Another Open Letter to the Nashville Scene

Dear Nashville Scene,

Whoever took the picture of Knuck in the women’s bathroom of Mothership BBQ is a genius!

On the other hand, I’m a little confused by what Liz Garrigan means when she says that I’m part of a “motley crew of sun-deprived computer junkies with funky handles.”  Sure, maybe I’m plump compared to the hard-bodies over there, but I don’t think there’s any need to call my love handles “funky” and I’m not sure what my lumpy body has to do with my mad blogging skills.

However, Liz, if you’re really interested in my flesh, you just send old Eric over to take you a photo of my boob freckle.  You’ll find it charming.  Everyone does.

Ha, I tease you, Nashville Scene because I love you.  Even at your most grandmotherly, you’re still better than The Tennessean and that counts for a great deal.


Aunt B.

19 thoughts on “Another Open Letter to the Nashville Scene

  1. If ever there was a need of a vlog of something, it should have been of you taking the picture of my boob freckle. Who in a million years would have guessed that you would have been so professional about it?And it did turn out good!Coble, I thought you were only grossed out by people eating in the bathroom.

  2. A professional what?! Are there a lot of women out there who need you to take pictures of their boob freckles in order to send them to Exador?I bet there is!Damn you libertarians and your nefariousness. Here I’m all like "Oh, how nice of Sarcastro to provide this service for me and to make me feel comfortable and not at all trashy."But now that I think about it from the perspective of someone with a penis, I see how brilliant this is. You take pictures of boobs and then share them with your friend. You both get to see pictures of boobs. There’s no downside for you. It’s like the equivalent of me asking you to drink my whiskey. It’s not something you were planning on or hoping for, but it’s a pleasant way to pass some time anyway.

  3. A professional at nefarious manipulation.As I recall,you sort of begged me to drink your whiskey to prevent you from further defiling yourself.

  4. Begged. Asked. Po-tay-to. Po-tah-to. Making a gift to a close friend. Ridding the house of something thats smell made me so nauseous I couldn’t enter the kitchen.Are those really different things?

  5. Miz Kay has obviously never met Sista Smiff. I’m disguising my usually fair, freckly skin with a much labored on bit of a tan and it isn’t from a bed, neither. Or a spray. I tear myself away from the computer screen every weekend to work on my skin cancer, thank you!

  6. "Are there a lot of women out there who need you to take pictures of their boob freckles in order to send them to Exador?"You should see my hard drive.

  7. I’m just concerned about what remains so far up Garrigan’s butt that she feels obligated to make regular snide remarks about the physical appearances and employment status of people who apparently obsess her enough to provide her with regular column fodder.I mean, please. Go down to the Scene offices — like any other newspaper office. It’s not like old-school journos have anything to brag about in the looks or work-habits department.I’m thinking they’re just jealous. Muwahahaha.P.S. — I would like a matted and framed 8×10 of the pretty pretty Boob Freckle. Have you considered adding it to your swag page? At least as a notecard or calendar, perhaps?

  8. Grandefille, go check it. But if you want it, act now. Because, I guarantee, when I sober up, I’m going to think better of it.

  9. "It’s not like old-school journos have anything to brag about in the looks or work-habits department."You do remember the long set of breathless, fawning replies to a post at PITH about the looks of two Scene staffers, don’t you?I have no comment, otherwise.

  10. Uh, by ‘handles’ I’m pretty sure she meant your online names. It sounds like Knuck has the perfect job: he ‘lovingly hand-rubs every rack and butt.’ In the women’s bathroom, perhaps? Heh.

  11. I know, Peg, but if I don’t find things to pick on the Scene about, they think i don’t love them.

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