The Scooby Files: A Letter From Fred To Daphne About Her Increasingly Aggressive Web Presence
It’s Fred. Fred Jones. Or, as you may remember me: Sweetie Pie; Your Little Freddy Bear; Smarty Marty Mystery Pants; or more recently, Defendant in Your Preposterous and Ultimately Dismissed Petition For a Restraining Order. I am writing you on Facebook because my letters, phone calls, and emails have gone unanswered. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if you’re even checking DaphneDoodles@prodigy.com at all anymore. But it’s OK. I’m sure your new life with Evan is keeping you really busy. As my message concerns Facebook, it seems that this is a fitting forum for our discussion.
First off, let me say that I’m happy you seem to be doing so well. I really am. I see from your timeline that you took my advice and went back to school, which is great! Congratulations! Admittedly, I’d hoped you might study one of the passions we shared, such as crime scene investigation or pottery throwing, but I’m sure becoming an x-ray technician will be just as fulfilling. From what I gather, it is a fast-paced and constantly growing field! At least it seems that way when they do x-ray stuff on NCIS. I also noticed that you’ve recently “Liked” snowboarding, The Allman Brothers, and The Wire — all things I encouraged you to try when we were dating. And now that you’re with Evan, I guess you’re really into them. So funny! But it’s cool. You know your Freddy Bear — as long as you’re happy, I’m happy. I’ve been dating a bunch myself actually, meeting some really cool people. I’ve learned a lot about myself, it’s really been an amazing journey. So I guess we’re both doing really well!
I’m writing today to see if perhaps you’d consider posting pictures of you and Evan a little less frequently. I mean, like I said, I’m really happy for you, I totally am. We’ve both moved on, and that’s GREAT. It just seems like you’re posting five or six new photos everyday. You and Evan at the beach! You and Evan at the movies! You and Evan taking ballroom dancing classes! (Which I also asked you to do when we were together, but whatever.) It kinda seems like you’re trying to make a point. Like: “Hey Fred! I have a new life now, so you can stop calling me, and sending me caramels on my birthday, and being really sweet and considerate!” And that’s fine, Daph. Because I have a new life too. I repainted the Mystery Machine. I hardly ever wear Bell Bottoms anymore. I even stopped hanging out with Shaggy (who you should totally call by the way, because he’s going through some serious shit). But it’s a super bummer to go on Facebook every morning and see you with a new guy, rubbing my face in it. A super duper bummer.
I mean, some of your posts are clearly meant to hurt me. I know what you’re thinking, “Oh, paranoid Fred, losing his mind like usual.” But I’m not paranoid, Daphne. I wasn’t paranoid when I said Mr. Caruthers was the one haunting the old ski lodge, or that Mayor Wimbleby was dressing up as Bigfoot to drum up interest in his abandoned gold mine, or that Velma was super into chicks, and I’m not paranoid now. In most of your Facebook photos, Evan is wearing an ascot. Which I’m pretty sure is a dig at me, because he doesn’t really seem like an ascot kinda guy. Also, he wrote “Asshole” on it, which you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce is meant to be an insult. Additionally, I noticed several photos of you guys kissing that were tagged with “Suck it, Fred Jones” at 2 a.m. one night, and then quickly untagged twenty minutes later, hoping that I wouldn’t notice. Well, you gotta get up pretty early in the morning to fool me, Daphne Blake. Actually, at about 1:59, as it happens. But you’ve really hurt me this time, and I want it to stop. I could unfriend you, but I’d like to think we’re better than that. This isn’t just personal anymore, your behavior is starting to affect my business.
In four separate incidents last month, you changed your status to “Scooby is the One Who Solved All The Mysteries. Fred Spent All Day Flirting and Fixing His Hair.” And that is just bullcrap. I mean, let’s get real, Daphne. First of all, my hair looks like this naturally and requires no fixing. You know that. Second, Scooby is a fucking dog. A dog who, I’m pretty sure, smokes a ton of pot. So how exactly did he became an ace detective all of a sudden? Sure, the marijuana is impressive on a functional level… I mean, he has to acquire the weed somehow (using God knows what for currency), light it, hold it up to his snout, and inhale, all with his gigantic paws and a level of intelligence that, let’s be honest, even for a canine seems alarmingly low. Or maybe Shaggy’s just blowing smoke in his face all day, I don’t know. But the point is, while Scooby’s ability to sustain a chronic drug habit is quite a feat for an animal, it doesn’t speak particularly well for his ability to SOLVE FUCKING MYSTERIES, DAPHNE. Giving him credit is asinine. And insulting. Clearly I was the brains of the operation. Velma is smart, but she’s insecure and easily distracted by anything with tits and a skirt. Shaggy is an Intervention episode without the uplifting last ten minutes, and that leaves you and me. And let’s be honest, Daphne, you are a lot of things. Fashionable, a spirited dancer, even surprisingly generous in bed — but Hercule Poirot you are not. I’m the one who solved the cases Daphne, and I’m asking you to state that plainly on your page. It will help give me closure. And boost business. I haven’t had a case in months. No abandoned theme parks, no secret underground lairs, not even a spooky old mansion. Before the gang split up we used to have haunted mansions coming out of our asses! I haven’t been called a Meddling Kid since 2011, Daph. And it’s killing me inside, it really is.
In closing, I’d just like to say, one last time, that Evan isn’t good enough for you. He’s dragging you down, Daph, he really is. So after you take down the pictures and insults, I would totally love to have coffee and talk. Just as friends. I get that now. Unless it leads to something more, which I’d be totally cool with.
Alright, bye for now.
P.S. Also, tell Evan that Omar dies in the end. Who’s the asshole now, Ev!?
P.P.S Let me know about that coffee.
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If you’ve been looking for a chance to say something then this very well could be it.
I wish to God I’d had a list like this when I was 23.
Answer phones better than anyone else has answered phones before. Relay messages so brilliant, they bring people to tears. Turn the coffee run into the choreography of Swan Lake. Become best friends with every intern and every underling and every taxi driver you encounter.
I remember taking the pen and notebook from that woman outside the courtroom, flipping to a clean page in the book, and writing, JESSICA IS SAD in big, bold, uncoordinated letters. “My sister is going to be a good writer someday! Look at how nice her lines are!”