Dear Rick Steves,
For months I've watched you travel through Europe explaining everything from cheese making in the Swiss Alps to the hot springs in Budapest, Hungary. I've spent many a relaxing morning enjoying your journey through the beer gardens of Munich. You should know these are some of the most magical times of my life. Times when I can just let all my troubles go and watch you tell the histories of churches and town squares.
You know why, Rick? Can I call you Rick? Rick, it's because you radiate pure sexual energy. It's the kind of man heat my mother used to warn me about as a child. You are pure fucking sex, Rick Steves. I know it's true because I can feel it through my television. When you went to Florence and stood next to the statue of David and you, how do I say this, made that statue look like a gigantic pussy?
You’re better than art; you're fucking Rick Steves.
Of course, some may disagree with me. They'll tell me that your voice is weird and high and that you're just a nerdy nerd face. I know better though. I know that beneath your pastel button up shirt and pleaded khaki's there's the kind of man that'll take a girl to see a Viennese string quartet like a motherfucker. And don't even get me started on when you have your jacket tossed over your shoulder. What are you just toying with me? Is this just a game to you, Rick Steves?!
I can tell your producers know what I know, and they're using it to suck me in. That's why those bastards began the Budapest episode with you shirtless playing chess in a pool filled with Hungarian man candy and mustaches. Ryan Reynolds couldn't pull that off.
So I stayed on my couch and watched the entire episode. How could I walk away from you, Rick Steves? How?
Yours truly,
Meghan
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