Don't go to Rome! And don't, absolutely don't make Homemade Root Beer.

Acutally, I mean Rome, Georgia. I had to drive there this morning for a training I was assisting in. The training was pretty boring. My part essentially is to click the mouse button every couple of minutes when it's time to advance the Power Point presentation. I do have to answer questions once in while, on the rare occasion that I actually know something that the presenter doesn't, which isn't often.

Anyway, I'm not suggesting that you not go to Rome because I was bored during training. If that were the case then I'd have to suggest you not go to just about every major city in Georgia, and I like Georgia. No, I think you should avoid Rome because the civil engineers that designed the roads were clearly demented. They were deranged and they took deranged pleasure in five way intersections, and three way intersections, and roads that turn off into no where.

And so you know, should you ever decide to go to Rome, against my instructions, Highway 411 is ubiquitous. It does not go straight and it does not follow any pattern of logic. Even on Map Quest it forks like 4 times. But Map Quest is outdated. 411 has metasticized. I turned off of Interstate 75 and onto what I think was State Road 20. Shortly thereafter I saw the sign to exit right onto 411, the road I thought I wanted, and under that was the word: ROME. I took it. But where Map Quest said it went straight it curved, and where Map Quest said it curved it went straight. And where Map Quest said it would take me within one turn of my destination 411 decided it would take me within one turn of my sanity. After I was on 411 for about ten minutes I saw another exit for ROME, but it also had the street name 411 under it. This is not unusual for the south, as we tend to develope around old rural road systems and old roads get chopped up and twisted. But even I, having lived in the south my whole life, could not explain this road. I exited off of it three more times, each time exiting back onto a road by the same name. Then, on my way home, I took a different route so as to avoid the confusion of 411. I hadn't been driving for five minutes when I was on 411 again.

But don't let me give you the idea that 411 was the only odd road out there. I actually went down one road that looked like a two lane divided highway. It looked like that because that's what it was. So I'm driving in the left lane on the right side of the divide when all of a sudden, honest to God, out of nowhere, a double yellow line appears on my right. I'm suddenly driving down the wrong lane! I look ahead and see a car coming. Naturally I moved over to the right lane-I was never in any danger as the road was not heavily traveled-and I looked to the left side of the divide and saw a tiny "road closed" sign. Well that would have been a bit more helpful when the road actually divided!

I arrived in Rome at 7:45am, and I had to be at my training at 8:30am. I walked through the doors of the training room at 8:45. It took me a full hour to finally find my way through the maze of roads.

And don't think that the locals understand it either. As best I can tell they have resigned themselves to living in Dante's Highway Inferno. After I had been in the city for a half hour without any reasonable sign of the street I needed I pulled over and asked for directions. I went into a temp agency because I assumed that the people that worked there would be relatively familiar with the area. I walked right in and told the lady that I was late for a meeting, and did she know where this building was and how I could get there. And she said with narry a sign of confidence:

"Um... heh heh... I know where it is... it's... well... you want to take... you know this light right out there... take a left on it... perhaps I need to draw you a map... well... that might not help... see, you want to take a left out there... do you have any paper... take a left at the light then at the next light a right... and then... well... after you take a right you're gonna go for a while... and then... maybe I should just draw the map... do you know where the Braves stadium is... take a left at this light right out here... take a right at the next one... then you go until you see a new apartment complex high on a hill... take a left at the light just before that... then you go for a while and you will see the Braves stadium on your right and a Fuddruckers on your left... it's right there."

Believe it or not that seemed pretty easy for me. After I filtered out all of the crap it seemed there were only three turns. I could remember that. And for added measure, the guy in the office with us nodded and said, "Yep."

I followed their directions. I even knew where to turn when I saw the apartments atop the hill. Then I came to a Braves stadium, which must be a minor league stadium or perhaps an exhibition field for the major league team, and across the street was the Fuddruckers. But what was missing?

Everything! There was nothing there! There was an empty field by the stadium which was clearly set aside for parking, and beside the Fuddruckers was a forest. On the only other street corner stood a vacant building with a For Rent sign on it. I drove down three possible paths before finally finding the office which was a good half mile from Fuddruckers.

DON'T GO TO ROME.

And if you are ever considering trying to brew your own Root Beer... DON'T.

I found this little website that offers a very easy recipe for Root Beer, and so I thought I would try it. It seems uber-easy. Take a 2 liter bottle. Pour in a cup of sugar. Pour in 1/8 teaspoon of yeast. Pour in a tablespoon of Root Beer Extract. Then pour in water. Swirl around until dissolved. Fill bottle to within 1 inch of top with tap water, tightly put the cap on, and set in a warm, dry place for two to three days. After that refrigerate for at least 24 hours and serve.

Well I couldn't find Root Beer Extract anywhere. What I did find was butterscotch extract. So I gave it a whirl. I don't see how it would have made a difference. It seems to me the only thing I did was alter the flavor. Nothing more.

Well maybe I'm wrong, but Dear God, don't try this at home kids! This evening, after braving the streets of Rome, I pulled safely into my driveway craving a yummy carbonated Butterscotch soda. I twisted open the top and it fizzed to life. I was excited. I poured a glass and it fizzed a bit less than I had hoped, but it did fizz. Then I put my nose up to the rim of the glass and wiffed what can only be described as liquid hell. It was bilious. It smelled like vomit on the rocks. But I was determined to give it a shot. I mean, what if it tasted better than it smelled?

Yay! It did taste better than it smelled! It did not taste good, but it tasted better. I think the best discription of it is Rotten Oranges. Moldy rotten oranges. I poured it out. I couldn't even bring myself to swallow a single swallow. Oh Lord, please let me not have poisoned myself.

fall

Autumn, for me, is a time of great progress and looming depression. The long and bleak winter that follows Christmas is such a drag on my light dependant body that I really do get down sometimes. Sadly, more than once in the past, this eminent cold induced funk has been so clear and anticipated by me that it has sullied what should have been the mirthful time of Thanksgiving and Christmas; kind of like wasting Friday, Saturday and Sunday mourning the fact that Monday is coming. Finally, in 2004 I actually saw a therapist about it, at my wife's behest. But, as soon as spring returned and my spirits lifted I realized that my Therapist was a nutter himself and I quit going.

The good news is that during this time I am usually fairly prolific. The bad news is it will come in great spurts with long periods of me wallowing in self pity. I hope to spare you from the latter. Another point of bad news is that most of my creativity, in the fall, is poured into music. I have yet to figure out how to subject you readers, who don't exist, to my music. Some blogs allow you to post your music. Alas, blogger does not yet. I have considered opening another such blog and linking the two, but that would require a great deal of work that I'm not certain I have in me. But I digress.

Acutally, I don't recall what I was going to say. I only know it was going to be clever, and histerically funny. But I got off on this stupid tangent about me getting depressed in the winter, which was said to lead up to a really good joke, but now I have forgotten the joke that the whole prelude preluded to.

I hate winter.

Fall is ok. Much reder and yellower and organger.

Winter blows.

Fart

I farted.

It smells pretty bad too.

Thank God nobody comes to this blog, otherwise I'd be pretty embarrassed. People would be talking about how my blog stinks, and how I need to open a window or something.

And I say, "This is a blog n00b. There are no windows."

And they'd be all like, "Well you got the fart smell in here somehow. So get some damn windows in here."

And I'd be like, "Hold your breath if you can't take it."

And they'd say, "Fine."

And I'd say, "Good."

And they say, "[holding... holding... holding... gasp... deap breath] OMG!"

And I'd be like, "LOL."

And they'd be like, "ROFL."

And we'd laugh because it smelled so bad.

And then someone would say, "Man, my whole office stinks now. You need a disclaimer on this blog."

And my new friend, the one who said OMG and ROFL, would be like, "Kiss it. His butt just totally PWNED you." And I'd have a new friend for once.

Letter 5

Dear [adult swim],

I am worried that my last letter might have given you the impression that Sugar is only motivated by money. It would be unfair for you think such a thing without knowing him for a lot longer. Perhaps at the end of this letter you will better understand his complex personality. I still don't understand the bastard and he's been one of my dearest friends since high school.

CONTINUATION:

Sugar knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd toss the dead lady in one of his meat freezers and he'd toss the million in a high yield, low risk bank account. When the husband finally came looking for him Sugar would express his deepest condolences for failing to resuscitate her, then offer to pay back the full million. Hopefully the kind man, seeing that sugar had given his very best, and being distraught at his loss, would rebuke the money and insist that Sugar keep it. But if he did take it back Sugar would still have the interest it had accrued, which, depending on how long it took the poor whelp to find Sugar, could be enough for a nice vacation home.

Sugar had it planned perfectly; where to put the money and where to put the body, but as any married man knows, there is no plan, no matter how sublime, that a good wife can't totally cock up.

Sugar drove along, happy as a clam, day dreaming about where his summer home might be. He hummed and giggled, and allowed his heart to race just a little bit. Then as he pulled into his driveway his wife came walking out the front door-arms folded, face red as the very devil-and Sugar felt his heart stop dead, then drop straight into his designer pants.

"Where have you been?" she asked in a voice that cannot adequately be described as angry.

Sugar had no idea what to say. He wasn't entirely certain how long he'd been gone. He only knew that his heart hadn't started beating again, and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. "John asked me to pull a double-shift," he said.
"A DOUBLE...!" she shouted. "You've been gone for TEN days."
"Ten?" he said, more to himself. "Wow. That's... impressive."
"Impressive?"
"Well," he stammered. "I mean, I seriously must have lost track of time."
"You lost track of ten days? How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe any thing you say to me now?" At this point Sugar's wife had calmed down to being furious. Sad and angry tears rolled down her face.
"I don't know what to say, sweetheart," he said. "I should have called."
"You should have called?" she yelled. "And said what? 'Hunny, I'll be staying at work for the next ten days. Don't wait up.' Do you think I'd have believed you?"
"I..."
"No," Hunny interrupted, "You've been with a woman."
"I have not."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"What?"
"How long have you been planning this get away? Are there suitcases in the trunk?"
"What? No!"
"Then let me see," she said. "If you want me to even begin to believe that anything you have told me is true, open the trunk."

Sugar's eyes widened and his body went cold. He would never be able to explain a dead woman with a knife in her tit. His wife would call the cops. He'd be divorced and in jail before nightfall. He didn't even know the husband's name. There'd be no one to confirm his story.

His hands started to sweat. "I won the lottery."
There was a pause as his wife stared at him open mouthed. "What?" she said, as though she honestly had not heard him.
"I won the lottery," he said and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. He thrust it out and she instinctively took the loot. "There's more in the car. It's a million all told."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I," he said.
"We won the lottery?" she said, growing excited.
"I could hardly believe it myself," he said smiling. "I was so dumbfounded I drove around in a daze. I only came to my senses today."
"Well why didn't you say so?" Hunny cooed.
"Well," Sugar said, "I didn't want us to go crazy and spend it all. I think we should just put it in a savings account and sit on it for a while. We'll have fun with the interest."
"Like Hell," she said. "You're taking me on vacation. As it happens I have my bags packed. I was getting ready to go to Mother's. I'll go get them and you can show me what's in the trunk."

She ran inside and in a flash Sugar opened the trunk and pulled out Ambrosia's corpse. He flung her over his shoulder and ran to the side of the house. There he tossed her on the ground and looked in the side window. His wife was almost to the front door. Quickly he kicked leaves over the body and threw a few fire logs on top. Then he ran to the door in time to help his wife with her bags.

"Hunny, don't you think we should make some plans and reservations before we..."
"No," she said in a cold, deep voice. "You owe me a vacation. I'm thinking at least eleven days. Don't you think?"
"Yes dear," he said. I wasn't there when this happened, but to this day when he tells this part his shoulders sink and he gives a deep sigh.

On their way out of town Sugar convinced Hunny to stop at a used bookstore to spend some of their new money on some light reading for the trip. She got a romantic novel and a travel guide to Florida. Sugar got Advanced Cybernetic Robotics, Alchemy and Your Body, and How to Raise Your Dead Lover After Weeks of Rotting Outside Your Home While You Were Away in Florida. They really were some lucky finds.

Michael
September 8, 2006

Ps. The white pouring from Ambrosia's breast in the picture is not supposed to be milk. I had kicked around the idea of milk spewing forth, or of Ambrosia "milking" to death, but that really seemed to reduce this tragic story to something less than serious and quite apart from the truth, which this totally is.

No, the white is my artistic rendering of the blood pouring from Ambrosia's wound. Red didn't work because it was too fake looking. Everyone knows that the blood would seep into the green shirt and the colors would mix, not to mention that after an hour or two in the car the blood would have dried to a deep brown or black. But every time I tried to draw the blood as brown or black it looked equally unrealistic, and like I was too stupid to realize blood was, afterall, red. So it's white. If you don't like it... eat it.

Pps. I probably shouldn't say "eat it" to someone, or something, that I would like to consider me for a job. However, I also know that this letter will not likely go to a hiring manager. If it is even read before it gets thrown away it will be read by an inturn or a paid lackey. Bearing that in mind... If you don't like the white blood you can Super Eat It!

new pic for the fans

Ok, since I slacked off and didn't have a letter for you this week, I thought it was only fair to give you a picture.

This idea came to me as I was falling asleep Tuesday night.

Yes, I am a fantasy dork. You know you are too.

new toothbrush

My wife got me a new toothbrush last night. She does this pretty frequently, so it isn't like I've been hanging on to my childhood brush, still, last night was a bit different. Normally she gets me these standard shaped brushes with the diamond shaped head and the angled neck, and with straight, uniform bristles. But this morning I had to brush my teeth with one of these new brushes where the bristles point in every direction, and some are shorter than others, and some are fatter "to massage the gums." And I started to think that this brush, which probably cost several tens of thousands of dollars to develope, and cost me about twice or more what a standard brush would cost, is all the fault of you lazy ass people, and will probably not work on me.

I don't have the healthiest mouth in the world, but neither are my teeth falling out. I'd say I'm probably the average mouth a dentist sees. I grew up being told by dentists and dental hygienists that the best way to brush your teeth was to brush up and down on the tooth, not side to side. They said that when you brush side to side the bristles cannot get down into the crevaces of the teeth and plaque can build up there. They said this is the most common problem people have with their teeth because they will not learn to brush right. The only way to prevent that from happening is to brush up and down. So I, being the duteous person that I am, made a habit to brush up and down. It takes me a bit longer to brush my teeth than the average person I guess, but my teeth feel clean and dentists tell me I'm a good brusher. Or at least I was.

Now they have these new fangled brushes, and yes, I know they are not all that knew. The first of these brush innovation I noticed was about ten to fifteen years ago when they angled the neck to fit in your mouth better. Then they ridged the bristles to get between the teeth better, and then they angled them, and then they made some fatter to massage... And it's really gotten so out of hand that I'm not sure how to use the brush. I mean all of this is really just because you people are too lazy to brush up and down. They make these new designs to compensate for side to side brushers; so that when you brush side to side, the wrong way, the bristles get that extra plaque. They even have electric tooth brushes for people who are too damn lazy to even move their hands. Just stick the brush in your mouth, turn the brush on, wait for ten seconds and pull the brush out. Don't wait too long or the brush will desintigrate your teeth. But it is all because people don't brush up and down, like their dentists always tell them too!

Please don't get me wrong. I love technology and innovation; anything that can make a task easier, or shorter; or anything that can make it cheaper or better. Hell, I'd be happy if they could find a way that we didn't have to brush at all (short of getting dentures). So I don't mind these new brushes, I'm just confused. Do I need to brush up and down, like I've always been told? Or should I brush side to side like the lazy masses? Because I look at this brush, the way the bristles are angled, and I think of the commercial where it shows the brush moving side to side and wiping away plaque like it was magic, and I wonder: Do these brushes even work if you brush correctly?

Hey you.

If you were to hear a person shout down an alley, or across a parking lot, "Hey you!" You'd probably think something bad was about to happen. I know I would. I might even be tempted to pretend I didn't hear the sound, or that the yeller was calling for anyone but me. It's just an aggressive phrase when shouted. So easily replaced by the less aggressive, "Hey, Mr." or, "Dude," that when I hear it I assume the person calling is wanting to mince words. And mincing words usually winds up with a fist in the eye. Usually their fist in my eye.

But the phrase isn't always aggressive. If it is not shouted it can be quite sweet. Said just right it can be down right provocative. Here is a scene to imagine:

You are single and in college. You are in a department store, shopping for Christmas presents that your lazy friends probably don't deserve, when you back up into someone. You immediately turn around and you see that hot girl from class. You know, the one that's always looking at you. The one that sits two seats away from you, and whenever someone arrives late to class she always says, "Here, take my seat," and scoots to the seat next to yours. The girl that you find yourself thinking about when you are alone in your apartment eating Ramen Noodles and watching Star Trek reruns, wishing for some reason that you were back in class. Anyway, you turn around to say, "Excuse me," and it's that girl. And instead of excuse me you say nothing. Then she puts her hand on your shoulder in a gentle, I'm your friend, but perhaps I want to be more, kind of way and says, "Hey, you."

See, "Hey, you" can be very sweet. Imagine that "hey you" in this scenario, which, incidentally, I was just in:

You are totally a guy. You are walking down the hall to the elevators and you see a guy turn the corner. You recognize him as the guy that works in the office down the hall, who is always nicely dress, shirts pressed, colors coordinated, coiffure properly maintained and clean. You make eye contact as you pass and he says, "Hey, you," in that sweet, aforementioned way. Only you are a guy and heterosexual.

So what, my readers, is that supposed to mean?

crap

So many things fit in the category of CRAP lately. Not the least of which is the most recent picture I sent to [adult swim]. In fact, the reason my follow up letter has been so late in coming is because I was so late in sending it, mostly because I simply was not satisified with the quality. The letter itself is fine, but the picture is half assed and I kept trying to make it better. For that reason I am working on a picture to submit to just you, my devoted blog readers, for you to stare at and enjoy and download to use as wall paper.

Shit. Now that I've built it up I'm going to have to spend a bit more time on it. I'll probably have it ready by Christmas.

I have called around to colleges to see what their rates are for their Animation programs. The trick is I need to take any and all classes I might possibly take at night or on-line. I cannot just quit my job, though I wish I could.

So, when in Georgia the first school you contact for an artistic degree is SCAD, right? Savannah College of Art and Design. And their Atlanta campus does have animation classes. And, as luck would have it, you can take their classes one at a time to ease the burden on your pocket book.

Well, one class at SCAD is a mere $2500.00. I know that most people out there are looking at that number and saying, "That sounds about right," but if you did one of these things:

burst into laughter,
crapped in your pants,
wept uncontrollably at the poor financial decisions you have made thus far in your life,
rubbed your eyes to see if your vision wasn't blurry,
assumed I was mistaken, OR
all of these things

then you are probably in a similar financial situation as I, and therefore will not be attending SCAD.

So then I contacted Westwood, which seems like a decent on-line school. They do offer an animation program and they do have a good deal of benefits they offer their students and alumni. If I could afford it I would probably go there. They are a bit cheaper than AIU. Still, a single term, not including books and software, is $3500.00. That's for three classes, so it's a fair sight cheaper than SCAB. Still, it is too much.

So I will not be enrolling in any animation programs in the near future. I will have to content myself with self-teaching by reading poorly written animation How To guides that offer very little insight and instruction, and spend most of their pages reminescing or boasting about the good old days of animation.

You are probably thinking, "Michael, you are a writer, not an animator. Why waste your time?"

To that I have this amazing rebuttal, "I don't know."

What I do know is my ears have kicked up their production of unruly ear hairs. And that is also CRAP.

Freezing my black ass off.

Ok, I'm not black, and therefore, neither is my ass. So I can't technically freeze my black ass off. But if my father, whom I carpool with, doesn't turn the thermostat up my ass will turn blue. Then I will probably get frostbite and my ass will turn black. Then it will fall off.

So I might not be freezing my black ass off yet, but it is coming.

So there I am, in my father's Explorer on the way into work, and it is snowing. At one point I had to actually scrape the inside of the windshield so we could see. All the while my dad is getting fired up about politics and all of his reasons why gays should be allowed in the clergy, and all I can think of is that I have died and I am in the fourth level of hell, and I would do penance to any minister, straight or queer as a three dollar bill, if it would save me from the cold. I was inside yet I was in imminent danger of dying from exposure.

I tried to occupy my mind by looking at the cars outside. Occasionally you see one with a clever bumper sticker, or some interesting graffiti, or with a really hot babe inside. For the most part I have seen them all. They are the same people I drive into work with every day. There is the ugly yellow truck that has had a For Sale sign in the window for over a year. There is the gold Prius and the minty green Prius, which get excellent milage, and which I would totally buy if I could afford it. There are scores of "W" stickers and a growing number of anti "W" stickers. And there are ladder trucks gallore.

But today I caught a quick glimpse of the most curious little car. At first I thought it was a joke. Then I wasn't so convinced. Now I am certain it must have been a joke. In all liklihood I misread what I saw, or I imagined the whole thing, but I honestly thought I saw it.

Have you seen the Honda Prelude? and how "PRELUDE" is spelled out along the back of the car? Well I saw a car, looking a lot like a Honda Accord, but perhaps a bit different, with a nice shiney paint job and some tricked out wheels, and perhaps another or two upgrades, with the Honda H on the back. And in the style of the Prelude was the word F A L L U S written across the back as though it were the name of the car.

It must be a new car line, I presumed. So I thought of a tag line for their opening run:

The Honda Fallus; for middle class men who know they are compensating, and they are ok with that.

The thought made me laugh a little bit, just before I froze to death.

Confound it!

I screwed up. Sort of. Well, though it was probably all my fault I'm sure I could push the blame off on a number of other people, most notably Andrea. Andrea, for those of you who don't read the replies to my posts, is one of the receptionist/clerical workers/secretaries in my office, which is not actually my office, but the office of my boss. I am just one of the cogs in this wheel. So Andrea is not MY secretary. But she does do some things for me like putting Rs, Ns and Js on reports that have very little meaning to anyone at all, giving me a bunch of lip, providing me with an exhorbitant amount of empty calories through her candy dish, and, most importantly, scanning my middle school quality drawings into the computer.

So my error of the day is all Andrea's fault. I finished my drawing for last weeks letter and Andrea scanned it on Friday. It looked kind of washed out, but they always do on my work computer, so I assumed it was fine. Well, when I got home I found that it was equally washed out on my home computer, and therefore horrible. So I got out the paints and tried to make some of the color pencil colors more vivid. Well, I wound up totally screwing up the picture so I had to re-color the whole thing and now it needs to be scanned into the computer again.

So where is Andrea's fault in all of this. She isn't here today. The nerve! And just last week she told me she never gets sick. I guess she meant, "I never get sick except for next Monday." She's totally faking it.

Now because of her I cannot send this letter out which is already a couple of days late. I'll never get a job in writing and she is to blame. Everyone blame Andrea.

Oh, and in writing this complaint about her she has made me late for the staff meeting which started five minutes ago. Totally her fault as well.

Dammit.

whistler

Remember those old Disney movies, or 50s and 60s era films, where one of the characters or actors would spontaneously start whistling? Didn't it always sound so pretty? They had dead on pitch, a pretty little trills, and appropriate vibrato. Birds would fly around and everyone near by would stop and listen. Sunlight would break through the clouds and little Timmy's cancer would disappear.

Ahhhh.

Why isn't it like that in reality when people whistle? There is a guy in my office who thinks he can whistle. He whistles Mozart and church hymns and disco music. His pitch is iffy and he slides from note to note with little-to-no discernable dynamics or accents. It's not bad, I suppose, but it's not good. I guess I admire his self confidence, but man...

I can whistle ok. I have a friend who can also whistle. I know he is decent and he has told me I am, though he may be lying, and we both have had musical training. Still, I would not say we are anything like the whistlers of those old movies. No where near. And I would never consider going Pro Whistler.

Perhaps it's a lost art. Nobody really gives a crap about whistling anymore. It was probably already on the way out back in the black and white movie era. Bing Crosby himself probably couldn't whistle. I bet he never learned how; his lips were too dry or his tongue was too fat. Who knows? I bet he doesn't even whistle the part in White Christmas. I bet he had a whistling double do it. And I bet it was some pimpley-faced fat kid who couldn't whistle himself up a date if tried. He probably got $10 for his work.

No, whistling was probably already dead back then. It was well on the way out in late 1800s. Look at the painting Whistler's Mother. She looks bored out of her mind, and she's his mother. I mean, if you can't keep your mother smiling while you whistle then you really suck.

My theory is that the silent movies killed whistling as a respectable art. I bet some industrious silent film maker wrote a whole string of screen plays for the whistler. They had this Detective Whistler who would solve crimes by whistling to the suspects until the beauty of his music made the guilty confess. Only because the films were silent they just had scene after scene of this dork with his lips pursed together in a whistle formation while his eyebrows rose and fell emotively. So then this movie producer sunk all of his money into these films and he never did figure out why his studio went belly up and he died a poor man.

That producer is probably me but with whistling instead of writing.

Letter 4

Dear [adult swim],

My friend came up to me yesterday and asked if it was true that you and I had a correspondence, and if so, why hadn't I mentioned it. He seemed to think that I was keeping it a secret so that he wouldn't butt in and totally embarrass me, which is of course 100% true.

Apparently it is getting around that you and I "talk." Now my friends are all like, "Tell [adult swim] about me, but make me sound cool," and, "Wow, that [adult swim] is totally hot. Can you introduce me?" and, "[adult swim] owes me 18 bucks for walking out on a bar tab."

I've tried to explain to all of them that a "correspondence" is when two people write to each other, back and forth, and is generally regarded as "healthy." What you and I have, or more correctly, what I have, is better defined as "making a nuisance of myself," and is generally considered to be pathetic.

So I explain this to my friend and he says, "Well, the next time you're making a nuisance of yourself tell [adult swim] about me.

Here is his story:

My friend, whose name is Sugar, is kinda smart. In knowing that he's kinda smart he thought it would be wise to go into medicine to learn how to help people and to make shitloads of cash.

One day, ere his graduation was approaching, an incredibly gorgeous woman came up to him in a parking lot. "Aren't I totally hot?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"My name is Ambrosia," she said as a tear escaped and ran down her face, "And you will make wonderful love to me now."
"But I'm married," Sugar said.

Without making any counter argument Ambrosia tore open her shirt to reveal the two most perfect boobs the Lord ever created. Sugar was hypnotized. With the gravity of a collapsed neutron star Sugar's face was pulled into her cleavage.

They made wonderful love for ten days. In that time Sugar had two heart attacks that almost spoiled the moment, but thanks to his medical training he was able to perform CPR on himself and continue fulfilling Ambrosia's desire.

On the tenth day Ambrosia said, "We are finished." Then she stood up and put her clothes back on.
"But why?" Sugar asked. To this he received no answer.
"Tell my husband," she said as she pulled out a knife, "That I love him." Then she stabbed herself in the boob and died.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" a voice howled like a wolf in the distance. At first Sugar thought he had made the sound. Then he realized he was naked in a parking lot and had been for ten days.

As he began to dress he heard a sound like a man running, crying, and growling at the same time. Sugar leisurely buttoned his shirt and wondered how stabbing herself in the boob had actually caused Ambrosia to perish. As he went to tuck in his shirt he realized that he still wasn't wearing any pants and that a crazed bald man was clearly running in his general direction.

"No, no, no, no, no," said the man as he jumped down next to her and picked her head up into his arms. "No, my Ambrosia, you cannot be dead."

Sugar watched this peculiar little man curiously and began to button his shirt again before he realized it was already buttoned. Then he remembered he was not wearing any pants. He looked around the lot where his car was. Then he found them. His pants were under the dead body of his ten day lover.

"Oh why?" the little man moaned. "Why, my ever-faithful, always true Ambrosia; why did you die?"
"Excuse me," Sugar said.
"Whu?" the man said, starttled. "Oh, I didn't see you there, sir. Forgive me, for my love, my wife, has died, here in this parking lot, that smells pretty bad, like adults that have not showered."
"Not a problem," Sugar said. "Could you move the lady? She's lying on my pants."
"What?" he said, looking at the pants beneath her. "How did that happen?"
"No idea," Sugar said as he pulled the pants free from under her.
"And why are you not wearing these pants?" the man asked.

Sugar paused. His eyes widened. Now was his opportunity to confess; to bear his conscience clean; to tell the horrible truth. "They fell off," Sugar said. "Yeah, I was over there, in that parking lot on the other side of the lake, when they just dropped right off."

The husband looked perplexed. "Then the wind picked them up," Sugar continued, "And they flew all the way over here. They must have landed on the ground right before your hot wife died."
"What about your underwear?" the man asked. "Did they fall off too?"
"Oh," Sugar said, looking down. "Yes, they did. They should be around here somewhere."

They searched around for a few moments. "Here they are," the husband said, "In my wife's front pocket."
"Oh," Sugar said with a nervous laugh. "She must've seen them on the ground and picked them up. You know, to keep the parking lot clean."

Sugar unrolled the underwear and found a pair of women's panties bundled within. "I believe these are hers," Sugar said, handing the panties to the man. "Lace makes me itch."

The man was nonplussed. He looked at Sugar, who was only just making himself decent with underwear. He looked at the wad of red, lace panties in his hand. He looked at his clothed, but very dead wife.

"Sir," he said imploringly to Sugar, giant tears streaming from his eyes, "Can you please help me to understand what has happened here?"
Sugar pulled his belt tight and fastened it. Then he looked at the man. "Well, it looks like your wife died. That's my medical opinion."
"You're a doctor?" the man said. "Can you please save her?"
"Well, I'm not exactly a doctor," Sugar said. "I'm a nurse practitioner. We're the wave of the future. Doctors are so uncaring and insensitive. Not to mention expensive. A nurse practitioner can do just about anything a doctor can do, and we care."
"I'll give you a billion dollars if you save my wife," the man said.
"I'm sure I can do something," Sugar said and knelt down beside the man and the dead Ambrosia. He put his fingers to her throat to find a pulse. He looked at her eyes for dilation. Finally he jiggled the knife sticking out of her breast.
"A billion dollars, huh?" Sugar asked.
"Yes, only if you can save her."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure I can save her," he said, "But it may take some time."
"Take all the time you need," the man said with sudden hope.
"Yeah, well, I'll have to work round the clock. Can I get an advance on that billion?"
"Is one million dollars sufficient?"
"Hmmm," Sugar pondered, "It's a good start. Of course, I'll need to take the body back to my house so I can work on her."
"Oh," the little man sounded disheartened. "I don't like being separated from her."
"Well, I can't do my job with you leering over my shoulder. Do you want me to save your wife or not?"

Twenty minutes later Sugar was driving home, whistling a jaunty tune with a million dollars in his pocket and a dead bombshell in his trunk.

signed
August 25, 2006

Ps. I had to stop the story prematurely. It was getting way too long for my sloppy handwriting. I should be able to finish the story of Sugar in the next letter... or two.

career

So you know, I am totally over this job. Why I didn't get a job in nuclear engineering like the ASVAB said I should, I will never know. What's the point in getting a 1600 on the SAT if you aren't going to make some money right?

Ok, there are some lies in that last paragraph. But the first sentence was all true. I did not get a perfect score on the SAT and I never took the ASVAB. I abstained from the ASVAB because I didn't want the military propaganda machine to try to pidgeon-hole me into a career that they could manipulate into enlistment in the service.

Just kidding. I never took the ASVAB because I was a band geek and I was off doing band geek things. I think I was trying out for All State Band. I never made it. I did make All State Chorus. Maybe if I had taken the ASVAB and Big Brother had given me some advice on what to do with my life I'd be in a better place right now. But I suppose it could just as easily be worse.

I wonder if the ASVAB would have told me to be a writer. When I was in high school I almost never wrote. And then when I did it was never serious material like now. It was always silly nonsense. I never would have chosen writing as career for myself back then. Then again, I'd have never chosen a career in state government for myself back then either. The difference is, I wouldn't choose state government now.

Is there anyone out there who IS in a job that the ASVAB suggested? And if so, do you enjoy it?