MY PRIVATE JET PARTS

An Open Letter to Taylor Swift

I will toss these damn K-cups if you give up your jet, girl!

Dear Taylor Swift,

I lost your number but I figure you and your 128 billion fans will read this via Medium and you’ll get the message, so here goes.

According to your publicist’s publicist’s assistant, your private jet is often on loan and therefore you cannot be held accountable, dammit, for the thousands of miles of carbon footprinting you are leaving across American skies, like a Bigfoot of the wild blue yonder.

Except we know who you are. We know you are real.

First, why are you lending your jet so often?

I am a humble working-class American who is overwhelmed by the idea of flying first class, much less owning a private jet. If I won Mega Millions, I would rent one — sure, who wouldn’t? — but no amount of money would induce me to own an obscenely wasteful yacht of the skies.

Unless I became a pilot. Then, I’d definitely buy one.

Okay, I’m starting to get how you got yourself into this pickle.

Meanwhile, back on the ground, a little trouble is brewing at home.

It’s not my scrumptious secret recipe of a beer brand brewing in the garage. No, we have a genuine non-celeb K-cup crisis in da house.

Airbnb K-Cups Are Not to Be F*ed With

I went up to Bentonville, a four-hour drive or approximately 40 minutes by private jet. Once there, I was again disappointed by the weather. The browns and grays of winter had not yet shed their scaly skin.

Even though I was on vacay, the weather was letting me down, and I sought comfort.

I drank several cups of coffee a day from the supply of totally free K-Cups that are found in every Airbnb kitchen across this great nation of desperate Americans who yearn to win big at Monopoly.

Guilt washed over me in the first hours, but the Airbnb was overpriced (sorry, Tiffany, it was) so I needed to get my money’s worth somehow.

Making coffee was so easy it became entwined in my simple little brain with the idea of Vacation — the eidos of Holiday, if you will.

A syllogism took root in my caffeinated brain:

Mundane life has not included KCups KCups are part of my daily reality I, goddess, sip from the K-chalice

My sister and I drank the criminally convenient brew, completed the daily Wordle, and resupplied from Walmart. Bentonville is ground zero for Walmart so you can never get lost in the city limits. In any direction, you’ll stumble right through some automatic double doors. It’s like Karl Marx’s worst nightmare.

My Descent into K-Cup Madness

I eat an extremely carnivorous diet and my only indulgence is bulletproof coffee with heavy cream, the all-natural kind you offer to your jet-set friends no doubt.

As a result, coffee is my best friend. I drink it whenever I feel the urge, which admittedly is only three times a day because although I love it, as a carnivore it is still taboo and plus, I have to continually think of ways to earn money.

The carnivore tribe is insanely anti-plant. They aren’t as bad as vegans in their frenzied hatred of killing things — grow up, people — but I have no cavemen cronies with whom to croon over coffee.

See, Taylor? I can write clever alliterative lines, too!

Like anyone paying attention, I know K-Cups are the handiwork of Satan.

They can’t be recycled and muck up the environment and probably somehow make money for Donald Trump.

Brazil’s president, who is trying to kill every living thing but especially plants, probably enslaves the nation’s precious resource of wise oompah-loompahs to churn out K-Cups. He’s that evil.

I’ve heard Putin uses them as artillery against schoolchildren and kittens in Ukraine.

My point is, I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING. Just like you do, Taylor Swift, so stop sending one of your minions to make lame excuses to the media.

You know flying around everywhere by private jet is bullshit, and lending your posh plane out is nothing more than you acting like you are all that. Which are you, in a way.

What I am saying is why can’t you be more Dolly Parton?

When I got back from Bentonville, I ordered a K-Cup machine and an assortment of regular and decaf Cups of Evil.

Then I made a shrine to Satan and lit some black candles. And it was good.

Next, I got my husband hooked, which was pitifully easy.

Requiem for a Chemex Dream

Even though you won’t call me back directly, I know this message will reach you. I have a lot of faith that you are a good person who wants to change.

So I’m putting it out there.

As first-world privileged white ladies, we must set an example!

Although I lack your ambition, talent, blondness, and musical ability, we share something important in common.

The deeply human capacity for utter self-deception.

I went ahead and ordered a Chemex, with some of those fancy filters you have to fold like they are origami, which in addition to futons with no handles is part of a Japanese conspiracy to gaslight everyone.

My husband is willing to crawl back to his Mr. Coffee machine. Frankly, I think he’s relieved. He has said out loud that if we won the lottery, he would not buy a private jet or even rent one, but would follow the Keanu Reeves model of behavior.

I think he’s full of crap.

I owe it all to you, Taylor, because I know you don’t want to emit over 15,000 metric tons of C02, which I am calculating because you’ve belched out 8,293 metric tons since January, girl.

So in closing, I dare you and double dare you, and what the heck, triple dog dare you in print to put aside your need for convenience and speed and do the right thing.

Remember when John Denver began hoarding gasoline under his house in Aspen during the 1970s fuel crisis? He called himself an environmentalist! After that, I stopped believing he was born in West Virginia and ate pancakes from the griddle for breakfast every day.

It wasn’t a good look on John, either, my high-flying friend.

Sincerely,

One of the little people

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