Dear Fred,

Ok, I here I am. A normal guy with normal problems. I do not need a rap/rock stuper star telling me what to do. I have a regular crappy job and when I come home from my regular crappy job, all I want is beer and to eat my salty cheeseless macaroni in relative peace. It was cheeseless that night because I had to use the powder cheese on my toast for breakfast. So I sit down in my chair, open my beer, and begin to eat my macaroni. I turn on the TV and who should start jabberblabbing at me? None other then Mr. Fred Durst of the rock band Limp Bizkit.

The first thing I heard him say was "Keep on Rolling Baby", then he appears to steal a fresh ride* and he and his crew bust into a tune that starts to turn my frown up side down. I hear "Keep on rollin', rollin', rollin'." As Fred is singing this wonderful and brilliant line, it starts to affect me in away that is new and strange. I see how Freddie-boy is dancing, and it makes me feel like getting up and boogying right along side him. If you have not seen him dancing in the video, he is waving one hand back and forth over his head and with the other hand he is holding on to his crotch and pulling down. To me, at this point, this looks like a great way to dance.

I push the antique TV table away and jump up in front of my two roommates, who were sitting on the coach, and begin to mimic this great artist's dance technique, waving my fist in the air and pulling on my crotch. I was moving very slowly and pulling lightly on my crotch because this was a new dance step for me and I did not want to look the fool. The second time the chorus came on I was feeling good. The best I have felt in many minutes. I gave my best rock and roll jump in front of my roommates and really started to wave my fist in the air making sure to get the full range of motion from as far left to as far right. Now let's not forget about the crotch pulling. I was giving my crotch the pulling it deserved. I was on top of the world. My fans were screaming or my roommates were telling me to get out of the way. I was dancing and singing like a rap/rock super star. Then it all came crashing down around me. The dream was over. I once again became a guy drinking beer and eating salty noodles. I was no rock star.

You see, the pants that I had been wearing were made of 80% nylon and 20% cotton. They were light and very comfortable. Problem was that they were not rip-stop nylon and a few weeks earlier my roommate opened the stupid oven door into my leg and put a very small cut in the leg in the upper thigh area. This was bad. That event was the beginning of the end of my "cool dude" night. With one vigorous pull on my crotch, I heard a rip, and my hand was several inches lower than where it usually stops but I still had the crotch of my pants in my hand. After a few seconds of looking at my laughing roommates, I slowly looked down at my pant leg which now had a 12-inch rip and my $3.99 Costco boxer briefs showing through the tear.

The next step was to figure out who was to blame for that rip in my pants. I could only blame one person. My roommate who ripped my pants on the oven door was the obvious choice, but I could not do it. He was not to blame for the giant rip and besides he looked at me with those puppy dog eyes of his. "I can't stay mad at you, come here." I knew deep down that there was only one person who was to blame. Fred Durst! Fred Durst is to blame for this. He ripped my pants. Why would a millionaire want to rip a poor guy's pants that cost $24.95. Why Fred, Why?

Stinkin' Fred Durst. My Mom is mad at you too, buddy boy. You see, my mom sewed the rip that you put in my pants, but she sewed the pocket and the pant leg all together. Then she ripped it all out and had to re-sew it. At first she was mad at me until I explained the story to her. "That stinkin' Fred Durst," she said. I forgot to tell her that Fred was on TV and that he never touched my crotch. How does it feel to know that My Mom and I are mad at you?

Freddie-boy, if you read this and want to buy me some new pants (or 'longs' as we poor people call them), you can get in touch with me here. If anyone knows Fred and you want him to buy me new pants, please vote. One vote can make a difference. I would also like $23.50 from Fred for suffering chagrin. Fred, I hope you can live with yourself.

Sincerely,

Dr. Jimmy Mahonahan