Rob Pattinson at the London Olympics

Dear Rob,

Did we get ya with that title? Are you looking around thinking, “Who noticed it was me? I thought everyone who passed me just thought I was an average homeless Londoner” [I’m imagining at this point you’re in last week’s clothes with a huge bushy beard, looking emaciated and smelling like a mix between whiskey & pee]

Well, we haven’t spotted you at the Olympics (yet. but we’re looking behind every dumpster), but our friend Zephyersky imagined you were there (kinda):

Dear Rob,

In attempt to turn attention away from the scandal I will not talk about (mostly because when I do I get a vacant stare and asked why I even care, which then makes me feel the need to self explore, digging up issues that are probably best left deeply buried) I’m directing attention to another not quite as publicized event. The RobOlympics. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. It’s the competitions you had with your friends as you sat around watched to see if you won a free order of fries or a small Coke cause some trampolinist you’ve never heard of won a bronze. Does McDonald’s even offer those games in England? If so do they have Monopoly, only with London landmarks?

I’m British. We don’t play basketball here.

Anyway back to those fun little diversions between actual action while the commentator is telling the tragically uplifting back story of how that trampolinist overcame a childhood of being told to ‘stop wasting time and just mow the damn lawn already; it’s not like your training for the Olympics.’ You know how it starts – someone says “I could do that” then hops up on the couch and proceeds to jump only to crack their head on A) the ceiling, B) the floor, or C) for those extremely talented – both the ceiling and the floor.

A perfect 10 if he can stick the landing among all those feathers.

Then you all take turns until the couch frame is cracked and you’re covered in plaster with several head shaped dents in the ceiling. After that you determine the best way to fight the headache you now have is to drink it away. This leads to speed Heineken drinking and bottle cap skipping. Soon you’re just a group of drunken mumbling idiots looking through the wreckage for that free fry tab and wondering who you can call to drive you to McDonalds.

Betting on you to take the gold,

Good idea for Rob to pass the time while he waits for Liberty Ross to call him back, right? And a question for those of you up on the rumor mill— was Rob planning to come home to London for the Olympics? Do you know? And if you do, how do you know? Stole his mail? Peeked in his windows? Hacked his phone? His e-mail? All of the above? ‘Atta girl*


PS: Moon is in Africa. I am in Pennsylvania- soon to be on a beach. I just thought you should know (and if you want to write a letter to Rob while we’re both busy… you may xxoo)

*We don’t condone stalking. Usually

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