Dear Kansas (A Pants Letter)
May 27, 2008
Hey, home-for-now-state! What up, hawg?! It’s a beautiful day here and I really appreciate that, but gorgeous weather does not cancel out the idea that this state is crawling with morons and I think it’s your duty as one-fiftieth of the United States to do something soon, before Lenexa puts out Olathe’s eye or Topeka goes up in flames because Lawrence was playing GI Joe with a can of hairspray and a Bic lighter.
First of all, let’s address the whole “driving issue.” I’m coming from a place of ignorance here, I admit that. I learned to drive in a state where you had to prove, in order to begin the licensing process, your awareness that the turn signal exists. This was quite helpful when the actual driving test happened, as one had to prove proficiency in using a turn signal in order to pass. It’s a pretty good system, when you think about it, letting people know your intentions on the highway, especially when one of my fine, fellow residents is performing the maneuver that I like to call, “The Kansas Slide.”
The Kansas Slide is really awesome and harkens back to the courage of those hearty pioneers, I’m sure. It’s almost like watching an automotive ballet, but performed by people who have been eating LSD by the handful. Take a six lane highway, with two left turning lanes. Your initiator of The Kansas Slide will begin in the most extreme right hand lane and drive, diagonally, toward the most extreme left turn lane. The entire movement is performed, of course, sans turn signal. If executed correctly, the sounds of tires squealing and brakes grinding is a symphony of terror.
Granted, I lived other places where people were reluctant to use their turn signals. People from Connecticut, for example, aren’t very likely to wear their driving intentions on their sleeves. But Kansans? Lord Almighty! You people seem to have active suicidal tendencies. It’s extremely disconcerting and it makes me uncomfortable to watch. I just can’t figure out how to schedule a county-wide intervention. I do appreciate the opportunity to chat with long-dead relatives and Jesus on an almost daily basis, though.
Additionally, I think, Kansas, that we need to have a conversation about pizza, and baked goods. Are you aware that they suck here? This tragedy on a plate that you people insist on calling “New York Style Pizza,” is a colossal joke that somebody, somewhere played on you. I lived in New York, Kansas. New York Pizza is a friend of mine. You, sir, are not serving New York Pizza.
Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up, shall we? New York pizza does NOT taste like a friggin’ saltine cracker, nor is it an under-baked and soggy mess of raw dough. Adding the injury of gallons of sauce to the injury of an already completely fucked-up crust is not helping your cause. And the cheese? Please! What are you people thinking?! The cheese should form a layer that feels almost al dente and does not feel like a ball of phlegm in the mouth. All in all, it’s been a very long time since I had a piece of pizza that didn’t make me want to punch my server in whatever incarnation of junk they were sporting.
But, as I mentioned, baked good in general are problematic in this state. It had never been my intention to turn into Caroline Fucking Ingalls when I moved here, yet I bake bread from scratch any time I want to enjoy a meal (which is to say, just about every day.) Have you any clue how labor intensive baking bread actually is? I mean, if it’s done correctly. Sure, I could slap a yeasty ball of wet flour in the oven and sacrifice a cat (presumably the preferred method of bread baking around here,) but that would be a cheat, as I see it.
Yes, we’ve been over it a million times — I am an uppity, East Coast Bitch and I make ridiculous and ludicrous demands that people and things make sense. I know your reluctance to see my side, but maybe you could try for me now. I trust I’ve made myself clear on th — oh. Wait. I just remembered something important. Let me translate my words so there’s no confusion:
You people no drive good.
Pizza bad here.
Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Reluctant Resident