dear doris day.

Dear Doris Day,


I've been thinking a lot about you lately. Not intentionally, of course. (I'm not that sick.) It's just that I never knew you had such a rabid, insatiable fanbase. Whenever I look at the behind-the-scenes statistics for this blog (which is practically every five minutes), I'm consistently amazed that hundreds and hundreds of Google searches from all over the world for 'Doris Day' and 'Doris Day today' and 'Doris Day fucking a dead mule' have brought people here. Certainly these mentally disturbed fans are looking for more than I have to offer--which until now had consisted only of the reminder that you are in fact still alive, along with the following photograph, which isn't necessarily flattering:

I can see the referring links for these searches, and many of them originate from the United Kingdom, Germany, and the Netherlands, which seems to suggest a particularity of cultural taste that I'll leave for sociologists to decipher. But let's speak frankly here. I don't need a major statistical analysis to know that a good half of these freaks are likely putting your face on full-screen view and shooting a wad of hot semen between your eyes. Now I don't know how you feel about being the imaginary fuck doll for some schlubby German man who thinks about raping your mouth hole in With Six You Get Eggroll while he's boning his wife. I don't pretend to understand what makes you tick. You are an enigma... a phantom... an elusive butterfly luring me and my net into the wilds of infinity. I shouldn't prematurely rule out the fact that maybe you enjoy an interracial bukkake now again, but like Indian food, in moderation. (And at the age of 88, can you really tell the difference between a money shot and a vigorous application of Vicks VapoRub anyway?)


I don't mean to blame you or anything, but I don't like the idea of all these sick kraut bastards launching ribbons of hot spunk at my blog--unless of course it's the writing they're responding to--in which case, fire away. But what do I really expect when there are only a couple dozen people on the internet at any given moment who aren't masturbating?


As far as why you--Doris Day--are the source of this underground hysteria, I have no reasonable guess. Why not Eva Marie Saint or Charlotte Rae, who were both also featured in that 'Dead or Alive' blog post? I'm not trying to say you're a hideous monster, you understand, but I remember when I first noticed that you existed while watching Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much I kind of wanted to rip out all of your hair and fill your mouth with bark beetles while you were singing 'Que Sera, Sera.' I've spoken with others about this reaction, and I've discovered that it's not enitrely rare.


But taste is a curious, irreducible quantity. So in the spirit of tolerance, I've decided that since so many people are using your nasal-labial folds as target practice for their projectile cum wads anyway, I might just as well give the people want they want: More of your face to spooge on. Variety is indeed the spice of life--and the spice of masturbation as well. So enjoy, meine Freunde, and keep the screen wipes ready-to-hand...