I don't think you're ready for this, Jelly.

Today was a harrowing day filled with a little bit of hustlin' and whole lotta bustlin'. Hence, I decided, what better way to relax than to catch up on my correspondence. So, I opened up the old mailbag and grabbed a doozy. A reader, "YouGoGirl71," to be specific, popped the following ponderation for me, and boy did YGG71 open up a can of worms: "Dear What's a Donzer, What's the difference between jelly and jam? The way I see it, there is none. Peace in the Middle East, YouGoGirl71"

Naturally, my jaw dropped to the floor. What's the difference? Oh; for real? Because, there's a huge difference. Jelly's a Slut.

In response to YGG71's apparent ignorance, in turn, I am going to, well, turn the tables and focus all of my attention toward Jelly. It's time someone did. So, if you don't mind humoring me today as I give Jelly a much-needed talking to.

Dear Jelly,

WTF, yo? I am so over your crap. If it wasn't for YouGoGirl71, I might not have even grown a pair strong enough and pimp enough to call you out on your supreme defecation. But, here goes. You are such a skank. Remember when you used to kick it old school, and you rocked my world? Back then, you looked a little something like this:

But, then, something happened, and you decided kickin it in your own jar wasn't good enough for you? You went and hussied it up all professional like with your old prom-date, Peanut Butter.
That's fine. It's the 2000's. People live in sin. We get it. You and PB were in love. But you had to do it. You had to step out. Seriously, though; have you no shame? Was this really necessary? You have to go and advertise that you're all whorey and lalala? Just who are you trying to attract with a label like "Passion Fruit"? Just because Peanut Butter was home sick one day and some new boy stares you up and down a couple times, maybe grabs your ass in the reference section when Mrs. Honeycutt isn't looking, you go and sell yourself like this? Nasty.

Fine. Whatever. But, come on! Were you really this easy? How quickly our naive friend loses her dignity, eh? Texas Beer just sidles on into town and you jump into his jar like you've forgotten where you came from, Jelly? For Shame!

And, Jelly, I seriously don't even want to know what this means. A older guy dims the lights, puts on a little John Tesh, lets you sip a little wine, and all of a sudden you're choking his cherry? I don't even know who you are anymore. Oh, wait. Yeah I do. You're "Bad", Jelly!

Well you know what happens to skanknasty alcoholic Bad Jellies? They rub their dirty parts all over the warty parts of other dirty jellies.

And they end up with these:

Yeah. You are going to procreate and make loose little no-moraled junior skank fetuses just like you. And your little offspring will spread their legs all around town and end up like this:

For real, Jelly? A jar full of eel between your legs? How nice. Why don't you go slut yourself around a little more. I don't know. Join a roll or something.

Oh, been there done that, too, huh? How about you give a donut a whirl or two around the block?
Jelly, just because he buys you dinner, doesn't mean you have to let him take you home. And, come on. Are you liquid? Are you a gel? You know what you're sure as hell not? Gummy. Now get the hell out of that market, and pick an identity.

Are you beans?
Are you a delicious Thanksgiving garnish?

Are you kickass 1980's leisurewear?

Jelly, my sister: get over yourself! You have seriously gone too far. What if the Jelly Babies get a load of this - and, yes, I do mean that literally?: Homegirl, it's time to pull out. This has gone on long enough. There is still time to salvage some dignity. No more hooking up with mint. No more rolling around with Spicy Boisenberry. Just end this charade. You owe it to the world.

Regards,

Your Friends at this blog is eggsalady

tap this: humor-blogs.com, perhaps this: humor.alltop.com

An Open Letter to the Easter Bunny

Hey, Easter Bunny,

Sup? How's tricks? Right on. I'm good; I'm good. I guess it's been a while since I've written, huh? Sorry. You know how it is. Well, what have you been up to lately? I guess you have been pretty busy getting ready for the big day this Sunday, eh? Do you have a second? I have some things I'd like to lay out on the table here, and I was hoping I could get the skinny from you on a few ishes that have been giving me a braineurism of late.

I guess first, you know, I'll ask you some of the burning questions that have been keeping me awake at night. First, EB: I really don't know a lot about you. You're kind of the El Mysterioso of all holiday mascots. But, you know, there comes a point in a relationship when you need to take things to the next level and open your eyes, tap that special someone on the shoulder and get him to hand you your bra and remind you of his name. Well, this is kind of that time. I wanna know your story. I am just really unclear on where exactly you spend all your days when you are not camped out at my local mall sitting in the enormous pastel pink chair while toddlers named Brice donning suspenders Larry King would covet drip their sippies of cranapple juice and goldfish crumbs all over your furry lap. I mean, it's not the North Pole, I am assuming. But, where do you live? I imagine it's somewhere nice and mild, like Boca, where you can relax a little with a cocktail on your lanai or practice your golf swing or work on your crossstitch samplers. You tell me. I mean, you know where I live - in fact, you apparently know where I have kept the spare key of every single house I have inhabited for nearly three decades. Open up a little. I don't even know your first name. Are you Peter Cottontail, or is that just some Garth-Brooks-becomes-Chris-Gaines type thing? I have no idea. And, Bunny - why do you look different every time I see you? This must confuse the ladies. Are there ladies? Are you seeing anyone special these days?

Okay, also, buddy: can you kind of break down what it is, exactly, that you do for the children around the world each year? I mean, I have talked to some friends, and there seem to be some discrepancies. You know how you come to my house and hide my Easter basket on Easter morning - sometimes in the dryer, sometimes in the laundry hamper, sometimes in the guest room closet? Why do you do that? I mean, my basket hunt just happened to come up in conversation with some pals recently, and, apparently you have always thought my ass could use a little extra workout, because not one of the chums I polled has to work for their jellybeans in the morning. Oh, and speaking of my friends and their Easter baskets: well, I am not trying to sound ungrateful here. Really - I am really grateful for all the tasty treats you have ever presented to me. But, some of my friends just happened to mention that you often step outside the realm of candy in their baskets. Some of them have gotten jewelry; some have received cds; yet others claim that you have bequeathed fat wads of cash amongst their plastic green grass and Cadbury eggs (BTW - I'll get to those momentarily). One girl I know even got two little yellow chickies from you one year. But, you always stick solely to candy for yours truly. Again, not complaining - just, you know, asking.

And, what about the hard boiled eggs? I mean, I dye them every year for you, sometimes using the PAAS kit, sometimes the Dudley's, sometimes both. We've had tiedyed eggs and plastic lamb picture wrapped eggs and striped eggs and stickered eggs and eggs with my name written in white wax and eggs with your name written in white wax; basically, anything one could do in the egg decorating world has been done by me. And, I was kind of under the impression that it was all for you. Well, how come my eggs always end up distributed amongst my family Easter baskets and then back in the Frigidaire by ten a.m? I guess I can kinda see how you'd be a little full from all the other egg endowed families you've visited throughout the night. (Don't get me started on your transportation means; there simply isn't enough time to delve into that topic.) But, why, exactly, am I busting my A decorating all these grade A extra larges for you when they end up back in a basket for me? I dunno. Again, just questions here between friends, right?

Well, here comes the selfish. I guess I thought I might just give you a couple helpful suggestions before you pick up my basket from the factory (the treehouse? the burrow? Target? See - a little disclosure wouldn't kill you, I bet) this year: You know how every year when I was in the grocery store with my mom and we'd pass the section of plastic premade Easter baskets filled with crayons and bubbles and coloring books and plastic eggs and Double Bubble and I'd always whine and say that's what I wanted and it looks so fun and the Easter Bunny never brings me those? You were so right. Please don't make this year the year you start that. I am sorry I doubted you. Also, jelly beans: I really mean this - go Russell Stover pectin or go home. I don't want any of the impostors (even you, overpriced, undersized Jelly Belly). And, what with the whole non-chewing snafu this year, I am thinking about still going for it and popping my beans like I'd (theoretically) pop my Vicodin. Cadbury eggs? Pass. Peeps? They're a novelty. Skip 'em. You're better than Peeps. Oh - you know what would be cool? One of those orange flavored cut into wedges chocolate balls. Oh. Wait. Nevermind. Can't chew. Those are pretty dope, though. I guess forget the chocolate bunny, too. Normally that's pretty rad, though. Anyway, I guess you'll have to think outside the box for me a little this year. Ovaltine, maybe? DQ Blizzard gift certificates? You're the boss. I'll yield to you.

Anyway, I still have a million more questions, but I know I have rambled on a little and I am sure you have a billion things to do. Anyway, keep in touch. Maybe drop me a line letting me know some of these things I have wondered about since I was a fetey, mmkay? Well, hope you have a great week!

Love ya lots,

What's a Donzer

p.s. - Good luck this weekend!

p.p.s. - GLTS!

p.p.p.s. - visit here, won't you? humor-blogs.com

An Open Letter to Valerie Bertinelli

Dear Valerie,

First and foremost, I need to start off by acknowledging that this might seem a little harsh. Well, that's because I am coming to you as a friend, and sometimes friends need to hear the throw you against the wall dip your fingers in tar truth. And, Val, it is time for you to hear that truth.

Let me begin, though, by highlighting some really good things. You kind of affected my childhood, Valerie Bertinelli. You were so spunky and squeeze your cheeks adorable as lovable pubescent urchin Barbara Cooper on One Day at a Time. My sister and I loved watching your many adventures on WGN in the afternoons (though not nearly as much as we loved Charles in Charge or Gidget or My Sister Sam - no offense), and if we ever played One Day at a Time, neither of us EVER wanted to be stuck being sucky Mackenzie Phillip's character Julie.

And, Val, it was totally cool when you married Eddie Van Halen, because you were the good girl and he was the rocker and America just giggled at the silly pairing of you mismatched lovebirds, but, ain't love strange sometimes? And, when you came back into our lives every now and again to star in a made for tv movie, Val, it was so comfortable: it just felt right. By the way, I must especially commend you on Night Sins. It kept me riveted for both nights - all 240 minutes of it- and the sexual chemistry you shared with Harry Hamlin was palpable. Bravo!

But, Valerie, here comes the part of the letter where it might sting a little. I need you to do me a little favor. Get the hell off of my tv. When you divorced the old nutbag, there was a moment of, "Aww. Really?" and then I went back to my crossword. When I heard that you had been reloading your plate at the Golden Corral buffet just a couple times too many, I thought, "Tsk tsk," and then I dealt myself another hand of Spider Solitaire.

But then, all of a sudden, you were back, and you were back often. I guess I should blame Jenny Craig - or, more specifically Kirstie Alley for getting fat again (silly kook!). Kudos for losing 40 pounds. But, Valerie, get the hell off of my tv. I don't need to see you on Oprah and Access Hollywood and Larry King and The View and The Dog Whisperer and Trading Spaces and the Playboy channel and This Old House. You snorted coke, too? Well Mackenzie Phillips already shared that story, and she shared it better twenty years ago. Oh, you and Crazy Van Halen both cheated during your marriage? Hats off! Now get the hell off of my tv. Once you are safely back into oblivion for say, eight years or so, I wouldn't mind you returning to hock some nonstick muffin tins on QVC or something. But, for now, Val, I have had enough. I think America has had enough.

Good luck with the book sales and keeping your offspring Wolfie (sweet name, btw) off the blow.

Your friend,

What's a donzer