Dear Carson Daly,
For seven, long years you have been torturing me with your mindless talk show. Me, being without cable, am limited in my late night television selection, and am forced to choose between your show and whatever corny movie is on the Spanish network. Last night, you chewed the fat with Vern Troyer b.k.a. Mini Me. I don't know what was more disturbing Mini Me's freakish proportions or your relentless barrage of high fives. Yeah, he's a small, frail man who got his Hollywood start doing stunts for child actors, but he's a grown ass man! No need to treat him like I treat my girlfriend's 7 year old cousins.
Furthermore Mr. Daly, I can't name on sleep deprived college student studying for an all nighter who wants to see the Jonas Brothers perform their new pop smash hit at 2 o'clock in the morning. It's enough to drive a man to drink. I wish I had a team of trained surgeons who could rush me into a secret location and remove the part of my brain that remembered Carson Daly (and Kenny G for that matter.)
The words "Grimy" and "Street" should never exit your lips especially when conversing with The Game. Any and all of your so called "street cred" died the day you left MTV and took the shameless journey deep into the bowels of late night television obscurity. Your obvious man-crush on Ryan Seacrest is the stuff of legend, and, if I hear one more reference to either Lindsey Lohan or Paris Hilton's genitalia, I think I might end it - I think I might end it right then.
In conclusion, Mr. Daly, you're pretty basically the bane of my existence. Not a day goes by where I don't hope to pop on the television and see reruns of Cavemen, because, as bad as that show was, anything's better than Last Call With Carson Daly.
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