Dear Oprah, I Would Have Been Totally Fine if You Stopped After the Whitney Houston Interview. Really.


Hey Oprah, how are you?  You’re right, I apologize.  I’ll try it again.  Hello Blessed Mother Oprah of the Winfrey’s, how are you?  Look, I get it.  I really do.  Your ratings are down a bit.  Judge Judy has been mopping the floor with your bummity-bum, probably thanks to me and my dad who love a little Judy.  I must be honest.  I was pumped when I heard Whitney Houston was going to be on your show because I was secretly praying for some more crazy crack talk.  I even tuned into to see your Flash Mob (giggity) on your season premiere.  However comma backslash, you wanna know what I don’t want to hear?  I actually don’t want to hear Julie from One Day at a Time telling us that she played “Diddles For Sale” with her dad, who I can only assume was Schneider.

Look, I get that Mackenzie Phillips is selling her new book like a hooker in heat on Wall Street during a recession, but that little story that she’s telling to the world, well, that’s the type of story you add to your Will, place in a glass bottle, and toss into the ocean moments before you die.  You don’t exactly go on Oprah and tell this while you’re still alive and kicking.  You don’t want to know about the skid marks in my underwear and I don’t want to know about your sexual escapades with Schneider.

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