Dear Jamie Anderson, Hey girl, I see you out there riding. Being the best snowboarder in the world and shit. I have just one question for you: can I have your number? Can I call you? Can I text you? Add me on snapchat? I saw you on Celebrity Apprentice so I know you are an independent woman. I’ll just leave you a voicemail and let you get back to me. I’ll be the Tiger Woods to your Lindsey Vohn – except whiter and unemployed. And not talented at golf. Or famous. But hey, at least I didn’t cheat on my ex girlfriend with nine different porn stars. Just one girl I met on Tinder. I liked you on Tinder once, but I deleted the app a day later. We probably would have matched. I know we are destined for each other. We have so much in common. We both live in South Lake and do yoga. I’m not a pro snowboarder, but I can get down the mountain. I want to take you back to where I grew up in the Midwest. I can’t wait for my mother to disapprove of you and your free-spirited sensibilities. My father will see me as less of a man because you make more money than me. It’s okay though, girl, I know you will be my sugar momma. We will spend our summers doing yoga on Kiva beach, long boarding through town, and using your GoPro to make sex tapes on top of Mount Tallac. I want you like Rose in Titanic – except I want you just with your gold medal on. I’ll nose press your box if you tail press my rail, if you know what I mean (wink wink). Let’s elope to vegas! And don’t worry, girl, I’ll sign that pre-nup. With love and admiration, Slippery Pete
About the author
Born on the mean streets of Rockford Illinois, Slippery Pete longed for the life of an indoor marijuana grow house operator. Upon his arrival in California he found out that growing weed is a lot of work and now he just collects unemployment instead.