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

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