I've fallen behind, so I'm going to post some of these letters with no introduction. If you don't like them suck it.
You really shouldn't say things like that, as my wife learned this week. My daughter was complaining and my wife was in a determined, but playful mood. So she said, "Don't like it? Suck it!" And my five year old daughter responded by saying, "You suck it."
I'd laugh at the irony if it wasn't my daughter.
LETTER 19:
Dear [adult swim],
I have a dentist appointment on Wednesday. Naturally I have spent the last 48 hours flossing my teeth over and over to try and catch up on times I've missed. And I may have brushed a little bit more than prescribed. Now my gums are a tad bit swollen, but they feel clean and healthy.
So guess what today would naturally be? That's right, Girl Scout Cookie day. Those little tramps are trying to kill me. They want my teeth to fall out and my arteries to clog up with their little Tagalongs. They ought to be ashamed. They're weakening our country with their capitalism. And their sugar. And their peanut buttery, yummy Tagalongs. Those bitches.
When I was in Cub Scouts we didn't sell anything anyone wanted. We barely learned anything. I learned how to make a wind chime from scrap metal and fishing line. I didn't learn to fish. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime. Give him some fishing line and he can make a wind chime. And the next time a tornado comes that wind chime becomes the spinning nunchucks of death.
Run Girl Scout, run! The wicked witch of the west is flying after you with her crazy nunchucks. You can't escape it Girl Scout Cookie girl.
signed
Ps. Is it wrong to have a giant Nestles Crunch set aside for immediately after my dentist appointment?
Ad:
Tired of the same old boring crunchy cereal?
Moist Os
They're even soggy in the box!
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Letter 18
Like the clumsy fool I am, I was walking down my staircase last night and I slipped about half way. Somehow I retained my balance as I skied down six or seven stairs on my heals. When I hit the bottom stair I finally fell backward and slammed my wrist into the floor. It would have been fun, were it not for the abrupt ending.
So now my wrist hurts. I probably have carpel tunnel. I know carpel tunnel doesn't come from one time trauma, but this pain has been building for years. Last night's ride down Mt. Staircase only made it worse.
Anyway, my portfolio is done and naturally I'm second guessing the format. I have it arranged in a book situation and I'm worried that it will not get read because it will look like overkill. I'm going to take it home tonight and arrange it how I have it arranged at my home. I'm going to section off the different stories and poems and various writings in order of similarity. It should make the whole thing more understandable, and navigable.
You may think I'm stalling, but really I'm just stalling.
LETTER 18:
Dear [adult swim],
The trip home from North Carolina was not so bad. Well, it wasn't Armageddon.
We got started nice and early because I'm a guy and that's what we do. Plus the bed we had to sleep on felt like poster board wrapped around three or four ancient pillows and a sack of rocks. So since we weren't sleeping anyway we hit the road before dawn.
I was so glad to see I-85 until I saw the moon. It was full. I did not expect the moon to be full until Monday night. When you hunt werewolves you must keep track of such things.
I imagine the guy in the SUV in front of us figured that it was dark, and that no one would notice what he was doing. But we noticed. The passenger side window of his Lexus rolled down and out popped a full moon; bright, shiny, and hairy. At first we thought it was a prank and we laughed. Then we realized this was a working interview. I had to pull off to the side of the road.
Now I know that I live in the heart of the South. and I know that not everybody has the manners God gave the common house cat. And I probably would have been less surprised had this assault on common decency come from a beat up old Chevy with ten hounds in the bed. But a Lexus?
signed
Ps. Maybe I'm being elitist, but surely there is a rule that says you cannot drop the deuce out the window of a moving Lexus. I'm still a little shaken.
Ad:
Tender Touch Carl's
Hands-on Bikini Wax
The Name Says It All
So now my wrist hurts. I probably have carpel tunnel. I know carpel tunnel doesn't come from one time trauma, but this pain has been building for years. Last night's ride down Mt. Staircase only made it worse.
Anyway, my portfolio is done and naturally I'm second guessing the format. I have it arranged in a book situation and I'm worried that it will not get read because it will look like overkill. I'm going to take it home tonight and arrange it how I have it arranged at my home. I'm going to section off the different stories and poems and various writings in order of similarity. It should make the whole thing more understandable, and navigable.
You may think I'm stalling, but really I'm just stalling.
LETTER 18:
Dear [adult swim],
The trip home from North Carolina was not so bad. Well, it wasn't Armageddon.
We got started nice and early because I'm a guy and that's what we do. Plus the bed we had to sleep on felt like poster board wrapped around three or four ancient pillows and a sack of rocks. So since we weren't sleeping anyway we hit the road before dawn.
I was so glad to see I-85 until I saw the moon. It was full. I did not expect the moon to be full until Monday night. When you hunt werewolves you must keep track of such things.
I imagine the guy in the SUV in front of us figured that it was dark, and that no one would notice what he was doing. But we noticed. The passenger side window of his Lexus rolled down and out popped a full moon; bright, shiny, and hairy. At first we thought it was a prank and we laughed. Then we realized this was a working interview. I had to pull off to the side of the road.
Now I know that I live in the heart of the South. and I know that not everybody has the manners God gave the common house cat. And I probably would have been less surprised had this assault on common decency come from a beat up old Chevy with ten hounds in the bed. But a Lexus?
signed
Ps. Maybe I'm being elitist, but surely there is a rule that says you cannot drop the deuce out the window of a moving Lexus. I'm still a little shaken.
Ad:
Tender Touch Carl's
Hands-on Bikini Wax
The Name Says It All
Monday, March 27, 2006
Letter 17
Well, sadly I am nearing the end of my [adult swim] campaign. Though it is Monday, this past Sunday marks the last day of letters I will send. I fell behind, however, so Sunday's letter won't actually go out until Wednesday. That will give me time to pretty up the package. I'm sending my portfolio for Sunday's letter. Actually it won't be a letter. It will be quite a large envelope full of writing and my CD.
All in all this campagin has been fun. I think I may actually continue to write [adult swim] even after Wednesday. Trying to think of a letter each day has been a good excercise in creativity. I may ultimately drop my output down to every other day or three times a week, or so, so that I can focus on another project. We'll see.
Sunday's (technically Wednesday's) letter marks the first time I will send [adult swim] my contact information. I am nervous about this, but I am resolved. It has to be done if I want to get a response. I can't send all of this crap to them and then chicken out.
A best case scenario is I get an interview and a job out of this deal. At the very least I now have 30 or so letters that I can add to my portfolio. I probably won't add them all. Some of them have been pretty lame.
LETTER 17:
Dear [adult swim],
Several of my letters for this weekend may be delayed. I am currently taking my family up to visit my wife's grandparents in North Carolina. They're good people, I guess, except for Rebecca's cousin. He's what we call "not right in the head." He has this odd fascination with my wife, and every time we go up there he changes his hair, puts on make-up, and dresses up to look like her. There is nothing wrong with this per se, but Rebecca is 5'8" and 125 pounds, whereas her cousin is six feet easy, with broad shoulders, sparse facial hair, and unnaturally close set eyes. And let us not forget that he's a man.
Little has changed since our last visit. It seems Rebecca's cousin has bought himself a digital camera. From the time we arrived until the time we left his little flash was going off at all the most inappropriate times. At first it was just a hunch that things were hinky. My wife and I would pose side by side and he would focus in. Then, almost imperceptibly, he would move the camera a little to the right or left. I am certain he was cutting me out of the picture. Later we'd see a flash and realize that Rebecca was bending over or in some odd position. We'd look around and he'd smile as though nothing happened.
Before he left he let it slip that he was building a website, but he wouldn't tell us the name. We asked to see his apartment and he assured us it was not a good idea because his "crabs were out." Then we asked if he was doing well at college and he said he'd been suspended pending an InterPol investigation, but that everything was going to work out because he was going to start giving lessons on how to fight with a broad sword.
signed
Ps. In case you were wondering, no, he does not know how to fight with a broad sword.
Pps. We're so proud.
Ppps. I ate at the restaurant advertised below. Please don't make me relive it through explanation. The menu is enclosed.
AD:
Eggcited about eating? Come to:
Egg Drop Soup
The very best of the egg.
All in all this campagin has been fun. I think I may actually continue to write [adult swim] even after Wednesday. Trying to think of a letter each day has been a good excercise in creativity. I may ultimately drop my output down to every other day or three times a week, or so, so that I can focus on another project. We'll see.
Sunday's (technically Wednesday's) letter marks the first time I will send [adult swim] my contact information. I am nervous about this, but I am resolved. It has to be done if I want to get a response. I can't send all of this crap to them and then chicken out.
A best case scenario is I get an interview and a job out of this deal. At the very least I now have 30 or so letters that I can add to my portfolio. I probably won't add them all. Some of them have been pretty lame.
LETTER 17:
Dear [adult swim],
Several of my letters for this weekend may be delayed. I am currently taking my family up to visit my wife's grandparents in North Carolina. They're good people, I guess, except for Rebecca's cousin. He's what we call "not right in the head." He has this odd fascination with my wife, and every time we go up there he changes his hair, puts on make-up, and dresses up to look like her. There is nothing wrong with this per se, but Rebecca is 5'8" and 125 pounds, whereas her cousin is six feet easy, with broad shoulders, sparse facial hair, and unnaturally close set eyes. And let us not forget that he's a man.
Little has changed since our last visit. It seems Rebecca's cousin has bought himself a digital camera. From the time we arrived until the time we left his little flash was going off at all the most inappropriate times. At first it was just a hunch that things were hinky. My wife and I would pose side by side and he would focus in. Then, almost imperceptibly, he would move the camera a little to the right or left. I am certain he was cutting me out of the picture. Later we'd see a flash and realize that Rebecca was bending over or in some odd position. We'd look around and he'd smile as though nothing happened.
Before he left he let it slip that he was building a website, but he wouldn't tell us the name. We asked to see his apartment and he assured us it was not a good idea because his "crabs were out." Then we asked if he was doing well at college and he said he'd been suspended pending an InterPol investigation, but that everything was going to work out because he was going to start giving lessons on how to fight with a broad sword.
signed
Ps. In case you were wondering, no, he does not know how to fight with a broad sword.
Pps. We're so proud.
Ppps. I ate at the restaurant advertised below. Please don't make me relive it through explanation. The menu is enclosed.
AD:
Eggcited about eating? Come to:
Egg Drop Soup
The very best of the egg.
Letter 16
LETTER 16:
Dear [adult swim],
I've been sick lately. I'm not saying this to excuse any spelling errors, or letters sent out of order, or general lapses in judgement. It would be wrong of me to play on your sympathies and ask you to be anything less than critical of my work. Even though I suffered for days.
And almost died.
I had a fever for three days, and it may have been a hallucination, but at one point I sneezed and Santa Claus came shooting out of my nose. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told him I wanted a job with [adult swim]. He said, "They don't just give those to anybody. You've gotta have talent."
"I do," I said, and he said, "Well, you also need a trendy windy and a hard boiled sock."
"Oh," I said. "What's a trendy windy?" but before he could answer Santa melted into snot. So far I've boiled a sock for three days and it still isn't hard. And I still have no idea what a trendy windy is. It could be the latest fast food craze, or a fashionable fart. Or it could be a fart from eating the latest fast food craze.
signed
Ps. Should I store my trendy windies in plastic bags or glass jars for shipping?
Pps. About the song I wrote yesterday... I was very sick and when I wasn't having visions of St. Nick I honestly believed I was Luke Duke. See, I was making my way the only way I knew how. It was just a little bit more... nevermind.
Ad:
Feeling that old familiar urge to eat that doo doo?
Try the Don't Eat That Poo Collar
From the makers of Jalapeno Nasal Spray
Dear [adult swim],
I've been sick lately. I'm not saying this to excuse any spelling errors, or letters sent out of order, or general lapses in judgement. It would be wrong of me to play on your sympathies and ask you to be anything less than critical of my work. Even though I suffered for days.
And almost died.
I had a fever for three days, and it may have been a hallucination, but at one point I sneezed and Santa Claus came shooting out of my nose. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told him I wanted a job with [adult swim]. He said, "They don't just give those to anybody. You've gotta have talent."
"I do," I said, and he said, "Well, you also need a trendy windy and a hard boiled sock."
"Oh," I said. "What's a trendy windy?" but before he could answer Santa melted into snot. So far I've boiled a sock for three days and it still isn't hard. And I still have no idea what a trendy windy is. It could be the latest fast food craze, or a fashionable fart. Or it could be a fart from eating the latest fast food craze.
signed
Ps. Should I store my trendy windies in plastic bags or glass jars for shipping?
Pps. About the song I wrote yesterday... I was very sick and when I wasn't having visions of St. Nick I honestly believed I was Luke Duke. See, I was making my way the only way I knew how. It was just a little bit more... nevermind.
Ad:
Feeling that old familiar urge to eat that doo doo?
Try the Don't Eat That Poo Collar
From the makers of Jalapeno Nasal Spray
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Ads
I did not originally intend to put ads at the bottom of the letters. It was an idea that came to me when I ran out of clip art. I thought the ads would be a great filler.
I hope you liked the first ad for Ten Commandments Cola. It is actually an ad for a fake product I created a little while back. All the press the Ten Commandments were getting inspired me to write this ad.
AD:
Ten Commandments Cola.
Scene: Two High School/Early College age girls are walking down the sidewalk in opposite directions. One is dressed fairly conservatively and the other is dressed all in black with piercings, spiked hair and tattoos. As they approach they eye each other as if the other were totally ridiculous. Then a man jumps out from the bushes.
Man: Hey ladies! Have you tried new Ten Commandments Cola?
Conservative Girl (CG): Ten Commandments Cola?
Punk Girl (PG): Are you kidding me?
Man: Absolutely not, Mrs. Brewster. Here. (he hands both girls a can) Ten Commandments Cola is a refreshing beverage that packs a punch of biblical proportions.
Conservative Girl takes a sip and looks pleased. Then she takes a long swallow.
CG: Wow! That's great. It's like a cool blast of refreshing forgiveness in my mouth. Now I don't feel so bad about last night.
Punk Girl looks over with questioning disbelief. When the other two look at her she reluctantly takes a swig. Then she takes a long drink.
PG: Hey, this is really good. But it isn't refreshing. It's like spicey punishment all the way down to my soul.
CG: It tastes like golden apples.
PG: No, it tastes like spicey candy.
CG:It tastes like goodness.
PG: It tastes like sin!
Man: Ladies, ladies. It tastes like Ten Commandments Cola, the beverage of good judgement. And have you ladies seen our clothes product line?
CG: Shu! I have Ten Commandments shoes and socks. I walk on the right path.
PG: I have Ten Commandments hair gel in my hair to hold it in place and never let it act on it's own.
CG: I have Ten Commandments sunglasses and the new Ten Commandments CD by the Ten Commandments. My favorite song is Thou Shalt Have No Other Products Before Me.
PG: Well, I had Ten Commandments cereal for breakfast, and I have SINNER tattooed on my ass.
Man:That's right. The Ten Commandments product line is vast and for all personalities. Everyone can enjoy a healthy dose of repression in every aspect of their lives. So try the new Ten Commandments Cola.
Man holds soda can sideways for the camera. In the background the punk girl takes another long swig of the cola and burst into flames.
I hope you liked the first ad for Ten Commandments Cola. It is actually an ad for a fake product I created a little while back. All the press the Ten Commandments were getting inspired me to write this ad.
AD:
Ten Commandments Cola.
Scene: Two High School/Early College age girls are walking down the sidewalk in opposite directions. One is dressed fairly conservatively and the other is dressed all in black with piercings, spiked hair and tattoos. As they approach they eye each other as if the other were totally ridiculous. Then a man jumps out from the bushes.
Man: Hey ladies! Have you tried new Ten Commandments Cola?
Conservative Girl (CG): Ten Commandments Cola?
Punk Girl (PG): Are you kidding me?
Man: Absolutely not, Mrs. Brewster. Here. (he hands both girls a can) Ten Commandments Cola is a refreshing beverage that packs a punch of biblical proportions.
Conservative Girl takes a sip and looks pleased. Then she takes a long swallow.
CG: Wow! That's great. It's like a cool blast of refreshing forgiveness in my mouth. Now I don't feel so bad about last night.
Punk Girl looks over with questioning disbelief. When the other two look at her she reluctantly takes a swig. Then she takes a long drink.
PG: Hey, this is really good. But it isn't refreshing. It's like spicey punishment all the way down to my soul.
CG: It tastes like golden apples.
PG: No, it tastes like spicey candy.
CG:
PG: It tastes like sin!
Man: Ladies, ladies. It tastes like Ten Commandments Cola, the beverage of good judgement. And have you ladies seen our clothes product line?
CG: Shu! I have Ten Commandments shoes and socks. I walk on the right path.
PG: I have Ten Commandments hair gel in my hair to hold it in place and never let it act on it's own.
CG: I have Ten Commandments sunglasses and the new Ten Commandments CD by the Ten Commandments. My favorite song is Thou Shalt Have No Other Products Before Me.
PG: Well, I had Ten Commandments cereal for breakfast, and I have SINNER tattooed on my ass.
Man:
Man holds soda can sideways for the camera. In the background the punk girl takes another long swig of the cola and burst into flames.
Letter 15
I don't really have anything special to say today. To date no one has discovered my site. I will be patient and wait for that one person who discovers it, and tells all of their friends how funny I am. That should be tomorrow. To that person I gladly pledge my thanks. I'd give you $20 bucks, but I'm afraid you'll just spend it on crystal meth, and I don't want to contribute to the problems of our youth. Get a job if you want to take drugs like the rest of us.
That last sentence didn't come out exactly as I meant it to.
LETTER 15:
Dear [adult swim],
This evening my wife told me that some of my recent letters to you have been "kinda deep" with "hidden meaning." I know she only said this to hurt me. I think she's jealous of you. I mean really, "deep and meaningful?" That's so Alanis Morrisette, or worse, Sting.
So to prove that I am totally rock and roll, this letter will be written as a song. Please sing the rest of this letter with guitar and drum background.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Verse:
When I jump in my car, babe I'm lookin' for you.
Cut off my fingers.
You know I'm flyin' high, unless I'm comin' down.
Did I just cut off my fingers?
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Verse:
When the cops are behind us it's too late to slow down.
I didn't renew my tags.
We are the Duke boys. we'll clear the ravine easy.
I don't know how to swim.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Bridge:
In your eyes I can tell you have already left me.
You are in an alpha state induced by my hypnotism.
You will stay with me forever, and when I snap my fingers
You will bark like a dog, and we will laugh.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Yeah!
signed
Ad: Drink Ten Commandments Cola
Refreshment that will last til eternity.
-seemingly
That last sentence didn't come out exactly as I meant it to.
LETTER 15:
Dear [adult swim],
This evening my wife told me that some of my recent letters to you have been "kinda deep" with "hidden meaning." I know she only said this to hurt me. I think she's jealous of you. I mean really, "deep and meaningful?" That's so Alanis Morrisette, or worse, Sting.
So to prove that I am totally rock and roll, this letter will be written as a song. Please sing the rest of this letter with guitar and drum background.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Verse:
When I jump in my car, babe I'm lookin' for you.
Cut off my fingers.
You know I'm flyin' high, unless I'm comin' down.
Did I just cut off my fingers?
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Verse:
When the cops are behind us it's too late to slow down.
I didn't renew my tags.
We are the Duke boys. we'll clear the ravine easy.
I don't know how to swim.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Bridge:
In your eyes I can tell you have already left me.
You are in an alpha state induced by my hypnotism.
You will stay with me forever, and when I snap my fingers
You will bark like a dog, and we will laugh.
Chorus:
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
I'm a desperate rider.
(guitar lick).
Yeah!
signed
Ad: Drink Ten Commandments Cola
Refreshment that will last til eternity.
-seemingly
Monday, March 20, 2006
Letter 14
I decided to post two letters today since I missed a bunch this week. I plan on finishing up my letter campaign on Monday. I may continue to send letters less periodically after Monday, but for now my plans are to finish on Monday. Well, technically Sunday is the last day I will send out a letter, but it will have to be sent on Monday.
Today is also the second story in the Margaritaville cycle. So that's another reason for me to go ahead an post it.
As I'm sure you noticed in the last letter I introduced a new theme to the letters. Advertising. I hope you like the ads that I have run on some letters. The one's I've been sending out lately I thought were particularly funny. I made myself laugh with some of them.
LETTER 14:
Dear [adult swim],
My second visit to Margaritaville proved on marginally better than the first. John, the Solicitor General, had lost his job after my last visit. He subsequently fell into a life of crime, which he dedicated 100% of his effort to. Still, he was caught and sentenced to 5 years, the maximum, in prison for burglary. It seems he broke into a house and tried to steal 100% of it. When the owners arrived home from work they found him stripping the house from the inside out and he was already taking down the brick facade.
In prison he put 100% of his effort into being a typical inmate. however, he was the only inmate, so after a heated arguement with himself, he beat himself silly, molested himself, and then stabbed himself with a shiv. He did not die however, and the town is still debating whether this was a success or a failure.
John was not the only one who strayed from his tight-laced ways. The brunette who had made me an apple pie on my last visit had jumped off the deep end of infidelity. Her name was Constance and shortly after I left town she had an affair with her mailman. Naturally she confessed to her husband and the two of them agreed that she must be committed to her affair 100%. Thus they agreed that she should sleep with every unmarried man in town. That's when I revisited.
I hadn't been in town for ten minutes. I was only planning on stopping at the McDonalds for a burger and fries, and then leaving before anyone recognized me as an escaped mental patient. I had taken one bite of my burger when Constance sat down beside me.
"Do you like that hamburger will you have sex with me?" she asked in one breath.
"The hamburger is ok, and I don't think so," I said.
"Are you 100% sure you won't?" she asked.
"Honestly, no," I said.
"Do you ever put 100% into anything?"
"Oh there are some things I'll put 100% into," I said suggestively, which was a huge mistake. That very moment she took off all of her clothes and lay down across my food.
"I was eating that," I said.
"Yes," she whimpered, "And it is still quite hot. Please take me now so I can finish and get up."
I was seriously considering this when one of the fry cooks said, "Hey, that guy's wanted by the police."
I quickly flipped my would be lover off the table and grabbed my flattened meal, then ran for the door. As I sped out of town I imagined that I could taste her perfume on my fries. But it was probably just seared flesh.
Last I heard Constance was run out of town for being a 99% tramp. Rumor has it she moved down to Florida and is shacking up with Jimmy Buffet.
signed
Ps. Your Ad Here, Discounted Rates: $99.99/week.
Today is also the second story in the Margaritaville cycle. So that's another reason for me to go ahead an post it.
As I'm sure you noticed in the last letter I introduced a new theme to the letters. Advertising. I hope you like the ads that I have run on some letters. The one's I've been sending out lately I thought were particularly funny. I made myself laugh with some of them.
LETTER 14:
Dear [adult swim],
My second visit to Margaritaville proved on marginally better than the first. John, the Solicitor General, had lost his job after my last visit. He subsequently fell into a life of crime, which he dedicated 100% of his effort to. Still, he was caught and sentenced to 5 years, the maximum, in prison for burglary. It seems he broke into a house and tried to steal 100% of it. When the owners arrived home from work they found him stripping the house from the inside out and he was already taking down the brick facade.
In prison he put 100% of his effort into being a typical inmate. however, he was the only inmate, so after a heated arguement with himself, he beat himself silly, molested himself, and then stabbed himself with a shiv. He did not die however, and the town is still debating whether this was a success or a failure.
John was not the only one who strayed from his tight-laced ways. The brunette who had made me an apple pie on my last visit had jumped off the deep end of infidelity. Her name was Constance and shortly after I left town she had an affair with her mailman. Naturally she confessed to her husband and the two of them agreed that she must be committed to her affair 100%. Thus they agreed that she should sleep with every unmarried man in town. That's when I revisited.
I hadn't been in town for ten minutes. I was only planning on stopping at the McDonalds for a burger and fries, and then leaving before anyone recognized me as an escaped mental patient. I had taken one bite of my burger when Constance sat down beside me.
"Do you like that hamburger will you have sex with me?" she asked in one breath.
"The hamburger is ok, and I don't think so," I said.
"Are you 100% sure you won't?" she asked.
"Honestly, no," I said.
"Do you ever put 100% into anything?"
"Oh there are some things I'll put 100% into," I said suggestively, which was a huge mistake. That very moment she took off all of her clothes and lay down across my food.
"I was eating that," I said.
"Yes," she whimpered, "And it is still quite hot. Please take me now so I can finish and get up."
I was seriously considering this when one of the fry cooks said, "Hey, that guy's wanted by the police."
I quickly flipped my would be lover off the table and grabbed my flattened meal, then ran for the door. As I sped out of town I imagined that I could taste her perfume on my fries. But it was probably just seared flesh.
Last I heard Constance was run out of town for being a 99% tramp. Rumor has it she moved down to Florida and is shacking up with Jimmy Buffet.
signed
Ps. Your Ad Here, Discounted Rates: $99.99/week.
Letter 13
Ok, I missed another weekend. Well, I'm not terribly upset by it. I've already managed to keep up with this blog for more than 3 days, which is typically the length of time my patience will allow me to focus on any large project.
Incidentally, if anyone out there knows my friend's phone number please let me know. The one I have doesn't seem to be working. That or he is avoiding me. The last time someone pretended not to be home when I called I was in high school. And she didn't have the courage to admit to me that she wanted to break up because she preferred girls.
Anyway, here is the letter:
LETTER 13:
Dear [adult swim],
Jimmy Buffet has never been to Margaritaville. He has been to Drunk-and-stoned-outta-my-mind-on-a-beach-ville, but never Margaritaville. I, on the other hand, have been there twice.
Margaritaville is not on an island, and it is not in the tropics. It is a large town dug into the side of a mountain in the Appalachians. Everyone in Margaritaville is a teetotaler, and everyone works twelve hour days. Every shirt is worn with extra starch, and every stocking is worn extra tight. Shoes are always polished, underwear is always white, and jokes are not allowed. And everyone does everything 100%.
The first time I went to Margaritaville I had Jimmy Buffet playing on the radio. It felt like a lazy day to me, so when a cop pulled me over and asked, "What do you think you are doing?" I said, "Just cruising. Being lazy."
The townspeople were so shocked that I was immediately arrested and sentenced to the slow death of humiliation by unemployment. I was locked in a 30 foot by 30 foot cell in the middle of town with a queen sized bed, a huge screen TV, a private bathroom, and a fridge full of junk food. I was to sit in bed and watch TV all day while the town looked on. Then boredome, lack of productivity, and the disappointed and scandalous looks of the town would eat away at my soul.
Six months later I was still doing well in my jail cell. I had gained 20 pounds from all the junk food, but I had caught up on years of missed General Hospital.. The town was at a loss for what to do with me. One Saturday a mob gathered around my cell. The Solicitor General asked me if I felt any remorse.
"For what?" I asked, and everyone gasped. One lady passed out.
"For being a burden on society!" he shouted.
"You guys put me in here."
"How can you bear the shame," he asked, "Of knowing that you have no job and that you amount to nothing?"
"Well, it is tough," I lied, "But somebody out there makes a mean chicken pot pie, and that has helped ease the pain."
"That would be mine," a mousey soccer mom smiled.
"I told you not to make that pie taste so good," the Solicitor General said.
"Are you suggesting that I should have put less than 100% effort into it?"
"Well, no," he said, "But you could have put 100% effort into making it taste bad."
The lady gasped, turned red, then stormed away.
"John," the mayor said, "I think this prisoner is rubbing off on you. Why don't we take a trip to my office."
John's eyes widened as the mayor led him away. Then one very attractive brunette edged up to the cell bars and asked, "Did you like my apple pie?"
"Oh, it was wonderful," I said and she smiled proudly.
Eventually I was retried and found innocent based on mental defect. They would have taken me to the psychiatric ward, but everyone was too busy, so they asked me to drive myself.
signed
Ps. Your Ad Here: $199.50/week.
Incidentally, if anyone out there knows my friend's phone number please let me know. The one I have doesn't seem to be working. That or he is avoiding me. The last time someone pretended not to be home when I called I was in high school. And she didn't have the courage to admit to me that she wanted to break up because she preferred girls.
Anyway, here is the letter:
LETTER 13:
Dear [adult swim],
Jimmy Buffet has never been to Margaritaville. He has been to Drunk-and-stoned-outta-my-mind-on-a-beach-ville, but never Margaritaville. I, on the other hand, have been there twice.
Margaritaville is not on an island, and it is not in the tropics. It is a large town dug into the side of a mountain in the Appalachians. Everyone in Margaritaville is a teetotaler, and everyone works twelve hour days. Every shirt is worn with extra starch, and every stocking is worn extra tight. Shoes are always polished, underwear is always white, and jokes are not allowed. And everyone does everything 100%.
The first time I went to Margaritaville I had Jimmy Buffet playing on the radio. It felt like a lazy day to me, so when a cop pulled me over and asked, "What do you think you are doing?" I said, "Just cruising. Being lazy."
The townspeople were so shocked that I was immediately arrested and sentenced to the slow death of humiliation by unemployment. I was locked in a 30 foot by 30 foot cell in the middle of town with a queen sized bed, a huge screen TV, a private bathroom, and a fridge full of junk food. I was to sit in bed and watch TV all day while the town looked on. Then boredome, lack of productivity, and the disappointed and scandalous looks of the town would eat away at my soul.
Six months later I was still doing well in my jail cell. I had gained 20 pounds from all the junk food, but I had caught up on years of missed General Hospital.. The town was at a loss for what to do with me. One Saturday a mob gathered around my cell. The Solicitor General asked me if I felt any remorse.
"For what?" I asked, and everyone gasped. One lady passed out.
"For being a burden on society!" he shouted.
"You guys put me in here."
"How can you bear the shame," he asked, "Of knowing that you have no job and that you amount to nothing?"
"Well, it is tough," I lied, "But somebody out there makes a mean chicken pot pie, and that has helped ease the pain."
"That would be mine," a mousey soccer mom smiled.
"I told you not to make that pie taste so good," the Solicitor General said.
"Are you suggesting that I should have put less than 100% effort into it?"
"Well, no," he said, "But you could have put 100% effort into making it taste bad."
The lady gasped, turned red, then stormed away.
"John," the mayor said, "I think this prisoner is rubbing off on you. Why don't we take a trip to my office."
John's eyes widened as the mayor led him away. Then one very attractive brunette edged up to the cell bars and asked, "Did you like my apple pie?"
"Oh, it was wonderful," I said and she smiled proudly.
Eventually I was retried and found innocent based on mental defect. They would have taken me to the psychiatric ward, but everyone was too busy, so they asked me to drive myself.
signed
Ps. Your Ad Here: $199.50/week.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Letter 12
So I went out and purchased some more pens. Then I dutifully left them at home sitting on my kitchen counter where they will do absolutely no good to me. Chances are very good that one of my cats will thing the package is a toy and he will bat it off the counter. Then it will get batted around the slick floor until it slips under the refrigerator or the oven, and I'll never see it again.
Incidentally, at the bottom of this letter I did not have a piece of clip art. I drew a horrible little picture of the Fellowship of the Ring, minus Boromir and the nonessential hobbits. They were each listed according to his hight. I had Gandalf, Aragorn, a dollar sign, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, my son, and finally Tom Cruise, who is saying, "Scientology Rules!"
In case you don't know this already, scientology doesn't rule.
LETTER 12:
Dear [adult swim],
I don't think it's fair that stilts have fallen out of fashion in business. Once upon a time a short man could don his stilts to gain an edge. He could throw a poster over his shoulder and hit the streets for a day of successful advertising on stilts. Or, if he wanted to appear imposing in a conference, he need only strap on his leg extensions, and make sure his pants were long enough to conceal his secret.
Now stilt wearers are quickly identified and ostracized. If you are found to be wearing stilts you are told to remove them or leave. As a man who is short by today's standards, 5'7", I wanted to know why the stilt was so frowned upon in business.
It bears mentioning, first of all, that most movers and shakers in business are tall. Sure Napoleon and Tom Cruise are both short, 5'1" and 4'7" respectively, but they were world leaders, not business leaders. It takes a certain maniacal fervor to lead the world; a rabid intensity that many tall folk don't have. But business isn't that way. There are no special qualifications in business, except it would seem, being tall. And in these troubled times stilts cannot make the difference.
I went to the bank yesterday to get a loan for my business. Naturally, I was wearing my three foot stilts. Somehow the security guard sensed that I had them on and he made me remove them. Then I was denied my loan because I had "atrocious credit and a horrible business plan," which is really just code for: you are short. After I left, Donald Trump, who is really quite tall, entered the bank and was given a hundred million dollar loan for a business venture that could not have been any different from mine.
The proof is irrefutable. The only thing we can do to stop this discrimination is to make stilts popular again. That or make being tall a crime. Either one will suffice as far as I'm concerned.
signed
Ps. I know that Napoleon and Tom Cruise are dead, but I couldn't think of any current world leaders of significance.
Pps. A good short writer could help [adult swim] take over the world.
Incidentally, at the bottom of this letter I did not have a piece of clip art. I drew a horrible little picture of the Fellowship of the Ring, minus Boromir and the nonessential hobbits. They were each listed according to his hight. I had Gandalf, Aragorn, a dollar sign, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, my son, and finally Tom Cruise, who is saying, "Scientology Rules!"
In case you don't know this already, scientology doesn't rule.
LETTER 12:
Dear [adult swim],
I don't think it's fair that stilts have fallen out of fashion in business. Once upon a time a short man could don his stilts to gain an edge. He could throw a poster over his shoulder and hit the streets for a day of successful advertising on stilts. Or, if he wanted to appear imposing in a conference, he need only strap on his leg extensions, and make sure his pants were long enough to conceal his secret.
Now stilt wearers are quickly identified and ostracized. If you are found to be wearing stilts you are told to remove them or leave. As a man who is short by today's standards, 5'7", I wanted to know why the stilt was so frowned upon in business.
It bears mentioning, first of all, that most movers and shakers in business are tall. Sure Napoleon and Tom Cruise are both short, 5'1" and 4'7" respectively, but they were world leaders, not business leaders. It takes a certain maniacal fervor to lead the world; a rabid intensity that many tall folk don't have. But business isn't that way. There are no special qualifications in business, except it would seem, being tall. And in these troubled times stilts cannot make the difference.
I went to the bank yesterday to get a loan for my business. Naturally, I was wearing my three foot stilts. Somehow the security guard sensed that I had them on and he made me remove them. Then I was denied my loan because I had "atrocious credit and a horrible business plan," which is really just code for: you are short. After I left, Donald Trump, who is really quite tall, entered the bank and was given a hundred million dollar loan for a business venture that could not have been any different from mine.
The proof is irrefutable. The only thing we can do to stop this discrimination is to make stilts popular again. That or make being tall a crime. Either one will suffice as far as I'm concerned.
signed
Ps. I know that Napoleon and Tom Cruise are dead, but I couldn't think of any current world leaders of significance.
Pps. A good short writer could help [adult swim] take over the world.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Letter 11
I know I have already posted two letters today, but I'm feeling a bit rebellious. I'm kinda mad at my wife for constantly hogging the computer lately. Tonight, when I got home, she was using two computers. What does she need two computers for?
So anyway, I'm posting Letter 11 in defiance of her never letting me use the computer anymore. Actually, she never made the rule that I should only post one letter a day. I made that rule. So really I'm only defying myself. But it will still surprise her. She will get on this blog and she will see that she and I are united in defying me. It might piss her off so bad that she actually becomes subserviant, but I doubt it. In truth I wouldn't want a subserviant wife anyway. I'd just like one that lets me use the computer once in a damn while.
Who am I kidding, she's never gonna visit this site. No one else does. (All say boo hoo!)
LETTER 11:
Dear [adult swim],
I was clearly bored as I have ever been. I sat on my couch staring at the wall; nothing to do. Then with a puff of smoke an elf appeared before me.
"Hello," he said enthusiastically.
"Hey," I clipped.
"I sensed that you might be bored," he said, "And that you might be looking for a change of direction."
"Maybe," I said.
"What if I told you that I could give you a life of adventure, or a life of magic, or a life of riches?"
"I dunno. What do I have to do?"
"All you have to do is open a book."
"Wait a second," I said, "Is this one of those public service announcements where you try to tell me how cool it is to read, like that Captain O.G. Readmore?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," he said. "All you have to do is pick a book from my library and open it up. You will instantly be transported into the book and you will live the life of it's hero."
"For how long?" I asked.
"Well, that is the catch," he said. "You will live in the book for all of eternity, but you will be living the wonderful life of its protagonist."
"So I'll get to live forever?"
"Indeed," he said.
I looked around my house. It wasn't so bad. A couple of nice cats. Some great furniture. A brand new carpet. "I don't know," I said. At that moment one of my cats hacked a fur-ball onto the carpet, three of my lights burned out, and my dining room table fell over. "Ok," I said.
The elf showed me to his library of books. They were all beautifully leather bound and glowed slightly. None, however, bore a title. I grabbed one off the shelf. "I think you will like that one," he said.
I opened the book and magical music started to play. Instantly my soul was sucked in and before I knew it I was in a room very much like my den. In fact, it was my den. It even had my two cats. Then a disembodied voice said, "This is your story. Enjoy." And it faded away.
At that moment one of my cats hacked a fur-ball onto the carpet, three of my lights burned out, and my dining room table fell over. I was actually in the story of my very own life. I'm pretty sure there was supposed to be some kind of lesson in this, but I really just felt ripped off.
signed
So anyway, I'm posting Letter 11 in defiance of her never letting me use the computer anymore. Actually, she never made the rule that I should only post one letter a day. I made that rule. So really I'm only defying myself. But it will still surprise her. She will get on this blog and she will see that she and I are united in defying me. It might piss her off so bad that she actually becomes subserviant, but I doubt it. In truth I wouldn't want a subserviant wife anyway. I'd just like one that lets me use the computer once in a damn while.
Who am I kidding, she's never gonna visit this site. No one else does. (All say boo hoo!)
LETTER 11:
Dear [adult swim],
I was clearly bored as I have ever been. I sat on my couch staring at the wall; nothing to do. Then with a puff of smoke an elf appeared before me.
"Hello," he said enthusiastically.
"Hey," I clipped.
"I sensed that you might be bored," he said, "And that you might be looking for a change of direction."
"Maybe," I said.
"What if I told you that I could give you a life of adventure, or a life of magic, or a life of riches?"
"I dunno. What do I have to do?"
"All you have to do is open a book."
"Wait a second," I said, "Is this one of those public service announcements where you try to tell me how cool it is to read, like that Captain O.G. Readmore?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," he said. "All you have to do is pick a book from my library and open it up. You will instantly be transported into the book and you will live the life of it's hero."
"For how long?" I asked.
"Well, that is the catch," he said. "You will live in the book for all of eternity, but you will be living the wonderful life of its protagonist."
"So I'll get to live forever?"
"Indeed," he said.
I looked around my house. It wasn't so bad. A couple of nice cats. Some great furniture. A brand new carpet. "I don't know," I said. At that moment one of my cats hacked a fur-ball onto the carpet, three of my lights burned out, and my dining room table fell over. "Ok," I said.
The elf showed me to his library of books. They were all beautifully leather bound and glowed slightly. None, however, bore a title. I grabbed one off the shelf. "I think you will like that one," he said.
I opened the book and magical music started to play. Instantly my soul was sucked in and before I knew it I was in a room very much like my den. In fact, it was my den. It even had my two cats. Then a disembodied voice said, "This is your story. Enjoy." And it faded away.
At that moment one of my cats hacked a fur-ball onto the carpet, three of my lights burned out, and my dining room table fell over. I was actually in the story of my very own life. I'm pretty sure there was supposed to be some kind of lesson in this, but I really just felt ripped off.
signed
Letter 10
Since I missed out on posting some letters this weekend I thought I'd catch up a little and post another one. Besides, Letter 10 is short and I have nothing to do. Well, that is not entirely true. I have pleanty to do, I just don't want to do that shit.
LETTER 10
Dear [adult swim],
I reviewed the letters I've written you so far and I have to admit that I'm a tad bit disappointed in myself. I've told you that I dreamt I was a naked Harry Potter, and that I was an elephant being chased by a vampire. I've told you that I play fantasy games on-line, and that I'm hairy, and possibly ugly. Further, I told you that I am afraid of the bird flu, that I can't take care of my car, and that I learned to cook at 4-H camp. All in all, this is not the most masculine image I am revealing.
So then I thought that this was very unfair to you, as well as to me, because I haven't given you an accurate depiction of myself. Indeed I am the quintessence of masculinity. Why, just the other day, as I was cutting paper dolls from construction paper, I noticed how muscular and ripped my forearms are, and how they exude maleness and testosterone.
At that moment twelve ninjas burst through my window and told me they were going to steal my wife and children and that I was helpless to stop them. Having nothing on hand but a bucket full of official Major League baseballs I did what any strapping hero would do. A few moments later, when I had run out of balls, eleven ninjas lay unconscious or dead on my living room floor. The last ninja, the leader, would not be so easy to defeat.
"My name is Grendal," said he, "And I cannot be killed by weapons of man." So I threw my purse at his head and he died instantly.
signed
LETTER 10
Dear [adult swim],
I reviewed the letters I've written you so far and I have to admit that I'm a tad bit disappointed in myself. I've told you that I dreamt I was a naked Harry Potter, and that I was an elephant being chased by a vampire. I've told you that I play fantasy games on-line, and that I'm hairy, and possibly ugly. Further, I told you that I am afraid of the bird flu, that I can't take care of my car, and that I learned to cook at 4-H camp. All in all, this is not the most masculine image I am revealing.
So then I thought that this was very unfair to you, as well as to me, because I haven't given you an accurate depiction of myself. Indeed I am the quintessence of masculinity. Why, just the other day, as I was cutting paper dolls from construction paper, I noticed how muscular and ripped my forearms are, and how they exude maleness and testosterone.
At that moment twelve ninjas burst through my window and told me they were going to steal my wife and children and that I was helpless to stop them. Having nothing on hand but a bucket full of official Major League baseballs I did what any strapping hero would do. A few moments later, when I had run out of balls, eleven ninjas lay unconscious or dead on my living room floor. The last ninja, the leader, would not be so easy to defeat.
"My name is Grendal," said he, "And I cannot be killed by weapons of man." So I threw my purse at his head and he died instantly.
signed
Letter 9
In case I didn't already explain this, I have put a piece of clip art at the bottom of every letter. Some of them have been unrelated and some of them have been hand drawn by me. For example, the letter where I played in the band White Spider I used a piece of clip art that was a couch, but I spiced it up by drawing a hole behind the couch with cheers pouring out of it. It is hardly worth mentioning, except that I do mention it in Letter 9, and I didn't want you to feel like you were 'out of the loop,' which of course you are.
LETTER 9:
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, so there are some things that are bothering me. It did not slip my notice that in my last letter I spelled "leveled" with two ls, but it was done in pen, and the day was almost over, and I had already started that letter over three times. I also realize that I did not have a cute piece of clip art on Wednesday's letter. There wasn't really room, and I kinda wanted a picture of an elephant vampire. Believe it or not Word does not have such a clip. Not even an elephant Wolverine. I assumed there'd be at least three of those, but no. Anyway these things have bothered me and I wanted to apologize.
It's just the way my week is going. Tuesday my wife had a fight with her boyfriend. She was complaining about something he had said when they were bowling. At first I was excited about the idea of them fighting, but she just kept wanting to talk to me about it. She kept going on and on with no end in sight. Finally I told her she must have misunderstood him, and I assured her that he would never mean to hurt her. She seemed consoled by this and I was happy to finally get some quiet. Marriage is about sacrifice.
But the worst was yesterday. If you knew my boss this would be funnier. About a month ago he comes to me and says, "Here are the business rules for some reports I made. I.T. is finished building them, now I want you to take control of them."
"Ok, so what do I do?" I asked.
"Just make sure that everyone who needs the reports gets one."
So yesterday he comes to me and says, "There's a Director's meeting tomorrow I need you to go to. You have to explain why your reports are giving inaccurate numbers."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The assistant Commissioner was very embarrassed yesterday," he said gravely, "When one of the Directors pointed out that your reports were not accurate."
"But they aren't my reports. I just distribute them."
"You cannot distribute inaccurate reports," he said emphatically. "You must be an example to the field."
I shrugged. "Ok, but I haven't noticed any inaccuracies."
"Here's the report," he said, handing me a single sheet of paper. "The numbers are clearly wrong."
I took the paper. I'm sure I had a puzzled look. "This is an Excel spreadsheet."
"Yeah?" he said.
"Yeah," I said back. "It isn't my report. It isn't even for my program."
He considered this for a full 20 seconds. "Well, I still want you to go to the Director's meeting and explain the discrepancies." Then he walked away.
signed
Ps. I know you would never do this to me.
LETTER 9:
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, so there are some things that are bothering me. It did not slip my notice that in my last letter I spelled "leveled" with two ls, but it was done in pen, and the day was almost over, and I had already started that letter over three times. I also realize that I did not have a cute piece of clip art on Wednesday's letter. There wasn't really room, and I kinda wanted a picture of an elephant vampire. Believe it or not Word does not have such a clip. Not even an elephant Wolverine. I assumed there'd be at least three of those, but no. Anyway these things have bothered me and I wanted to apologize.
It's just the way my week is going. Tuesday my wife had a fight with her boyfriend. She was complaining about something he had said when they were bowling. At first I was excited about the idea of them fighting, but she just kept wanting to talk to me about it. She kept going on and on with no end in sight. Finally I told her she must have misunderstood him, and I assured her that he would never mean to hurt her. She seemed consoled by this and I was happy to finally get some quiet. Marriage is about sacrifice.
But the worst was yesterday. If you knew my boss this would be funnier. About a month ago he comes to me and says, "Here are the business rules for some reports I made. I.T. is finished building them, now I want you to take control of them."
"Ok, so what do I do?" I asked.
"Just make sure that everyone who needs the reports gets one."
So yesterday he comes to me and says, "There's a Director's meeting tomorrow I need you to go to. You have to explain why your reports are giving inaccurate numbers."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The assistant Commissioner was very embarrassed yesterday," he said gravely, "When one of the Directors pointed out that your reports were not accurate."
"But they aren't my reports. I just distribute them."
"You cannot distribute inaccurate reports," he said emphatically. "You must be an example to the field."
I shrugged. "Ok, but I haven't noticed any inaccuracies."
"Here's the report," he said, handing me a single sheet of paper. "The numbers are clearly wrong."
I took the paper. I'm sure I had a puzzled look. "This is an Excel spreadsheet."
"Yeah?" he said.
"Yeah," I said back. "It isn't my report. It isn't even for my program."
He considered this for a full 20 seconds. "Well, I still want you to go to the Director's meeting and explain the discrepancies." Then he walked away.
signed
Ps. I know you would never do this to me.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Letter 8
Please forgive my absence. I was on the road over the weekend and I was nowhere near a computer. We went to visit my wife's grandparents in North Carolina, and they don't exactly keep up with modern technology.
The fake exploits of this visit will be laid bare in a future letter. I believe Letters 18 and 19 cover the things we did (or ficticiously did) in North Carolina.
Well, I still have not found my pen. I will have to buy myself a new set AGAIN! I don't really blame anyone but myself. And the pen I am currently using sucks. On a completely unrelated issue, I think I have carpel tunnel syndrome. I need to see a doctor.
Well, without further ado:
LETTER 8:
Dear [adult swim],
Please forgive me for not having a decent letter to send to you today. I was up until 2:30 last night and I am just thoroughly wiped out today. I should have been working on a letter to you, but I got distracted. It's all part of my competitive nature.
I was playing a simple game of War Craft 3 with a guy whose screen name was AmndaBynsRlz12. Anyway, I said hello all nice and polite like and he told me to shut up and that he was going to go all micro on me and finish this game up in two seconds.
So I said, "Bring it."
And he said, "Here it comes." And he wasn't just talking trash either, because he rushed me with his Blade Master and killed three of my peasants before I even had a hero up. So then he said, "I am the Gosu Master." And I said, "lol, you are the 'master' master?" (because Gosu is Korean for master).
And he said, "What do you mean?"
And I said, "You're an idiot."
And he said, "Tell it to your peasants," which was really quite clever.
And I said, "Kiss my ass."
And he said, "Hey, watch the language, I'm 9, and my mom won't let me play if you cuss."
And I said, "Oh, sorry."
And he said, "Newb," which really pissed me off.
And I said, "Your mother's a newb." And then I thought of how stupid that sounded so I said, "Except in bed."
And he said, "I don't get it," which was probably true if he was really just 9.
So then I attacked him with my hero and some men and he totally decimated me, and said, "See, I am the micro gosu."
And I said, "You are the micro penis."
And he said, "Stop, my mom could come back any second."
Back at my base I was busy trying to rebuild my army, but I knew he was coming and that I didn't stand a chance. I had two soldiers up when he hit my base with about 20 men. It was a pathetic slaughter. Then he said, "You should find an easier game to play, N00B!"
And I said, "Kiss my ass, you little f-er."
He stopped playing for a few seconds and he wasn't controlling his army. then he said, "My mom's making me quit because you wouldn't stop cussing." Then he disconnected and I got credit for the win.
At first I felt bad for being such a bad example of sportsmanship. But then I realized that win levelled me up, so I thought, "Eat it, AmndaBynsRlz12."
signed
Ps. So anyway, I forgot to write you. Sorry.
The fake exploits of this visit will be laid bare in a future letter. I believe Letters 18 and 19 cover the things we did (or ficticiously did) in North Carolina.
Well, I still have not found my pen. I will have to buy myself a new set AGAIN! I don't really blame anyone but myself. And the pen I am currently using sucks. On a completely unrelated issue, I think I have carpel tunnel syndrome. I need to see a doctor.
Well, without further ado:
LETTER 8:
Dear [adult swim],
Please forgive me for not having a decent letter to send to you today. I was up until 2:30 last night and I am just thoroughly wiped out today. I should have been working on a letter to you, but I got distracted. It's all part of my competitive nature.
I was playing a simple game of War Craft 3 with a guy whose screen name was AmndaBynsRlz12. Anyway, I said hello all nice and polite like and he told me to shut up and that he was going to go all micro on me and finish this game up in two seconds.
So I said, "Bring it."
And he said, "Here it comes." And he wasn't just talking trash either, because he rushed me with his Blade Master and killed three of my peasants before I even had a hero up. So then he said, "I am the Gosu Master." And I said, "lol, you are the 'master' master?" (because Gosu is Korean for master).
And he said, "What do you mean?"
And I said, "You're an idiot."
And he said, "Tell it to your peasants," which was really quite clever.
And I said, "Kiss my ass."
And he said, "Hey, watch the language, I'm 9, and my mom won't let me play if you cuss."
And I said, "Oh, sorry."
And he said, "Newb," which really pissed me off.
And I said, "Your mother's a newb." And then I thought of how stupid that sounded so I said, "Except in bed."
And he said, "I don't get it," which was probably true if he was really just 9.
So then I attacked him with my hero and some men and he totally decimated me, and said, "See, I am the micro gosu."
And I said, "You are the micro penis."
And he said, "Stop, my mom could come back any second."
Back at my base I was busy trying to rebuild my army, but I knew he was coming and that I didn't stand a chance. I had two soldiers up when he hit my base with about 20 men. It was a pathetic slaughter. Then he said, "You should find an easier game to play, N00B!"
And I said, "Kiss my ass, you little f-er."
He stopped playing for a few seconds and he wasn't controlling his army. then he said, "My mom's making me quit because you wouldn't stop cussing." Then he disconnected and I got credit for the win.
At first I felt bad for being such a bad example of sportsmanship. But then I realized that win levelled me up, so I thought, "Eat it, AmndaBynsRlz12."
signed
Ps. So anyway, I forgot to write you. Sorry.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Letter 7
Well, I'm on letter number 15 today, and still I haven't heard anything. I'm sure this is mostly because I still have yet to give Adult Swim any kind of easy contact information. They have my full name and my home address, but nothing else; no phone number or e-mail.
Yesterday I was bitching about losing my pens. I'm still mad about that, but today I realized I've lost my coat. Georgia has had very nice weather the past couple of days, so I haven't needed it, but I will need it eventually. I don't know what I might have done with it. Ten bucks says my pens are in my coat pocket.
Note: I accidently put Letter 7 down for Letter 6. I would have fixed it yesterday, but this blog does not have any kind of cut and paste mechanism, so I would have had to have typed the whole thing out again. I'm a bit too lazy for that. So Letter 7 will actually be Letter 6. Enjoy:
LETTER 7:
I have this friend who likes to call me up and pretend ot be a customer with a complaint. I can usually root him out pretty quicly because he is ass-bad at doing voices, but occasionally he does get me. Today he got me and he didn't even try. He didn't even call. Some poor idiot called me with the dumbest "real" voice I have ever heard. Unfortunately for him he had a voice that sounded exactly like my friend acting like a dim wit.
"Michael X, Field Services," I said.
"Yeah," he twanged, "I wanted to kerm-lain about one uh yer offices."
"Ok," I said suspiciously, "Shoot."
"Yeah. See, all I want's a job, right?"
"Yeah?" I said.
"Well, they wouldn't give one to me."
Here I paused. At this point I was still not certain if it was my friend. "Was the job with our company, or was it a job we were trying to fill for another company?"
"Huh?" he said.
"Ok," I said, "Were you qualified for the job?"
"What job?" he asked. I did an audible double-take.
"Was there a specific job you were looking for?" I asked.
"What's that?"
"Sir," I said. "You said the office didn't give you a job. What job did you want?"
"There was one in the paper."
"Was it even listed with our Department?"
"I don't know."
I paused again. At this point I was certain it was my friend. He got me. What a jerk. So I decided to play it off like I'd known the whole time.
"Sir," I said, "What office were you at?"
"I don't remember."
"So you don't remember what office you were at when they wouldn't give you the job you can't remember?"
"S'right."
"Well, sir, it sounds to me like you weren't qualified. You have to have a brain to work for our Department."
"Scuse me? That's damn rude. I know the #$*^ing Commissioner, and @#$ **%&$ #*%^!?<+..."
Turns out he wasn't my friend after all. Oh, and he does know the Commissioner. I could really use a new job.
signed
Yesterday I was bitching about losing my pens. I'm still mad about that, but today I realized I've lost my coat. Georgia has had very nice weather the past couple of days, so I haven't needed it, but I will need it eventually. I don't know what I might have done with it. Ten bucks says my pens are in my coat pocket.
Note: I accidently put Letter 7 down for Letter 6. I would have fixed it yesterday, but this blog does not have any kind of cut and paste mechanism, so I would have had to have typed the whole thing out again. I'm a bit too lazy for that. So Letter 7 will actually be Letter 6. Enjoy:
LETTER 7:
I have this friend who likes to call me up and pretend ot be a customer with a complaint. I can usually root him out pretty quicly because he is ass-bad at doing voices, but occasionally he does get me. Today he got me and he didn't even try. He didn't even call. Some poor idiot called me with the dumbest "real" voice I have ever heard. Unfortunately for him he had a voice that sounded exactly like my friend acting like a dim wit.
"Michael X, Field Services," I said.
"Yeah," he twanged, "I wanted to kerm-lain about one uh yer offices."
"Ok," I said suspiciously, "Shoot."
"Yeah. See, all I want's a job, right?"
"Yeah?" I said.
"Well, they wouldn't give one to me."
Here I paused. At this point I was still not certain if it was my friend. "Was the job with our company, or was it a job we were trying to fill for another company?"
"Huh?" he said.
"Ok," I said, "Were you qualified for the job?"
"What job?" he asked. I did an audible double-take.
"Was there a specific job you were looking for?" I asked.
"What's that?"
"Sir," I said. "You said the office didn't give you a job. What job did you want?"
"There was one in the paper."
"Was it even listed with our Department?"
"I don't know."
I paused again. At this point I was certain it was my friend. He got me. What a jerk. So I decided to play it off like I'd known the whole time.
"Sir," I said, "What office were you at?"
"I don't remember."
"So you don't remember what office you were at when they wouldn't give you the job you can't remember?"
"S'right."
"Well, sir, it sounds to me like you weren't qualified. You have to have a brain to work for our Department."
"Scuse me? That's damn rude. I know the #$*^ing Commissioner, and @#$ **%&$ #*%^!?<+..."
Turns out he wasn't my friend after all. Oh, and he does know the Commissioner. I could really use a new job.
signed
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Letter 6
Before I get started with today's letter I needed to vent. I am frustrated and angry, mostly with myself. See, I like to write with a certain kind of pen. It is a pilot gel writer with fine tip. But apparently these damn pens don't like me because every time I turn around they've disappeared.
I have suspected my colleagues before. I can recall one time in particular, when I was in another office, and my pen went missing. Then, lo and behold, two days later I saw it on my supervisor's desk. I couldn't exactly say, "Give me my pen back you thief," but I wanted to.
So now I'm completely out of pilot pens which means I'm down to my...
Dammit! I just went to see what pens I had left and there are none! All of my pens are gone except my red ones. I can't write these letters in red. ...Sometimes there are not cuss words strong enough.
LETTER 6:
Dear [adult swim],
It was terribly hard to get up this morning. I had a headache, my eyes hurt, and my mouth tasted like wool. and I had this recurring thought that I needed to find a way to make vampire elephants funny. It must have been from a dream I had in my sleep, but I couldn't remember it.
My carpool wasn't going into Atlanta today so I had to take the Gwinnett bus. In the mornings the driver waits for the bus to fill up before he heads out. This can take some time. It makes it hard to stay awake.
In case you didn't know, I'm just your average elephant. And like every elephant I go to elephant clubs on the weekends to drink and have a good time. How I wound up in a Goth club I don't know, but everyone there looked like an elephant vampire. So when she smiled a fangy smile and said, "Do you want to know the love of a real vampire?" I didn't think anything of it.
"Sure," I said, "But let's have a beer first."
"I only drink blood," she said.
"Right," I said and dipped my trunk into my tankard of beer, then sprayed it into my mouth. "So, you read Anne Rice?"
Her beautiful, dark gray skin instantly turned red as she grabbed me by the collar. "I'm a REAL vampire elephant," she said and threw me across the bar. I landed on a table which immediately collapsed under my weight. I was in real trouble. I could see her slinking over to me, baring her fangs.
Suddenly something came crashing through one of the windows. A dark shadow of an elephant rose from the floor. "Lilith," the gravelly voice said, "Your killin' days are over."
"Well, well, Elephant Wolverine," she said calmly, "I will suck that healing factor out of your bones."
"I'll believe it," he said as the blades shout out of his hands, "When I see it."
The two began to fight violently as the music in the background changed from the Cure's "Boys Don't Cry," to Trace Adkins' "Honkytonk Badonkadonk." It was an odd choice for an elephant Goth bar.
I woke up with a start on I-85, as the bus passed William Street. I wiped away the drool and realized there was something in my ear. I reached up and pulled out an ear piece. Slowly I looked over and saw a worse nightmare than the one I had just awakened from. Her lipstick missed her lips by at least an inch. Half her hair was done, the other half was beyond fixing. Her eyes were crusty and uneven, and only one of them had make up on it. "I found this I-pod in the sewer yesterday," she said with breath that smelled like horseradish. "I thought it was only polite to share."
I got off at the next stop. It wasn't my stop and it took me forty minutes to walk to work, but I was seconds away from a full fledged panic attack.
signed
Ps. Can you get herpes in your ear?
Pps. Vampire elephants are funny all on their own.
I have suspected my colleagues before. I can recall one time in particular, when I was in another office, and my pen went missing. Then, lo and behold, two days later I saw it on my supervisor's desk. I couldn't exactly say, "Give me my pen back you thief," but I wanted to.
So now I'm completely out of pilot pens which means I'm down to my...
Dammit! I just went to see what pens I had left and there are none! All of my pens are gone except my red ones. I can't write these letters in red. ...Sometimes there are not cuss words strong enough.
LETTER 6:
Dear [adult swim],
It was terribly hard to get up this morning. I had a headache, my eyes hurt, and my mouth tasted like wool. and I had this recurring thought that I needed to find a way to make vampire elephants funny. It must have been from a dream I had in my sleep, but I couldn't remember it.
My carpool wasn't going into Atlanta today so I had to take the Gwinnett bus. In the mornings the driver waits for the bus to fill up before he heads out. This can take some time. It makes it hard to stay awake.
In case you didn't know, I'm just your average elephant. And like every elephant I go to elephant clubs on the weekends to drink and have a good time. How I wound up in a Goth club I don't know, but everyone there looked like an elephant vampire. So when she smiled a fangy smile and said, "Do you want to know the love of a real vampire?" I didn't think anything of it.
"Sure," I said, "But let's have a beer first."
"I only drink blood," she said.
"Right," I said and dipped my trunk into my tankard of beer, then sprayed it into my mouth. "So, you read Anne Rice?"
Her beautiful, dark gray skin instantly turned red as she grabbed me by the collar. "I'm a REAL vampire elephant," she said and threw me across the bar. I landed on a table which immediately collapsed under my weight. I was in real trouble. I could see her slinking over to me, baring her fangs.
Suddenly something came crashing through one of the windows. A dark shadow of an elephant rose from the floor. "Lilith," the gravelly voice said, "Your killin' days are over."
"Well, well, Elephant Wolverine," she said calmly, "I will suck that healing factor out of your bones."
"I'll believe it," he said as the blades shout out of his hands, "When I see it."
The two began to fight violently as the music in the background changed from the Cure's "Boys Don't Cry," to Trace Adkins' "Honkytonk Badonkadonk." It was an odd choice for an elephant Goth bar.
I woke up with a start on I-85, as the bus passed William Street. I wiped away the drool and realized there was something in my ear. I reached up and pulled out an ear piece. Slowly I looked over and saw a worse nightmare than the one I had just awakened from. Her lipstick missed her lips by at least an inch. Half her hair was done, the other half was beyond fixing. Her eyes were crusty and uneven, and only one of them had make up on it. "I found this I-pod in the sewer yesterday," she said with breath that smelled like horseradish. "I thought it was only polite to share."
I got off at the next stop. It wasn't my stop and it took me forty minutes to walk to work, but I was seconds away from a full fledged panic attack.
signed
Ps. Can you get herpes in your ear?
Pps. Vampire elephants are funny all on their own.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Letter 5
The following letter is not the letter of scandal I just wrote about. I will post that one, but not for a couple more day. In case I did actually send it I don't want it to appear here before they get a chance to read it.
However, there is also an error in Letter 5. It is one I am embarrassed about, and I only just noticed it. Letter 5 was remarkably long and I simply could not get it all to fit on a page neatly. In Letter 5 I talked about how at 4-H camp I took a course called Microwave Magic, which was essentially a cooking course. I didn't want to take it, but I didn't have much of a choice. I arrived late for camp and I got stuck in it. Luckily my friend Kevin was in that class.
Naturally I said all of that in the most clever of ways that would have elicited riotous laughter. However, there was not enough room and I opted to cut it, as it really wasn't integral to the story. This may seem innocuous enough, but in a later letter I forgot that I omitted that scene and I made reference to it. Oops!
If you ever watched the movie Goonies, which was a childhood favorite of mine, you remember at the very end scene on the beach when Data says, "The octopus was very scary." In the theater I laughed it off as him lying to beef up a story that was already fantastic on it's own. Later I found that Spielburg actually had deleted as scene with a dancing octopus. Good call Steve. Still, I think my omission will cause a little more confusion. You'll see when I post that letter. I point it out to you.
LETTER 5:
Dear [adult swim],
It occured to me today that my last letter went out on Sunday, which means it didn't go out at all. In all likelihood yesterday's letter sits in my mailbox waiting for today's letter to join it. Like fraternal twins conceived on different days, except a little less gross to think about.
In fifth grade I went to Rock Eagle for 4-H camp. One day, as I and my friend Kevin waited in line for the putt-putt course, the boy in front of us, who was exceptionally dirty and shirtless, turned around.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," we said back.
"When my brother gets here, he's gonna cut in back of me."
"You mean in front of me," Kevin asked astutely.
"Well, he's cutting behind me, so it's ok."
"Fine," we agreed. "What does he look like."
"You'll recognize him. We're identical twins."
About two minutes later another very dirty kid, this time wearing a completely transparent jersey, came walking up. Aside from the dirt and the matching outty belly button he didn't resemble the first kid at all.
"That's my brother," the first kid said.
"You said he was your identical twin," I reminded him.
"Yeah," the second kid said, "We're fraternal twins."
"You can't be both," Kevin said.
"Why?" one of them asked.
"First of all, you have to look the same to be identical twins. You two don't even look the same age."
"I'm six months older," the shirtless one said.
"How did your mother have you, then have you six months later?" I asked.
"Oh, we don't have the same mother. Our mothers are sisters."
"Oh," Kevin said, thinking he finally understood. "You're cousins."
"No," the shirted one said, "We are fraternal twins. We have the same dad."
"I see," I said, and Kevin and I decided to play basketball instead.
So you see, the Sunday and Monday letters will be like those dirty "fraternal twins." They are stupid and rough, but they have the same daddy.
signed
However, there is also an error in Letter 5. It is one I am embarrassed about, and I only just noticed it. Letter 5 was remarkably long and I simply could not get it all to fit on a page neatly. In Letter 5 I talked about how at 4-H camp I took a course called Microwave Magic, which was essentially a cooking course. I didn't want to take it, but I didn't have much of a choice. I arrived late for camp and I got stuck in it. Luckily my friend Kevin was in that class.
Naturally I said all of that in the most clever of ways that would have elicited riotous laughter. However, there was not enough room and I opted to cut it, as it really wasn't integral to the story. This may seem innocuous enough, but in a later letter I forgot that I omitted that scene and I made reference to it. Oops!
If you ever watched the movie Goonies, which was a childhood favorite of mine, you remember at the very end scene on the beach when Data says, "The octopus was very scary." In the theater I laughed it off as him lying to beef up a story that was already fantastic on it's own. Later I found that Spielburg actually had deleted as scene with a dancing octopus. Good call Steve. Still, I think my omission will cause a little more confusion. You'll see when I post that letter. I point it out to you.
LETTER 5:
Dear [adult swim],
It occured to me today that my last letter went out on Sunday, which means it didn't go out at all. In all likelihood yesterday's letter sits in my mailbox waiting for today's letter to join it. Like fraternal twins conceived on different days, except a little less gross to think about.
In fifth grade I went to Rock Eagle for 4-H camp. One day, as I and my friend Kevin waited in line for the putt-putt course, the boy in front of us, who was exceptionally dirty and shirtless, turned around.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," we said back.
"When my brother gets here, he's gonna cut in back of me."
"You mean in front of me," Kevin asked astutely.
"Well, he's cutting behind me, so it's ok."
"Fine," we agreed. "What does he look like."
"You'll recognize him. We're identical twins."
About two minutes later another very dirty kid, this time wearing a completely transparent jersey, came walking up. Aside from the dirt and the matching outty belly button he didn't resemble the first kid at all.
"That's my brother," the first kid said.
"You said he was your identical twin," I reminded him.
"Yeah," the second kid said, "We're fraternal twins."
"You can't be both," Kevin said.
"Why?" one of them asked.
"First of all, you have to look the same to be identical twins. You two don't even look the same age."
"I'm six months older," the shirtless one said.
"How did your mother have you, then have you six months later?" I asked.
"Oh, we don't have the same mother. Our mothers are sisters."
"Oh," Kevin said, thinking he finally understood. "You're cousins."
"No," the shirted one said, "We are fraternal twins. We have the same dad."
"I see," I said, and Kevin and I decided to play basketball instead.
So you see, the Sunday and Monday letters will be like those dirty "fraternal twins." They are stupid and rough, but they have the same daddy.
signed
Scandal!
This is terrible. I may have goofed badly. I was cleaning my desk off at work and I came across my letter for March 2. It is March 7. I am so aggitated by this I'm borderline neurotic.
There are several possibilities of what this might mean. It could mean that I never sent a letter to [adult swim] on March 2. The idea of this wrenches my stomach because that will put a kink in my semi-well executed plan. Even though I have been mailing my letters late some days, so that I'm sure there are days the people at [adult swim] don't get a letter, I have never missed a day. What I mean by that is that they have received, or so I thought, a letter for each calendar day. Now I cannot be certain they received a letter for March 2.
There is also a possibility that this is one of many drafts that I have written. It does happen that I make an error when hand writing the letters and decide to start over. However, this letter is complete. There are two errors on it, but I cannot remember if those two had been enough to make me want to write the whole letter over again.
The third possibility is that I accidentally sent out the photocopy I was keeping for my journal and in doing so I kept the original.
Still I cannot get out of my head that I did not send a letter at all for that day. It would not be like me. I make a trip to my office's mail box every day. Aaaaaaaaaaagh!
Well, I have resolved to do nothing. I can't. If I did send a different draft or a copy then sending another letter will just look confusing and it will change my MO. I don't want to do that. It is better to not have sent a letter at all for that day and let them think that it got lost in the mail.
Still, it was a very good letter. I really hope they got it. For future reference it was the 8th letter I sent.
There are several possibilities of what this might mean. It could mean that I never sent a letter to [adult swim] on March 2. The idea of this wrenches my stomach because that will put a kink in my semi-well executed plan. Even though I have been mailing my letters late some days, so that I'm sure there are days the people at [adult swim] don't get a letter, I have never missed a day. What I mean by that is that they have received, or so I thought, a letter for each calendar day. Now I cannot be certain they received a letter for March 2.
There is also a possibility that this is one of many drafts that I have written. It does happen that I make an error when hand writing the letters and decide to start over. However, this letter is complete. There are two errors on it, but I cannot remember if those two had been enough to make me want to write the whole letter over again.
The third possibility is that I accidentally sent out the photocopy I was keeping for my journal and in doing so I kept the original.
Still I cannot get out of my head that I did not send a letter at all for that day. It would not be like me. I make a trip to my office's mail box every day. Aaaaaaaaaaagh!
Well, I have resolved to do nothing. I can't. If I did send a different draft or a copy then sending another letter will just look confusing and it will change my MO. I don't want to do that. It is better to not have sent a letter at all for that day and let them think that it got lost in the mail.
Still, it was a very good letter. I really hope they got it. For future reference it was the 8th letter I sent.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Bonus Letter
I actually never sent the following letter. One day last week I was hit with a sudden surge of creativity and I wrote three letters. Now I know these letters are short and hardly qualify as writing, but it is actually kind of hard to condense something funny onto a single page of paper.
On this day I had three separate letters all roughly page length. But one did not get sent. The reason for it was, well, this letter was a little bit political, and a lot insensative. I still thought it was funny, but I accept the idea that some might find the subject matter insensative or mean.
I will let the reader decide. Should I have sent this letter or not? Please feel free to vote by responding and explaining why I am a jerk for even considering this letter, or why I am a puss for not sending it at all.
BONUS LETTER:
Dear [adult swim],
You know, life has gotten pretty hard since I grew up. Things were so much easier when I was a kid, and I think I have figured out the difference. When I was a kid cigarette companies were still pretending that smoking was ok. I'm pretty sure that is the only difference, and it is clearly causing all the problems in the world. I know we are saving lives from cancer, but are they all worth it? And think of all the lives we could save if everyone was allowed to calm down with a cigarette. People are too tense.
Sadly it is hard to unlearn something, especially if it's true, like cigarettes being for you. But I think there is a man who can do the job of making us forget. I propose Karl Rove go to work for the cigarette companies. If anybody can change the nations mind about this product, Karl can.
PRESS CONFERENCE:
Karl: As it turns out, America, cigarettes don't cause cancer.
Reporter 1: But clinical studies show that smoking cigarettes can cause...
Karl: Sure, smoking them can. But who ever said to smoke them?
Reporter 2: Every smoking add ever run has said to smoke them.
Karl: People, don't believe what is obviously true, believe what I tell you.
Reporter 3: If cigarettes aren't for smoking what are they fore?
Karl: They are for collecting. From now on every cigarette will be printed on multi colored designer paper. And each pack will also contain Hero Cards. They are like Baseball Cards, but they show pictures of people who have died of cancer. Collect them all!
Scene: A hot summer day and several kids are gathered around a picnic table at a baseball field. A pile of multi-colored cigarettes sits in the middle of the table as the kids flip through their Hero Cards.
Kid 1: I got Gilda Radner, ovarian cancer.
Kid 2: I got Andy Kaufman, lung cancer.
Kid 3: I got Tom Green, testicular cancer.
Kid 2: Oh please. He died way before he got cancer.
Then walks in a teenager in blue jeans, Converse All Stars, a white T-shirt, and shaggy hair. He picks up a cigarette, lights it and starts smoking.
Kid 3:What are you doing?
Teen: This is what these things are for.
Instantly a hot girl walks up and starts making out with Teen. The kids just stare and the scene cuts to black.
signed
Ps. [let me work for you]
On this day I had three separate letters all roughly page length. But one did not get sent. The reason for it was, well, this letter was a little bit political, and a lot insensative. I still thought it was funny, but I accept the idea that some might find the subject matter insensative or mean.
I will let the reader decide. Should I have sent this letter or not? Please feel free to vote by responding and explaining why I am a jerk for even considering this letter, or why I am a puss for not sending it at all.
BONUS LETTER:
Dear [adult swim],
You know, life has gotten pretty hard since I grew up. Things were so much easier when I was a kid, and I think I have figured out the difference. When I was a kid cigarette companies were still pretending that smoking was ok. I'm pretty sure that is the only difference, and it is clearly causing all the problems in the world. I know we are saving lives from cancer, but are they all worth it? And think of all the lives we could save if everyone was allowed to calm down with a cigarette. People are too tense.
Sadly it is hard to unlearn something, especially if it's true, like cigarettes being for you. But I think there is a man who can do the job of making us forget. I propose Karl Rove go to work for the cigarette companies. If anybody can change the nations mind about this product, Karl can.
PRESS CONFERENCE:
Karl: As it turns out, America, cigarettes don't cause cancer.
Reporter 1: But clinical studies show that smoking cigarettes can cause...
Karl: Sure, smoking them can. But who ever said to smoke them?
Reporter 2: Every smoking add ever run has said to smoke them.
Karl: People, don't believe what is obviously true, believe what I tell you.
Reporter 3: If cigarettes aren't for smoking what are they fore?
Karl: They are for collecting. From now on every cigarette will be printed on multi colored designer paper. And each pack will also contain Hero Cards. They are like Baseball Cards, but they show pictures of people who have died of cancer. Collect them all!
Scene: A hot summer day and several kids are gathered around a picnic table at a baseball field. A pile of multi-colored cigarettes sits in the middle of the table as the kids flip through their Hero Cards.
Kid 1: I got Gilda Radner, ovarian cancer.
Kid 2: I got Andy Kaufman, lung cancer.
Kid 3: I got Tom Green, testicular cancer.
Kid 2: Oh please. He died way before he got cancer.
Then walks in a teenager in blue jeans, Converse All Stars, a white T-shirt, and shaggy hair. He picks up a cigarette, lights it and starts smoking.
Kid 3:
Teen: This is what these things are for.
Instantly a hot girl walks up and starts making out with Teen. The kids just stare and the scene cuts to black.
signed
Ps. [let me work for you]
Letter 4
Ok, I'm sorry that I was slack over the weekend and didn't post a thing. I did nothing at home either, so it was a wash. It was actually quite good for my spirit. I lay in bed and read a bunch, and was totally lazy. This practice is highly underrated.
But I promised a letter a day and as I see it I am at least two behind. Here is one for today and I'll throw in a bonus letter today also.
LETTER 4:
Dear [adult swim],
I was sitting on the couch watching TV last night when out of the corner of my eye I saw a white spider crawl up the cushion. It was in my periphery so it didn't register at first, but it was white and feathery and it moved like a spider up and over the back of the couch.
After about a minute of crawling around it finally crept into my counscious mind. I turned to look at it and it was gone. However, by this time I was certain that it had been there and that it had definitely been a white spider.
I jumped up and ran around to the back of the couch. The spider was gone, but there was a strange hole there. I could hear cheering coming from the hole and when I tried to get closer it sucked me in.
I fell and fell and finally landed on my feet-with an explosion of fireworks-on the main stage at the Omni. I was in way-too-tight, holey blue jeans with a sleeveless blue jean jacket. I had long, feathered hair and I was the lead singer of an 80's hair band.
"Thank you for coming tonight!" I screamed.
A lady in the front row flashed me.
"ATLANTA! Do you wanna ROCK?! My screams were barely audible over the din, and this last question made it worse.
"We are the White Spider, and this is our latest hit [adult swim]! Let's Rock!"
signed
Ps. I think about you sometimes.
But I promised a letter a day and as I see it I am at least two behind. Here is one for today and I'll throw in a bonus letter today also.
LETTER 4:
Dear [adult swim],
I was sitting on the couch watching TV last night when out of the corner of my eye I saw a white spider crawl up the cushion. It was in my periphery so it didn't register at first, but it was white and feathery and it moved like a spider up and over the back of the couch.
After about a minute of crawling around it finally crept into my counscious mind. I turned to look at it and it was gone. However, by this time I was certain that it had been there and that it had definitely been a white spider.
I jumped up and ran around to the back of the couch. The spider was gone, but there was a strange hole there. I could hear cheering coming from the hole and when I tried to get closer it sucked me in.
I fell and fell and finally landed on my feet-with an explosion of fireworks-on the main stage at the Omni. I was in way-too-tight, holey blue jeans with a sleeveless blue jean jacket. I had long, feathered hair and I was the lead singer of an 80's hair band.
"Thank you for coming tonight!" I screamed.
A lady in the front row flashed me.
"ATLANTA! Do you wanna ROCK?! My screams were barely audible over the din, and this last question made it worse.
"We are the White Spider, and this is our latest hit [adult swim]! Let's Rock!"
signed
Ps. I think about you sometimes.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Letter 3
Dear [adult swim],
Last night, on my drive home from work, my dashboard lights flickered. At first I thought it was lightning, but then I realized it was you winking at me electrically. I felt warm and loved. Then I felt kind of icky because I don't know if you're a man or a woman.
I worried about my own sexuality for a mile or two when my car broke down. Then I remembered how badly I need a new job. And then I remembered how you need me to write for you. I could write for you, you could pay me, and I could pay my wife's boyfriend to fix my car.
Hilary Clinton said, 'it takes a village,' but really it only takes a family. A man, a woman, two kids, a boyfriend who can fix cars, Hiram Walker, high speed Internet, a half-assed therapist, a decent baby sitter, a rich-but-tragically-ill uncle, about twenty or thirty other vaguely related people, and [adult swim]. And that only works if the man is a good writer.
signed
Ps. In all honesty I never read "It Takes a Village," so I really don't know what I'm talking about. And I don't have a rich uncle.
Pps. Hiram Walker amaretto is yummy.
Last night, on my drive home from work, my dashboard lights flickered. At first I thought it was lightning, but then I realized it was you winking at me electrically. I felt warm and loved. Then I felt kind of icky because I don't know if you're a man or a woman.
I worried about my own sexuality for a mile or two when my car broke down. Then I remembered how badly I need a new job. And then I remembered how you need me to write for you. I could write for you, you could pay me, and I could pay my wife's boyfriend to fix my car.
Hilary Clinton said, 'it takes a village,' but really it only takes a family. A man, a woman, two kids, a boyfriend who can fix cars, Hiram Walker, high speed Internet, a half-assed therapist, a decent baby sitter, a rich-but-tragically-ill uncle, about twenty or thirty other vaguely related people, and [adult swim]. And that only works if the man is a good writer.
signed
Ps. In all honesty I never read "It Takes a Village," so I really don't know what I'm talking about. And I don't have a rich uncle.
Pps. Hiram Walker amaretto is yummy.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Conflicted (Letter 2)
This whole blog idea is really leaving me rather conflicted. On the one hand I am doing this for posterity. So if the Plan works others will see a good creative way to get a job in writing. If the Plan fails others will see a good creative way to waste some time.
On the other hand, I am doing this, to a degree at least, to entertain; to be funny and to make you laugh. Afterall, if I am the writer I claim to be ought I not be able to tell you what that I have done in a way that is entertaining? Well I certain ought, but I'm afraid I have not.
I have been funny a time or two, but by and large I have been fairly dull. Here I will apologize and content myself on three things: 1. That the beginning of this blog was primarily background and introduction, and that humor may well have distracted from the message; so it's not like I couldn't have been funny had I really wanted to. 2. That nobody is really reading this blog anyway, so I don't get a flying poo if it's funny. And 3. I'm too damn lazy to go back and rewrite any of this crap.
Sadly, 1 and 2 aren't really all that true. However, 3 is so overwhelmingly true that it negates 1 and 2, and any potential 4 and 5 I may think of later.
Well, now I must come to my senses and realize that complaining about how boring my site has been to date is even more boring and fails at fixing anything. Thus, I will shut up now and present the second letter.
LETTER 2:
Dear [adult swim],
After I wrote you yesterday I started to worry that you might have misunderstood what I meant when I said, "You guys need me to write for you." I didn't mean to imply that [adult swim] needed me in order to survive; like food or air. I meant that you need me like you need beer or pizza. You can survive without them, but would you want to?
I know that beer and pizza are fattening, but so is chocolate and you never hear people talking bad about that. Well, you do, but they are still far more critical of beer and pizza. Anyway, if you are worried about my weight I will gladly shave my back. I won't shave my face though. That's what draws the ladies.
Ok, I have to admit that I just got carried away and I lied a little bit. There are no ladies being drawn into the vortex of me. This is mostly due to the copious amounts of back hair. I've been thinking of seeing one of those professional shaving therapists about it. You know the ones who are supposed to be able to tell you your personality disorders based on the way you shave. I saw a cheap version of one in college. She kept telling me my razor burn revealed a sincere self loathing, and my goatee was an obvious attempt at hiding my lack of ambition and motivation. She also told me I was ugly. I wasn't certain enough to confront her on it, but I didn't think that ugly was a personality disorder.
I don't really like to fish. When we win the lottery my friend wants us to buy neighboring mansions and put a pond in between them so we can fish together. That's not really "need to know" information, but I'm writing in pen so I'm kinda screwed for getting rid of it.
I might be fattening, hairy, self loathing, unmotivated, and ugly, but soon you will see that I can write.
signed
On the other hand, I am doing this, to a degree at least, to entertain; to be funny and to make you laugh. Afterall, if I am the writer I claim to be ought I not be able to tell you what that I have done in a way that is entertaining? Well I certain ought, but I'm afraid I have not.
I have been funny a time or two, but by and large I have been fairly dull. Here I will apologize and content myself on three things: 1. That the beginning of this blog was primarily background and introduction, and that humor may well have distracted from the message; so it's not like I couldn't have been funny had I really wanted to. 2. That nobody is really reading this blog anyway, so I don't get a flying poo if it's funny. And 3. I'm too damn lazy to go back and rewrite any of this crap.
Sadly, 1 and 2 aren't really all that true. However, 3 is so overwhelmingly true that it negates 1 and 2, and any potential 4 and 5 I may think of later.
Well, now I must come to my senses and realize that complaining about how boring my site has been to date is even more boring and fails at fixing anything. Thus, I will shut up now and present the second letter.
LETTER 2:
Dear [adult swim],
After I wrote you yesterday I started to worry that you might have misunderstood what I meant when I said, "You guys need me to write for you." I didn't mean to imply that [adult swim] needed me in order to survive; like food or air. I meant that you need me like you need beer or pizza. You can survive without them, but would you want to?
I know that beer and pizza are fattening, but so is chocolate and you never hear people talking bad about that. Well, you do, but they are still far more critical of beer and pizza. Anyway, if you are worried about my weight I will gladly shave my back. I won't shave my face though. That's what draws the ladies.
Ok, I have to admit that I just got carried away and I lied a little bit. There are no ladies being drawn into the vortex of me. This is mostly due to the copious amounts of back hair. I've been thinking of seeing one of those professional shaving therapists about it. You know the ones who are supposed to be able to tell you your personality disorders based on the way you shave. I saw a cheap version of one in college. She kept telling me my razor burn revealed a sincere self loathing, and my goatee was an obvious attempt at hiding my lack of ambition and motivation. She also told me I was ugly. I wasn't certain enough to confront her on it, but I didn't think that ugly was a personality disorder.
I don't really like to fish. When we win the lottery my friend wants us to buy neighboring mansions and put a pond in between them so we can fish together. That's not really "need to know" information, but I'm writing in pen so I'm kinda screwed for getting rid of it.
I might be fattening, hairy, self loathing, unmotivated, and ugly, but soon you will see that I can write.
signed
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Pen pains.
I decided to write all the letters by hand. I thought this gave the overall work a human touch. And since I am human I thought this was a good idea.
Well, it turns out it's not. Being that I am human I make mistakes. I make approximately 6 mistakes for every 7 attempted letters, and that's if I'm paying very close attention. What does that mean? It means I screw up each letter and have to start over an average of 7 times before I finally get a finished product I feel comfortable sending.
Oh, and my screw ups usually come in the last bloody sentence of the letter. I am so tired today that I actually fell asleep while I was writing. I made 3 errors on the letter. The first two I ignored, hoping that there would be no further errors and I could let them slide. But there were. And now I have to write this blasted letter again. This will make time number 4!
Another problem with writing is my script is decidedly larger than type face. So what I can fit on a single page typed I cannot easily fit onto a single sheet written. The problem with that is I don't want to send two page letters. I'm already taking a huge leap of faith in hoping these letters even get read. If I start sending multiple pages with teenie tiny writing on them, they're gonna get tossed in the trash.
So I have to take great pains to write very neat and very slowly. But I also have to stay awake. In the end it will be worth it because I will have a cool job. So, here comes attempt number 5.
Well, it turns out it's not. Being that I am human I make mistakes. I make approximately 6 mistakes for every 7 attempted letters, and that's if I'm paying very close attention. What does that mean? It means I screw up each letter and have to start over an average of 7 times before I finally get a finished product I feel comfortable sending.
Oh, and my screw ups usually come in the last bloody sentence of the letter. I am so tired today that I actually fell asleep while I was writing. I made 3 errors on the letter. The first two I ignored, hoping that there would be no further errors and I could let them slide. But there were. And now I have to write this blasted letter again. This will make time number 4!
Another problem with writing is my script is decidedly larger than type face. So what I can fit on a single page typed I cannot easily fit onto a single sheet written. The problem with that is I don't want to send two page letters. I'm already taking a huge leap of faith in hoping these letters even get read. If I start sending multiple pages with teenie tiny writing on them, they're gonna get tossed in the trash.
So I have to take great pains to write very neat and very slowly. But I also have to stay awake. In the end it will be worth it because I will have a cool job. So, here comes attempt number 5.
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