Dear Aspen…

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Dear Eddie Izzard,

Sorry I made an ass out of myself standing next to you on a staircase. See, Jessica really likes you, and I do, too, but I wanted her to see she was standing next to you. I’m sorry I kind of pushed her into you while you were trying to dial your cell phone. You looked like you were having a hard time acclimating while walking up the stairs. The stairs never get easier, do they? Heh-heh-heh. Anyway, YOU’RE AWESOME AND WOOOO! [Virtual flashing]

Tardedly,

-p
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Dear Snow,

How come you don’t come out to Los Angeles? I think you’d really like it here. We’ve got lots to do, and there are plenty of things for you to cover. Think of the traffic jams you could cause! Also, you’d do really well out here: you’re white.

Let me know when you’ve got a headshot,

-p
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Dear Comedy,

I don’t want to make fart jokes. I don’t think poo is all that funny. I mean, every once in a while. But every joke? Is that what it takes to be your girlfriend? I’m not Sarah Silverman.

-p
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Dear Janeane Garofalo,

Whew. I made it an entire conversation with you without blushing, stammering, or staring at you like you’re my Selena. Thanks for the advice, and for the appreciative nod at my “America Is Scary” t-shirt. One day we’ll bond over the misery of our shared Houston pasts. But that’s for another day, one where we could maybe share a bottle of tequila. Oh, do you not drink anymore? Whatever. I’ll drink; you just keep complaining about the president.

-p
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Dear Colin Quinn,

You are my favorite story about Aspen. While I truly wish you got involved in our two a.m. snowball fight outside the hotel, all was forgiven the moment I pelted a transportation van instead of my husband, causing you to shout, “She’s got a good arm!” If you don’t think that’s going on my resume like the ultimate blurb, you don’t know me at all.

-p.

P.S.: I know you don’t know me at all.
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Dear Condo,

Thanks for making me feel like a total rockstar. All that and free passes to the Aspen Club, too? There’s nothing better than sitting in a hottub in the snow. One thing: why so much weird Navajo art? Why were the couch cushions made out of burlap? Why did every wall boast a cow skull? Why was I sleeping on a bed of bones? Why are you so tacky, Aspen? You’re made entirely out of snow and money. There’s no need for so many statues of animals in attack, statues of “common people” doing their cute little “jobs,” or four-foot tall vases filled with even taller sticks of bamboo. It doesn’t make any sense.

-p
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Dear Aspen clothing store,

When your “Steal This Shit, We Don’t Care” rack that sits outside contains items marked down to “$500 or less,” I cannot stop laughing at you.

Made $100 last month,

-p
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Dear Greg Behrendt,

Thanks for being the coolest guy in Aspen.

Seriously,

-p
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Dear Fancy Party I Attended,

There was a moment, just after stuffing myself at the sushi bar, just before my third free drink, just before I found the large-screen television in the spare kids’ room on the third floor, when I found your Warhol. I know you know where it is, but I just want to point out that you put your Warhol on the second floor, on the way to some spare guest bedroom, in your Aspen vacation home. It makes me wonder how fucking famous your piece has to be to get prominent placement in your impressive art collection. And thanks for letting me stand in a room with Christopher Lloyd and Mena Suvari.

Glad I didn’t spill a drop of red wine,

-p
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Dear Audiences,

Is it television? Is it DVD rentals? What is it that makes you think it’s totally acceptable to chat during a performance? I guess I understand if one of you says to the other, “This blows; let’s go check out the half-naked girls again.” But what I don’t understand is when you want to talk about how much you’re enjoying yourselves. “I like that one. That was good. Did she say ‘coffee?’ That’s funny.” Dude. I’m a human being. I’m standing right in front of you. I can totally hear you. I promise I’ll be even more entertaining if you listen to what I’m saying. And for those of you who only want to watch ten minutes to decide whether or not I’m sitcom material — could you not sit near the front row? You make it look like I suck.

Maybe I suck,

-p
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Dear Daughter of Famous Comic Who I Thought Liked Me,

Guess you didn’t like the show, huh? Anyway, for future reference, I don’t need you to tell me you liked the show if you didn’t, but pretending I’m now made of invisible molecules is kind of a dicky thing to do. When we were dancing together, were you laughing at me? Because I totally saw you laughing at me, and I’m pretty sure you saw me see you laughing at me and —

Whatever,

-p
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Dear Comedy Festival,

While I’m well aware I’m being a little hard on myself, I’d like to thank you for the ultimate in learning experiences. It was humbling, exciting and mortifying all at the same time. Thank you for the opportunity, but mostly thanks for letting me achieve a goal without making a total asshole out of myself (except for that Eddie Izzard staircase moment).

-p
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