
Dear Richard Posner,
The other day I was eating lunch at Chicago's Standard Club. Guess what? You were there too, along with your four law clerks and their lacking senses of humor. Oddly enough, we both decided on dessert at about the same time, however, my young, agile body was able to make it to the buffet before your old, slowly decomposing body.
When you arrived at the dessert table, you undoubtedly knew exactly which of the delicious, hand-made sweets you wanted to eat. Unfortunately, all you could get to was my backside, because I was working that table. A little of this, a little of that.
I guess my indecision and the resulting delay in you getting to your dessert really pissed you off. You responded by catching my eye when I doubled back for more sweets, and giving me an intense mean mug. Let me tell you, Mr. Posner, I felt terrible. How dare I keep you from your sweet, sweet grapefruit.
Whoa. Whoa... a grapefruit? For desert? Oh word? You're a grapefruit eater? Bitch. You may have published 40 books, but you gonna need 'em when you sellin' fake hats in Times Square.
Sincerely,
HUTA
P.S. Pull your head out of your ass Posner.