Dear Whoopi,

Have you ever gone fly fishing? I’d never gone before, and a friend asked me if I wanted to go. Out of boredom I agreed. We had to wake up exceptionally early, apparently because that particular type of fish can only be caught by sleep-deprived, sunburned individuals like myself that lack the necessary fine motor skills and attention span to use the hooks safely and effectively. After a three-hour drive to the middle of nowhere and debating whether or not my friend Steve was the kill-and-bury kind of guy, I arrived to the river.

Complete with those industrial strength condom pants and a hat that shielded me from harmful UV rays but not public humiliation, I left my dignity with the truck and tried to harness my inner Neanderthal. What I didn’t know was fly-fishing isn’t as much fishing, as it is a series of events designed to push you closer and closer to violent outbursts and misplaced racial slurs at inanimate objects.

After a well-intentioned presentation complete with demonstrations and riverbed diagrams, I felt confident enough to make my first cast. It didn’t go well. I spent the next three hours sitting on the riverbed in tears, untying a knot unparalleled in both size and complexity. In between sobs, I called my mom to make sure I was up to date on my tetanus booster shot.

With that problem behind me, I caught up to Steve and discovered he was having a slightly different experience. While I was gone, Steve was crowned King of the River, with all of its inhabitants fighting over who gets the honor of meeting their new leader. An attempt to cross the river was seen as a threatening gesture to the King, and the submerged river rocks came to his defense, detaining the apparent insurgent mid stream. The leg rubbers that were designed to keep water out got confused and decided to contain the water rushing in.

I spend the rest of the afternoon limping along with a clubfoot from the two gallons of river water in my boot, getting my hook caught in every available plant that lined the river. Now, when you get a hook caught a bush, you are supposed to walk up to it and gently pull it out. After a while though, I started behaving like one of those bad parents at the mall that put their kids on leashes. Do you know the kind I’m talking about Whoopi? You know, the ones that yank them, shouting, “get over here!” when their kids ones linger a little too long at the Build-A-Bear window? Other than that, it was a good time.

Yours truly,
Nathan

Dear Whoopi,

Do you like airplanes? I always get very awkward when I’m on them. When I get to the airport, I usually grossly overestimate how much time it is going to take me. I put my bag on the scale at the baggage check place and feel like I’m spinning the big wheel on The Price is Right, hoping to get the $1 equivalent of having the bag weigh under 50 pounds. Do you weigh over 50 pounds Whoopi? At security I just try to not get arrested. While I’m positive I’ve done nothing wrong, the constantly changing regulations make me feel like I am and don’t even know it. I take the laptop out as well as all liquids and gels but end up pouring contact solution and toothpaste all over my computer in three-ounce doses. Then I forget to take my belt off and put my boarding pass through the X-ray. I walk through the metal detector sweating and get to second base with some large hairy black woman when it goes off. I always get very excited when I see the moving sidewalks and make sure to take them, but a poorly placed Cinnabon makes me hop the railing before it ends.

I fly Southwest, do you fly Southwest Whoopi? When I get on the plane, I sit towards the front by the window and try to not make eye contact with everyone, hoping to have an empty seat on an overbooked flight. The one hot girl on the flight asks if the seats next to me are taken. I over-zealously answer no and realize her fat father will instead be occupying my personal space for the next several hours with his man boobs blocking her from view.

After the plane takes off, I seriously consider making Sky Mall purchases like gold-plated nose hair trimmers and electric toilet seat warmers while fighting for armrest space with the fat man’s rolls. The flight attendant comes buy and I ask for a shot of Jack Daniels. The bleach blond woman asks for my ID and I try to convince her that I don’t have it, even though 15 people at the airport have first hand knowledge that I do.

A few minutes later I have to go to the bathroom and debate what to do with the crap on my tray table so I can stand. Then I wake my two neighbors, acknowledging I have to poop, and squeeze past them trying not to fart. I go to the bathroom at the front of the plane and TCOB (take care of business, just incase you didn’t know Whoopi), only to find that three people are waiting outside when I open the door. As I leave, all 150 passengers watch as a frail grandma reacts in disgust to the odor inside.

Ashamed, I try to watch a movie I downloaded on my computer only to find there is a surprisingly graphic sex scene and close my computer at the request of the 9-year-old behind me’s mom. I try to start up a conversation with the man next to me by saying, “hey look at that, that’s the Grand Canyon,” only have the pilot correctly identify the real Grand Canyon over the PA 15 minutes later.

Finally the plane lands and I discover not only am I too tall to stand up under the storage bin, but also that my neighbor has claimed my seat as a place to keep his backpack.

Maybe next time I can fly on your personal jet, Whoopi.

Yours Truly,
Nathan

Dear Whoopi,

So I've been debating it recently, and I think I'm going to start doing heroin. Do you do heroin Whoopi? I don't want to do a lot of it. Just like every couple days. You've got to set some ground rules if you are going to do it successfully. I'll work out a schedule, like: Heroin Days: Monday, Wednesday, Sunday; Non-Heroin Days: Tuesday, Saturday. I'll leave Thursday open, you know, see how I feel.

I'm a little puzzled by the nicknames for heroin kids today are using today. Names like "Dust," "China White," "Mexican Mud" and "Smack." For a long time I wondered why anyone would want to inject themselves with something called "Smack" but now I think I get it. Heroin is like a loving mother. From what I gathered off Google, when it's nice to you, it's love is pure and warm. But when it comes back from working a double shift at the diner, only to have her '97 Chrysler Le Baron blow a tire on the interstate and find my "jackass father" boning his secretary, you get a little love smack.

Also, there seems to be an overwhelming supply of anti-heroin propaganda. Campaigns like "Smack is Whack" really hit at the heart of the issue while remaining relevant to the younger generations with hip lingo. To this day I have only seen one pro-heroin advertisement and it was at a basketball game. Before the game, they gave out basketballs with the phrase, "When it comes to tobacco, PASS." You see, the basketball was a large, inflatable metaphor. Cute. What I noticed later, was that the other side of the ball says, "When it comes to heroin, SHOOT." I'm glad the Trailblazers and their advertisers clearly have their priorities in order.

Yours Truly,
Nathan

Dear Whoopi,

Have you ever wondered if plants can read? No? Me either.

Anyways, I was watching Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit yesterday and I heard an ambulance outside. In a moment of clarity catalyzed by the delightful nature of Bill Duke's directing, I decided what I want to be when I grow up.

I want to be an Ambulance Chaser. Now, I know what you must be thinking; why would anyone in their right mind want to be a scum-bag lawyer? But that's not it at all. I want to follows ambulances around and helps them out whenever they need it. Not in any official capacity, for I am sure some kind of certification is necessary to do that. I just want to be the guy that holds the IV bags up and entertains the people with my magic tricks. You know, change the occasional flat tire or bloody bandage now and then.

The only problem I am having now is what kind of outfit should I wear. Obviously, if I am to keep up with a moving vehicle, agility has to be the main concern. So capes and mermaid legs are probably not such a good idea, but should I have my own siren? What kinds of colors should I use? I have to make sure it doesn't make me look like a Super Hero, because that would be awkward and they have too much on their plates already without me getting in their way.

I think I can still accessorize though. Right now I'm thinking about making the uniform entirely of that super reflective orange stuff. The stuff old guys wear while jogging at night and the crossing guards make their vests out of.

I'll try to send you the mock up sketches when I get a chance.

Yours Truly,
Nathan