Your usual 'paragraph, paragraph, blah blah blah' "Two Scoops" column will not be available today, in lieu of another bizarre writing experiment. Yes, it's that time again. Instead, the following is a series of brief notes to various Llanview citizens regarding their conduct this week. Actually, there was a lot of craziness this time around; as you know, Bess took it on the road with Chloe/Hope - or "Chlope" if you prefer - which just makes me think "chalupa" - and really, she's not a Taco Bell food product and that's just unseemly. Anyway. Bess split, Brody pursued her with his fabulous, fabulous biceps, Gigi and Sky investigated She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Invoked (a.k.a. Stacy), John and Marty almost made it a night to remember, and Blair and Téa proved that a near-death experience was no reason to stop fawning over a multiple rapist and child abductor. Plus, Starr, Cole, Michael, and Marcie finally learned The Truth About Hope, which will hopefully mean the end of all those horribly over the top dialogues in which the characters kept saying things like "it's as though we lost all Hope when our baby died!" and "seeing Jessica with Chloe gives me Hope for the future!"

But I digress. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; last week on OLTL was both exciting and frustrating. Hence, this idea. Consider these letters to our favorite (or not so favorite) Llanviewites messages in bottles, satellites sent out into space, hoping to reach a distant shore - catharsis for any of us who found ourselves screaming things at the TV in the last year (or like me, last week). Feel free to email me with some of your own, if you so choose. But keep it light, huh? What's the use of crying if you can't laugh, too? So, here we go.

Dear Rex: First of all, let's talk about your favorite subject, the hair. There are problems here. When you first shaved your head it looked pretty hot. Now it's kinda weird in a Fozzie Bear sort of way, because your real color is growing back in and clearly that hasn't seen the light of day in at least six or seven years. Wandering around a strange Guiding Light-esque location shoot with a powder-blue leisure ensemble you look like a cross between Fozzie, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and Mary Tyler Moore. I think you need to shave your head again. But maybe I'm just ragging on your otherwise-gorgeous looks because you, Rex, are in fact terminally stupid. I wish I knew people who would just give me twenty thousand dollars and then leave it lying around the apartment in unmarked bills. "Oh my God, Rex, you don't even know, this guy wants a huge sum of money which I totally earned fair and square, he wants to hurt me, nonononono don't call the cops, don't meet him yourself, don't verify my story, just give me the money and I'll handle it!" Who does that, Rex? Seriously? Why not just buy Shane an automatic weapon? Why not let him take up a career juggling automatic weapons on the street corner for nickels, because that's the only thing you could do next that is stupider than your behavior this week. In fact, Rex, you know what, I also have a stalker who wants money that is rightfully mine, tax-free. Except my stalker took fifty grand from me. And he says if I don't give it back he'll beat me with a frozen leg of lamb and set off a dirty bomb. But that's no reason to call the cops. We can handle this quietly if you just stop by my place, drop off the cash in a duffel bag, and then drive back to fictional Llanview. I'll call you when the deal is done, homey! You know the turn-off for NYC, right? And now I see it's time for another Gigi Hate Fest, which will distract you long enough to return home and be like, "Whuh? Where all mah moneh?" And you will buy She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Invoked and her explanation for that, too. Oh, Rex. Somewhere in hell (yes, I said it), Jen is laughing at you. You never used to be the easy mark.

Dear Bess: You are also clearly not as smart as I once thought you were. Yeah, no one will ever look for you at the home of Jessica's husband's family. If Brody tracked you in a day how long did you think it would take the authorities? Granted, they are perpetually Soap Dumb, but even they would've gotten on it pretty soon. ("Places Jessica would feel safe...places Jessica would feel safe...have we checked the Bon Jour?") Also, another fashion don't is showing up at the house looking like Agnes Of God meets Madonna's Erotica. That look's not creepy at all. Coming from a family of former crazy hippies, you got me feeling bad for Nash's stoner parents - I can see where Nash got his "Party In The Back, Chillin' Up In Front, (My Girl Likes To) Party All The Time" head of hair. It's just too bad this show is so rushed lately that we don't get much but a 'blink and you miss it' introduction to these poor, sweet characters, who seemed to take their son's untimely death and the appearance of his family in remarkable "we only have 45 minutes of sheer plot-driven writing" stride. I am loath to agree with Tess on anything, but she has the right idea, girl; you got no idea what you're doing. Even Jean Randolph knew when to delegate pretending to be Viki off to other, more suited alters like Niki or Tori. You ain't sellin' this. And unlike Jean, you clearly have no real plan - Jean would've bought an unmarked car and a plane or train ticket in cash months ago in preparation for just this eventuality. The gatekeeper should always have a long-term plan. You're small time, Bess. Tsk tsk, Miss Priss.

Dear Todd: "...So anyway, when I planned to abduct your baby, Starr, and run off with you, Marty, so we could live out our rape-romance fantasy, the wires must've gotten crossed between my various criminal accomplices, both of whom died violently, and then this other crazy bitch stepped in. Wild, right, guys? Who wants more crackers?" Really, Todd? Really? How do these people sit there with you and not stab you with their forks or even spoons? Because seriously, if I was Starr or Marty during that big expository family convo at La Boulaie and a spoon was all I had at my disposal, I would do what Tim Gunn suggests and Make It Work. I don't understand how you and Blair were playing it all casual and friendly-like at the hospital this week; granted, you two will always have chemistry, but the writers seem to want to treat you like nothing much happened this past year and you guys just broke up for the usual reasons, and now it's time to get close again. But it wasn't the usual reasons, was it, Todd? Your character has gone beyond the pale, but this week, OLTL wanted me to ignore all that and just enjoy more chemistry interludes with Todd and the ladies. Well, to hell with that. Your interplay with Blair and company is not cute anymore, and watching you sit with the family like just another citizen was nauseating to me. Did you really go by Viki's to harangue her about Jessica, never once mentioning the fact that you knew Tess was out and did nothing about it? You could have exposed Tess, done the right thing, and saved her baby and kept Hope. If not for you, this would never have happened. The fact that no one is acknowledging that is unbelievable to me, and as usual this year, so are you. You may have the heat with Blair and Téa, and you may have the wit and the charm and Trevor St. John is probably doing his best with what he is given, but I still don't know who you are anymore, and I'm starting to not care.

Dear Blair and Téa: First of all, congratulations on surviving a cataclysmic natural gas explosion. That always deserves both props and snaps, though I myself have rarely had the opportunity to congratulate other people on such a feat. But with that out of the way, ladies, please, this is an official request from your local columnist: Stop Tripping. If I could, I would put it in a full-page ad in the Banner. Todd just tried to steal his granddaughter and run off on a fantasy honeymoon with his rape victim; he is not worth it. I know you so crazy, Téa, but I'd like to think Blair for all her huge faults would know better at this point. Watching you two go all Betty and Veronica in Riverdale on Todd's monkey ass after all the crap he's pulled this year is deeply callous and sexist to me, and you both deserve better storylines. Until Todd's character is properly rehabilitated (at least, to where he was before the return of Marty) he should not be doing this kind of romantic fluff with anyone, and the approach the writers are taking seems supremely lazy and offensive to me; we're supposed to just accept that Todd is back to these kind of stories now, apparently. Well, sorry, I don't. Incidentally, Téa, my guess is that your secret is that you had Todd's love bug after your magazine-promoted "Aquatic Adventure" in the summer of 2002. If you have indeed been keeping said kid from Todd, all I can say is good job. Keep it up. But you won't, because you crazy. But dammit if your hair did not stay perfect even after a house fell on you. I hate you, Téa. I hate you with a fierce Latin love. Just like you and Todd, we can hit each other with shovels and feed each other strawberries. Then we can trade styling tips. In a burning cabana. With letter openers.

Dear John and Marty: Just get divorced, John. Seriously. This is ridiculous. What's the point? You might as well hand people flash cards that read "I want Marty" or "my marriage is a loveless sham" when you enter a room. In fact, I think flash cards are your ideal mode of communication for the future, since you are never able to express any actual emotion or intent. "I don't actually love you." "I am being passive-aggressive today." "I left the toilet seat up." "This is my only blue shirt." Marty, of course, deserves better too, but you should know that, Dr. Saybrooke. I'd like to think you'd also be a little more fair to Blair after what you went through, and tell John to act on his feelings, but apparently the writers feel the need to string this pointless story out another couple weeks, which is lame to me since even Stevie Wonder can see John's lack of interest in Blair vs. Marty. I remember when Marty had real stories, as opposed to spinning on the story axis of strange men. This is beneath Susan Haskell, and it bores me to tears. But hey, Marty, that white outfit on Friday? Nice work, girl.

Dear Starr and Cole: I admit it. You got me crying. You suck, kids. You suck for making me cry.

Dear Gigi and Schuyler: Your other name should be "The New Hotness." You are an adorable crime-busting duo, especially given the horrible way Rex has treated Gigi for the last month or so; he's done everything but throw your butt in the medieval stocks. Schuyler, why you are still stuck on She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Invoked, I cannot imagine, but good lord, why give her a second look when women like Gigi or Rachel are floating around the canvas? Please be advised that should a Schuyler/The Unspeakable One reunion ensue in the future, I will be forced to blind myself. I love that you two adorable kids are onto the truth, and I find that an ounce of renewed plunk, strength and sarcasm has reinvigorated Gigi's character immensely. Please keep it up. If your investigation should lead you both into, say, a sauna where you must cling to each other for support, I will not complain. You are the only thing in this lame story that is working right now. Congratulations.

Dear Kyle and Roxy: Kyle: If you're going to wear a suit jacket everywhere, please find a new one and do something with the hair. You're too cute to go around looking like a middle-aged college professor. Also, stop aiding and abetting SWMNBI. Roxy, you and that beaver are killing me. The family is within their rights to beat you with a wet hen when this is over. You are apparently incapable of telling the truth for anything but your own needs, and that you've let this go on this long is unfathomable to me. We need a coffee klatch, Roxy. A coffee klatch, some hard home truths, and then maybe a good cry.

Dear Layla: I'm sorry, Layla, but only you would sell your enormously successful fashion company and then immediately be broke as a joke and have to go back to Silver Spring and live with Momma. You can't afford a one-bedroom apartment or perhaps studio in Llanview, Lay-Lay? Really? Even I can afford a one-bedroom, and I am not a fashion magnate! Where did this Exposed money go? I just don't get it. And then you want to cop an attitude with poor Cristian. What are you going to do, go home, get on the J2 Metrobus and ride around lookin' for work in downtown Silver Spring? Maybe work at Chipotle? Please, please! Don't even play, Layla. Although, admittedly, I'm also confused as to how Cristian can be starving or poor. Isn't he managing Capricorn for Blair? With their history, I'm sure he's being paid reasonably well; maybe not enough to keep that huge loft in a co-op building, but enough to get his own place. Am I overthinking this? Totally. But are you and Cristian okay together when you're not trading crude insults and instead, are focused on day-to-day life and real, human problems? Again, totally.