Lindsay, I’m sorry.
I know there’s nothing worse than being broken up with over PointsInCase.com, but I had to find a way to do it. And in my defense, you live way the hell out in California and I don’t have the slightest idea how to get there.
But even if I did, I’m pretty sure the Twisted Wagon (that’s the adorable nickname I have for my decaying ‘92 Toyota Corolla) would not make the trip without exploding into tiny shards of pure rust.
For years after our little "Dairy affair-y" you could say we maintained something of an open relationship. You and I have had a long distance relationship for some time now. I saw you through various eating disorders and rehab stints, and even forgave your dalliances with Wilmer Valderama. FES of all people! You might as well have been hooking up with Dustin Diamond, but I begrudgingly accepted it, because I loved you and your breast freckles and your Uncle Scrooge-like money bin.
But now you’re dating Samantha Ronson. A girl who not only isn’t a hot girl, but who may in fact not even be any sort of a girl. This is a bit much, even for me. If it had been Jessica Alba I could have looked the other way. Well actually I couldn’t have looked the other way because I would have been masturbating too hard, but you get the drift.
I know you read my column regularly, so I figured ending our relationship this way would be appropriate. After all, I found out about you shacking up with Samantha while I was scanning US Weekly on break from slingin’ soft serve at Dairy Queen.
All I could think about was the first time we met. I was just wondering, in the immortal words of Mr. Phil Collins, "Do you remember?"
Well just in case the years of substance abuse have dimmed your memory, allow me to give you a little refresher.
Your private jet had emergency landed in Crapville, Ohio to stock up on flavored coffee drinks, and of all the DQ’s in the state (and Ohio is composed mostly of Dairy Queens), you had to walk into mine.
We hit it off. I talked about how when you cried in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen; I cried right along with you. I told you how every single night spent in my apartment ended with me waking up abruptly, still drunk on my Mylar couch, to the ever repeating strains of "out of bed, crack of noon…something something…Jane Mansfield’s car." (That’s the song on the Mean Girls DVD menu screen for you philistines who haven’t watched it.)
You giggled your giggle.
I secreted you into the break room where we sipped moolattes and eventually (thanks to the Jack Daniels sour mash I slipped into yours) each other.
Of course the break room also has the ice cube maker in it so every couple minutes we would startle an employee trying to fetch a bucket.
Remember how we thought it was odd that the pop machine seemed to run out of ice 14 or 15 times while we were having our sex style relations? Now that I think about it they were probably just trying to get a glimpse of me naked or something. I’m sorry about that.
Now, to severely paraphrase a line from what’s at least one of the top five best non-Lohan movies ever, Plan 9 from Outer Space: "The break room that we shared has become a tomb, a sweet memory of our joyous boofing."
For years after our little "Dairy affair-y" you could say we maintained something of an open relationship. But all the while you fooled around with Wilmer Valderama and recorded albums, and I made drunken passes at cheerleaders and wrote humorous columns, we still kept in touch.
You even made the pilgrimage out here in Herbie while you were filming Fully Loaded. I still think once we were done in him he should have been rechristened "Herbie the hot steamy impassioned slow fuck bug," but Disney wasn’t having it.
*Sigh* I’ll always have my memories, but you’re into girls now…even though it’s hard to believe Samantha is any more a female than I am (or that "Macho Man" Randy Savage is for that matter), but I imagine that makes the transition from playing for one team to the other that much easier.
Anyway, my point is, I’m letting you go. Does this mean I won’t drunk dial you while not wearing any pants? Of course it doesn’t. I’ll probably do that tonight. What’s important though is you know that one day you’ll wake up craving wieners again and recall that mine was the most great and wonderful in all of Northeast Ohio. And when that day comes I’ll tell myself to be strong, look you straight in the eye…
…and take you back in a second.