Return to Sender: Post-Halloween Snippets

To the hipster-looking white dude who thought he could rap:

Don't quit your day job. There's a reason the dance floor cleared when you hit the stage.

Oh, and we could see your man-thong.

Dear Bad White Rap-ster:

I love hip hop. There are certain white artists I think are fabulous. You are not one of them. When the entire dance floor clears as you say "Get out the way, ole, ole," it's not because we're all really good at following directions. That was our way of saying "with all due respect, you blow." And, that was definitely not a sign for you to follow up "Ole" with a song about how "chicks love cocky rappers." If your sub-par flow makes you think you're talented enough to be arrogant, I'd say that you're actually just out your damn mind. (K.K.)

To the chick with the beard and the tennis racket:

What the fuck were you supposed to be?

To the dude with the Capitano mask:

Props to you. If you actually know what you were wearing, that is. Because if you actually know Commedia, then you know that you were wearing a big phallic symbol. And that's funny.

What? You just bought the mask because you didn't have time to get a costume? That's even funnier. Penis-face.

To many, many, of the women in attendance:

"Skank" is not a costume.

To many, many, of the men in attendance:

See above.

Dear Lazy People:

A wig does not a costume make. Nor does white face paint. (K.K.)

To the girl with the giant butterfly wings:

Yes, they were gorgeous. No, you didn't belong on the dance floor. Why? Ask Milli and Vanilli.

Dear tiny Asian drag king:

How in the hell can one person have that much energy? Thanks for the entertainment, you kinda rocked.

To the guys in scrubs and white coats labelled "gynecologist."

Ew.

(But, the guy with the name tag reading "Dr. Mike Hunt" does get a few points for making me giggle. Or was that the $10 Cape Codder I was drinking?)

Dear Man in Clear Mask:

That thing distorted your face just enough that I'm still having nightmares. Thanks a million. (K.K.)

To the guy in the band who was wearing a towel:

Yes, you're all very talented. No, that doesn't mean that you can "bump" into my friend in the hallway and then ever-so-gently squeeze her shoulder to tell her you're sorry.

To the DJ in the main room at the beginning of the night:

I fell in love with you when you started spinning "Motown Philly." I didn't even think the prison jumpsuit was creepy. Not till I read this.

Marry me anyway?

To the gentleman in the leisure suit who followed us around the dance floor for a good forty-five minutes:

Cleavage is not an invitation to blatantly stare down my shirt.

Dear Jill:

Um, I love you dearly, but highly visible cleavage is kinda an invitation for people to look. Maybe not stare blatantly, but I wouldn't expect guys not to look at what's literally right in front of them. (K.K.)

Dear Male Cleave-Oglers:

That said, develop some self control. Learn to look up, you know, often enough for the girl whose chest your staring at to not think you're the biggest creep ever. If you're actually impressed enough by her cleavage that you don't want to look away, I guarantee you that failing to look any further north over a long enough period of time will definitely not result in an invitation to get closer to your eye candy. (K.K.)

Yes, that is a picture of Editor Jillian and Columnist Katie that you see above this post.