A Dear John for a Dear Old Dog

Dog, please sit down. We need to talk. It being a new year and all, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve made a resolution. Boy, is this going to be tough.

Look, bra, I’m just gonna come right out with it, okay? Okay, here it is. I gotta quit you, bra.

What? No, it’s not Beth. In fact, if it weren’t for Beth, I’d have been gone a long time ago.

Who? Leland? No, he’s cool, I guess. Like, if I was gonna burn one with one of your dozen kids, it’d probably be with Leland. In fact, the old lady and me have this pact that if one of us dies, she’s going after Leland (with my blessing, of course), and I’m going for Baby Lyssa. No. Me and your kids, we’re cool.

No, look, the thing is, I’m seeing someone else. Yeah. No, it’s true. Believe me, no one was more surprised than me. I had no inkling this was going to happen. But ever since Seagal showed up with his spray-on tan and washed-up, fat man’s karate, riding bitch for a sheriff’s department that just barely tolerates his presence, I’ve, well, I’ve got a new man.

Don’t cry, bra, you’re gonna smear your eyeliner. No, I don’t want a Kool. Dude, it’s been special for me too. Believe me. Man, when me and the old lady first saw your show, we were hooked. I mean, you guys do white trash like no one else. Like the time Beth got her wedding shoes at the stripper shop? Dude. Or the time you told your son it wasn’t cool for him to date a black girl cause you like to use the N-word so much? Or the time you said you wanted to be buried in a slave cemetery to make up for using the N-word?

I mean I’m from Kentucky. I know me some white trash, bra. Right? But your shit was a game changer. These crackers ‘round here are like off-brand saltines compared to the Ritz you’re bringing.

Dude, every time you bust some poor person who is running from a bench warrant just so they can hang onto a job or a child, I sleep better knowing real justice has being served. Every time you harass a parent, sibling, or partner of your target, I marvel at your ability to empathize. Every time you step on someone’s civil rights by storming their house without a warrant, I think, fuck yeah, that’s what you fucking get for sleeping through social studies you stupid asshole.

Dog, the gleam you get in your eye as you and your family hunt other human beings, well, the Southerner in me just about bursts with pride. You get it. You really, really get it.

In fact, I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to improve on that, bra. But Steven Seagal. Jesus, that fucker takes it to a whole new level. Not only does he slip into what he thinks is a faux-African American patois when speaking to black suspects, but he also gets to carry a real gun. Add to that his clear delusion that he is somehow a mentor to the very real cops he works with, and what you’ve got is a recipe for tragedy.

I’m calling it now. Either Seagal gets popped (or pops someone) because he really believes that he’s a cop, or he fucks up a crime scene because he thinks he’s on CSI, or, well, as you can see, the possibilities are endless.

No, I don’t think you should play up your fascination with Native Americans to win me back. I’d bet most Indians are already laughing at the dream-catchers and ribbons you tie in your hair. And besides, Seagal has this whole Zen thing going on, albeit a sort of Carl’s Jr./White Castle version of Zen, but you get my drift. Indians are out. The Orient is where it’s at.

Huh? No. No. Look, this is hard, but it’s got to happen. I’m done. I’m gone. I gotta quit you, bra, gotta move on. But hey, let’s just remember the good times we had together. We’ll always have Hawaii…