SARCASTIC CAPSAICIN

Dear Middle Age Persian Hair Coiffuirist: The "best" cut for me is not what I wanted from you; what I wanted was my hair left in luscious rivulets, but cleaned up for "business" around the edges.
Dear Dyers of Sunflowers and Perennials: In jars, your spurious creations dribble out the toxins that you so cautiously have made them compulsively imbibe.
Dear Saturday Morning Jehovah's Witnesses Operating on Venice Blvd: I have a gargantuan dog, and he celebrates Halloween, Xmas, and Kwanzaa.
Dear Over Eager Midas Associate: When you overtreat customers better than they want to be treated they feel that you are trying to pull one over on them when you in fact may have nothing but elan to offer the betrothed-to-their-car.
Dear Mountaintops of Cobalt Pacific Sylvester: On particularly crisp sojourns into the hills of the Solstice--a homeestead unassembled by the elements.
Dear Mar Vista Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library: The tutors clog your reading rooms with remedial chatterbox therapy solvent torque, the boulevard is grossly damn loud.
Dear 1990 Totaled Crimson Volvo: Through a new lease on life, it has shown regenerative properties and startling auto-correction protocols.
Dear Poignant Pop Garbage: girls unsheath their girdles for the magic collusion of ionized dungarees with phosphorous pants, pianissimos, and quizzical, telepathic sonatas.
Dear Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier: the derelict specter of Abbot Kinney enters the enamel pillar each pylon supports in the jaw of fandango.
Dear Awesome Museum Exhibit Poster: Your irregular dimensions make for a romp through the muck of quality framers versus the do-it-yourself-pantheon.