Letter from Philly to Maureen Dowd, NY Times
To: Maureen Dowd, NY Times
Yo Maureen. I heard you were talking about me in the New York Times.
I don’t usually read that fish stick wrap. People kept sending me the article, though. The interview you did with Kate Winslet about Mare of Easttown.
First off, Kate Winslet is friggin incredible in the Delco show and I respect the hustle to try and sound right. Love ya Kate.
You said that I’m “known for being tough” and that beating up Hitchbot was the purest representation of who I am. I’m not even going to repeat your snoozefest snowball-and-batteries examples because you’re embarrassing yourself. The fact I even have to lower myself to write this response is pissing me off. I got a bocce game in a half hour. My PR team is on me, though, so here it is.
I got no disrespect for those fine journalists who been reminding you of all the good stuff about me. That ain’t my angle.
Maureen, what is this weaksauce hot take? Did you miss my last 43 Christmas newsletters? You haven’t looked at my social feed since 2015? If you honestly think Hitchbot was my best work, you don’t know me at all. I’m not somebody that rests on their laurels, but you make it seem like I been sitting around doing nothing. What, you’re still selling the story that I ate glue sticks when we were in grade school? Move on.
I haven’t seen you at the shore house the past ten years. When was the last time you came to Irish Weekend? You weren’t at a single First Communion party this year, either. I try to involve you. But you’re too busy with your New York life. Then you got the audacity to project like this? Like you know me? You don’t know me.
Let’s talk about the header you use: Bad Jeans and Cheesesteak. That ain’t the right grammar. Cheese is cheese. Steak is steak. But “cheesesteak” in this usage ain’t a thing. It’s “cheesesteaks”, or “the cheesesteak”, or “a cheesesteak”. If you spent any time with me at all, you’d know that.
Also, in your tweet promoting the article, you misuse the word jawn.
You called me New York’s “unloved cousin”. Are you serious right now? New Yorkers keep sneaking down here and getting what they can from me without even taking me out for a nice dinner at Pesto. Buying all the cheap property, holding onto it from afar without any community investment or upkeep. Youse all moved here during the pandemic, not to mention you been gentrifying our neighborhoods for years with the intent of leaving before your kids hit public school age. I’m tired of being your sidepiece, New York! You think it’s a feather in your hat to have my grit on your bedpost, and then get straight back on the Acela the next day. I’m a human being. Well, I’m not, but you know what I mean.
I’m sick of the rest of you bringing me your garbage to deal with. How do you think I feel when some bougie four-year-old in a crunchy West Philly co-op classroom tells my local teacher they’re saying “water” wrong? How about trying to get to the State Road prison for a visit and traffic is wack because of Rudy Giuliani and his clown troupe dirtying the parking lot of Four Seasons Total Landscaping in the beautiful Northeast? No, that was a different time from when he dribbled his Clairol Nice ‘N’ Easy (shade #D4, Dark Mocha Brown) onto the press mic. I know it’s hard to keep it straight, but I was in the middle of it, if you remember, counting the votes and saving the country.
Anyway, then you insinuate that Kate’s “elegant voice, creamy complexion, and sunny outlook” is a complete contrast to me.
Oh? I ain’t elegant?
What, you want me to say “KWA-SAHN” like a jagoff instead of calling it a bread roll? My Father Judge hoodie isn’t fancy enough for you? What are you getting at with this “creamy complexion” thing? It’s about our girls spray tanning for prom, isn’t it. I know your petty insults by now. I should have a sunny outlook, when I gotta deal with people like you?
You said we have a salty attitude. I’ll say I’m salty, Maureen. You don’t say I’m salty. Do it again and I’ll spit in your sandwich.
For the record, it ain’t smart to walk down the street smiling at strangers while you’re dressed in Rubbermaid. Hitchbot needed to learn his lesson before something worse happened. I did him a favor.
And yeah, we set things on fire when we won the Super Bowl and the World Series. I don’t see your point. The grass is green, the sky is blue. So what?
Stop coming to my stoop and expecting me to be grateful. You’re boring! My children will hunt you down like a spotted lanternfly. Gritty will chew you up and spit you into the Delaware. After the year I had, the work I put in, all the crumb bums I been dealing with, all I ask is a little time to chill. And you come at me with this? You sound like a smacked ass. I’m going to play bocce.