Dear Andy Rooney,

You know what bothers me? Really? You.

Growing up I always watched 60 Minutes with my parents. Every Sunday evening we'd gather and learn about the world. Then, right after some enlightening story about the dangers of house mold, and right before Murder She Wrote, there you would be.

Complaining. Nagging. Whining.

I hated you even then. But I hate you even more now.

I know, I seem like a hypocrite. And I am one. Because here I am, complaining about you complaining. You know what the difference between us is? I'm not televised into everyone's living room every Sunday evening.

And if I was, I'd do something more useful than complain about the number of kitchen utensils I have.

I will never get over the various sexist, racist and homophobic things you have said my whole life as you've masqueraded as someone with something important to say. You might have been born in a different era, but that excuses nothing. Age is never an excuse for blatant ignorance.

You know what, though? You're an ancient, withered old mummy-man. You'll be dead soon enough.

Love,
Skye

P.S. GAAAAHHHH!!!! I hate you. Haaaaaaaate.