Dear Poor Lucky Me,
Can you please tell me the street address for the headquarters of evite.com? I would like to firebomb them around 10:00a.m. on Wednesday so that I make sure everyone is in the office.
If I get one more “We Can’t Believe Little Jessica is Turning One!” emailed invitation I will explode. Can’t believe she is turning one? I can’t believe she has stuck around for a year you shitty hostess.
Even my fellow gay friends are sending them: “Jeffrey is turning 40. Ssshhh — It’s A Surprise.” Ha! The only surprise is that Jeffrey is claiming to be forty years old. He looks like he catered the Last Supper. If the homos aren’t even creative enough to make an invitation, society is doomed.
When someone sends an evite it automatically signals to me that the entire event will suck: Boxed wine. The “good” paper plates. Gargantuan chicks walking around with diet sodas exclaiming “We’re preggers again — tee hee.” Hooray, does that mean I can expect a parade of evites from you for baby showers, christening, birthday, first communion, confirmation? I’d really love to drive out to the suburbs in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday to celebrate the fact that your one year old poop factory marched out of your womb a scant three hundred and sixty five days ago. Honestly, I would rather do anything else.
And please, please, please don’t serve any alcohol or decent food. I’m sure everyone would be tickled pink if you decided to wear that crappy shmata you plucked from the clearance bin at Kohls six years ago. It gets even more lovely every time I see it.
Screw poor baby evite. Wah, wah.
Signed,
God I hate evites
Dear God,
.
Your passion excites and terrifies me. Unfortunately Poor Lucky Me does not support domestic or international terrorism, so I will be unable to provide you with the Evite headquarters address.
Poor Lucky Me