An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

Dear Bret Michaels,

It struck me sometime around Sunday night, 9 p.m.-ish. As I sat down post-chili in my red robe that looks like something Normal Fell would’ve worn on “Three’s Company” and partook of the totally mediocre VH1 that was on, “Tough Love” and “Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew,” I realized that something was deeply, truly missing from my life.

It’s you. And your “Rock of Love.”

I know, I know, you said that “Season 3: Rock of Love Bus” would be the last season EVER of quite possibly the greatest hour (less about 23 minutes of Trojan and Cialis commercials) on television, but come on! America needs you, hopeless sluts everywhere need you. And yes, Bret, I need you.

Now, Bret, I realize that shacking up with about 20 crazy bitches for six to eight weeks probably got old. I mean, you can only trot out the acoustic and finger out “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” only so many times before they get bored—and, oh, yes, I counted how many times you mentioned your hit song in Season 1. Bret, you never let me down. Every episode, you would slip in a reference. And for that, I applaud you. R.J. Reynolds wishes it had the smooth moves you exhibit when it comes to subliminal messaging.

But you had promised those drunk bitches—and God bless them for being scantily clad boob jobs who have problems holding their liquor—a backstage pass to that rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle of yours on the state fair and Johnny Rockets circuit. And, alas, though you burned through three Madonna/Whore pairings—hairdresser Jes and stripper Heather in Season 1, Local cable anchor Ambre and stripper Daisy in 2, and that stupid chipmunk Mindy and that Penthouse Pet Taya with the freaky-ass penciled-on eyebrows from the Bus—you did not find your Rock of Love for All Time, which makes me sad, because if you can’t mate for life, then who can?

I miss your golden, flowing extensions.  I miss your different colored, yet smartly accessorized head scarves, your fine collection of Ed Hardy tees with your little old man paunch hanging over your belt buckle. I miss your self-assessments of your importance to the canon of rock, putting yourself in the same category as the Rolling Stones and AC/DC. I miss it when those girls vomit on your shoes. I miss it when you lean in for that sloppy, open-mouthed kiss with your big, fat tongue wagging out over your collagened lips. I miss it when you walk on the beach at sunset in such exotic locales as Cancun, contemplating who will be your Rock of Love before you take both the finalists out and bang them. Oh, I could go on and on, but let’s face it. I am only making myself sad for the things which I can no longer have…

Yes, Bret, I can’t quite put what I’m feeling into words. So I’ll let your words speak for the both of us:

“I listened to our favorite song, playing on the radio/ hear the DJ say love’s a game of easy come, easy go / But I wonder, does he know? / Has he ever felt like this? / And I know that you’d be here right now, If I could have let you known somehow.”



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