fallopian fun box, please? 

Seriously.  It’s just embarassing.  The least Harry Morton could do is get you some Hard Rock underwear or something.

Let’s talk soon, okay?

Love, Woy 

P.S. Stretch gets “free panty” cards from Victoria’s Secret all the time.   I’ll have to mail some of that shit out.