Ok, typing in those little webdings was annoying as hell, and I'm not sure the effect was worth it. But at least I know what they are for now. They are for bedazzling your blog.
Well, Letter 31 was my last actual letter to [adult swim]. This week I plan on sending another one as a follow up. I'm paranoid and it occured to me that all of the letters might have gotten through, and been read, but the portfolio, since it was a large package, might have been stopped and rerouted. So I'm gonna send another couple of letters each week, just to keep me in their mind. Kinda like Caesar did when he was conquering Spain.
LETTER 31:
Dear [adult swim],
I met Steve Bartkowski when I was in fourth grade. I didn't much care for football then (and still don't) so I had no idea who he was. He gave me and a handful of my wide-eyed friends his autograph on little slips of cheap dot-matrix paper. I promptly lost is as soon as I was near a garbage can.
Had I known at the time that he'd be the only celebrity I'd meet for at least the next 20 years I might have relished the occasion a bit more. Well, maybe I wouldn't have; he was a bit lame.
All these years and Steve Bartkowski is all I have to show for it. My wife almost ran Michael Stipe down with her car when we lived in Athens. He was jay walking so he would have deserved it if she killed him. My brother peed next to William H. Macey somewhere. I don't know where, exactly, but I'm fairly certain it was in a bathroom.
My cousin has met lots of celebrities, but he lives in California so it's kind of understandable. Still, I live in Atlanta, I should at least bump into rappers now and again. But I got nothin'.
signed
Ps. I feel so dumb. After all that talk yesterday about how I'd never given you my e-mail, and how I needed to so you could write me, I still forgot to include it. What was I thinking?
Showing posts with label [adult swim]. Show all posts
Showing posts with label [adult swim]. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Letter 30
I don't really know why I did it, but I got it in my head that I wanted to Bedazzle a letter. I'm not even sure if to bedazzle something is a real term, but if it is not the term I don't know what is. To bedazzle something, as I understand it, is to glue little gems and fake fancies to a thing to make it look fancier. It takes the old addage of "less is more" and rewrites it so that it reads, "Put plastic gems on everything."
To better help the reader I will put a webding wherever I have glued a pretty plastic jewel.
LETTER 30:
**Dear [adult swim],
I started to get depressed last night because d you hadn't e-mailed me -to tell me how much you liked ! my letters; how they always brighten your day and how you @ look forward to each next one. So I thought as a last ditch effort I would bedazzle my next % letter and impress you with my skillful manipulation of acrylic jewels and glue. _ And if you didn't respond after such an act of devotion then my affection would surely remain Y unrequited.
Then it occured to me that I had never sent you my number or my e-mail. That's a bit of an oversite! How foolish of me. How are you supposed to contact me if you don't know how? For all I know you have been wanting to meet me from the first letter. " And here I've been tantalizing you mercilessly. L
I have decided I will still bedazzle this N letter. Mostly because I paid $2.94 for these stupid gems. They might as well be put to use.
signed
Ps.
Whoa Jem, Jem ~ is truly outrageous,
Truly, e truly, s turly outrageous.
Whoa f Jem, Jem the music's contagious, outrageous.
Pps. BEDAZZLE +
To better help the reader I will put a webding wherever I have glued a pretty plastic jewel.
LETTER 30:
**Dear [adult swim],
I started to get depressed last night because d you hadn't e-mailed me -to tell me how much you liked ! my letters; how they always brighten your day and how you @ look forward to each next one. So I thought as a last ditch effort I would bedazzle my next % letter and impress you with my skillful manipulation of acrylic jewels and glue. _ And if you didn't respond after such an act of devotion then my affection would surely remain Y unrequited.
Then it occured to me that I had never sent you my number or my e-mail. That's a bit of an oversite! How foolish of me. How are you supposed to contact me if you don't know how? For all I know you have been wanting to meet me from the first letter. " And here I've been tantalizing you mercilessly. L
I have decided I will still bedazzle this N letter. Mostly because I paid $2.94 for these stupid gems. They might as well be put to use.
signed
Ps.
Whoa Jem, Jem ~ is truly outrageous,
Truly, e truly, s turly outrageous.
Whoa f Jem, Jem the music's contagious, outrageous.
Pps. BEDAZZLE +
Going out. (Letter 29)
I still have not heard from [adult swim]. Today marked the first full week since they should have received my package. They've had it for a week. That means they actually have the address to this blog. Yipes! That means they can see that I have slacked off on posting my letters. Oh well.
I recon they will pass my wonderful stories around and laugh. They will listen to some really cutting edge underground college music and then years down the road, whether I wind up working for them or not, they will hear that music again and think fondly of me. But who am I kidding, I'm gonna work for them. They cannot say no to the man who could do what I've done. I'm the man.
Actually, I'm not the man. I'm just the best man. There are lessers. (Being with me is like riding a roller coaster of confidence).
So anyway, Friday night the Mrs. and I went to Buckhead for a drinking fund raiser. I don't know what we were raising money for. We went to a club called CJs. It's not bad for an open air dive. They actually serve beer from a tap that says, "Cheep Shit." If you go there, and you are the designated drive, as I was, do NOT get ice water. Go without. No matter how hot. The water was nasty.
When you were a child did you ever eat snow off of a car? If you did, did you notice that it had a metally taste? It tasted distinctly different from snow on the ground (which you should avoid eating for entirely different reasons). Well, this metally taste came from dirt. And not just regular dirt, but from road dirt. As you drive down the road the cars in front of you are kicking up nasty dirt from the road and tiny particles of it are sticking to your car. It's road tar, roak kill, dog poo, gasoline, dirt, drugs, cosmic bananas and just about anything else you can run over. So when it snows that snow settles in on your dirty car and the dirt clings to the snowy snow. And when you go outside to play and pick up a big handful of snow from the trunk of the car and eat it you are really eating frozen ice with all the road dirt you can imagine mixed in. That is where that nasty, dirty, metally taste comes from.
That is what CJ's water tasted like. Not similar to that, but exactly like that. Had I been drinking I probably would have dismissed it as drunken misunderstanding, but sadly I was sober.
I was also sad to be sober because there was live music. The musician was actually not that bad, though he only played covers. It was sad because it made me realize how long it had been since I got up in front of people and played. I love to play and sing for people.
While we were listening to this guy play, who incidentally was one guy, though he called himself a band name, like the Red Tide, or something, my sister asked if I thought he was good enough to tip. I said sure, but he wasn't good enough to have a whole band name to himself. It made me wonder what his name could possibly be; Peter Beavers, or Trevor Slapsmackpunch, or Carl Killspuppies. It must have been bad to prefer Red Tide. Anyway, I told my sister, yes, he is good enough. She didn't really need my help to decide. It was more of a gesture to me, as if she was acknowledging that I too am a musician.
I would have told her yes even if he had sucked. It is hard to get up there and play for people who don't care that you are there. It is tough to remain super cool and confident when your best lines are lost to the din of frat boys burping, waitresses lying about how long they've been working while they try their hardest to fall out of their shirts, and about 2000 extra pounds in the room shimmies and vibrates and stresses out the building foundation. After she tipped him she asked me if, as a guy, I preferred it when women tip me or men. I told her it all depended on how hot the man was.
LETTER 29:
Dear [adult swim],
When I was eight years old I missed baseball tryouts at Murphey Candler. the league said if I wanted to play I'd have to be thrown in with the seven year olds. At first I was disappointed, until I realized that I could run circles around those little punks. Well, most of them. Some of those kids were on steroids. They had to have been. The pitcher for our team could throw a 55 mile an hour fast ball. he was only seven.
The cops were completely uninterested when I anonymously tipped them off that my teammates were juicing. They said just because I sucked was no reason to get other kids in trouble. But that kid was amped all of the time and his chin was twice as wide as his head. He looked like Rick Flair. Well, he looked back then like Rick Flair looks now. Back then Rick just looked like he took SOME steroids.
Last night I was reading Shel Silverstine poems to my daughter. I complained that she wasn't laughing at any of them and by the sixth or seventh poem she was fake laughing to please me. What surprised me most was how convincing she was. Then I thought back on all of those jokes I'd told her mother over the years. All those times I was so "intellecutally funny," and "too clever to actually laugh at."
signed
Here is where I drew a somewhat decent picture of three steroid using seven year old baseball players.
I recon they will pass my wonderful stories around and laugh. They will listen to some really cutting edge underground college music and then years down the road, whether I wind up working for them or not, they will hear that music again and think fondly of me. But who am I kidding, I'm gonna work for them. They cannot say no to the man who could do what I've done. I'm the man.
Actually, I'm not the man. I'm just the best man. There are lessers. (Being with me is like riding a roller coaster of confidence).
So anyway, Friday night the Mrs. and I went to Buckhead for a drinking fund raiser. I don't know what we were raising money for. We went to a club called CJs. It's not bad for an open air dive. They actually serve beer from a tap that says, "Cheep Shit." If you go there, and you are the designated drive, as I was, do NOT get ice water. Go without. No matter how hot. The water was nasty.
When you were a child did you ever eat snow off of a car? If you did, did you notice that it had a metally taste? It tasted distinctly different from snow on the ground (which you should avoid eating for entirely different reasons). Well, this metally taste came from dirt. And not just regular dirt, but from road dirt. As you drive down the road the cars in front of you are kicking up nasty dirt from the road and tiny particles of it are sticking to your car. It's road tar, roak kill, dog poo, gasoline, dirt, drugs, cosmic bananas and just about anything else you can run over. So when it snows that snow settles in on your dirty car and the dirt clings to the snowy snow. And when you go outside to play and pick up a big handful of snow from the trunk of the car and eat it you are really eating frozen ice with all the road dirt you can imagine mixed in. That is where that nasty, dirty, metally taste comes from.
That is what CJ's water tasted like. Not similar to that, but exactly like that. Had I been drinking I probably would have dismissed it as drunken misunderstanding, but sadly I was sober.
I was also sad to be sober because there was live music. The musician was actually not that bad, though he only played covers. It was sad because it made me realize how long it had been since I got up in front of people and played. I love to play and sing for people.
While we were listening to this guy play, who incidentally was one guy, though he called himself a band name, like the Red Tide, or something, my sister asked if I thought he was good enough to tip. I said sure, but he wasn't good enough to have a whole band name to himself. It made me wonder what his name could possibly be; Peter Beavers, or Trevor Slapsmackpunch, or Carl Killspuppies. It must have been bad to prefer Red Tide. Anyway, I told my sister, yes, he is good enough. She didn't really need my help to decide. It was more of a gesture to me, as if she was acknowledging that I too am a musician.
I would have told her yes even if he had sucked. It is hard to get up there and play for people who don't care that you are there. It is tough to remain super cool and confident when your best lines are lost to the din of frat boys burping, waitresses lying about how long they've been working while they try their hardest to fall out of their shirts, and about 2000 extra pounds in the room shimmies and vibrates and stresses out the building foundation. After she tipped him she asked me if, as a guy, I preferred it when women tip me or men. I told her it all depended on how hot the man was.
LETTER 29:
Dear [adult swim],
When I was eight years old I missed baseball tryouts at Murphey Candler. the league said if I wanted to play I'd have to be thrown in with the seven year olds. At first I was disappointed, until I realized that I could run circles around those little punks. Well, most of them. Some of those kids were on steroids. They had to have been. The pitcher for our team could throw a 55 mile an hour fast ball. he was only seven.
The cops were completely uninterested when I anonymously tipped them off that my teammates were juicing. They said just because I sucked was no reason to get other kids in trouble. But that kid was amped all of the time and his chin was twice as wide as his head. He looked like Rick Flair. Well, he looked back then like Rick Flair looks now. Back then Rick just looked like he took SOME steroids.
Last night I was reading Shel Silverstine poems to my daughter. I complained that she wasn't laughing at any of them and by the sixth or seventh poem she was fake laughing to please me. What surprised me most was how convincing she was. Then I thought back on all of those jokes I'd told her mother over the years. All those times I was so "intellecutally funny," and "too clever to actually laugh at."
signed
Here is where I drew a somewhat decent picture of three steroid using seven year old baseball players.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Daggum Long (Letter 28)
It's funny to me how these last couple of letters are taking me so daggum long to finish. This is indicative of me, though. Once I get the really difficult and creative part of a project over, the clean up takes me forever. I have some projects that have stalled permanently in this phase. I had one aspect of my portfolio that had to be left out because I'd never get around to putting the finishing touches on it. This is the kind of thing it is good to have a wife for; someone who will look at you with a stern, almost pissed off face that says, you were just about to get back to work, right?
Just before I wrote letter 28 I started getting depressed about my writing. I don't really know what I expect sometimes, or why I expect it, but I always get these dreamy fantasies that my work is going to be so fantastic that the person I make the work for will drop everything and focus all of their praise an adoration on me. Just before letter 28 I was getting depressed because I hadn't heard from [adult swim] yet. Keep in mind that at this point I had not given them any kind of contact information, save the return address on the envelope, and let's face it, people are too busy to take the effort to write a letter. So anyway, this letter started off kinda pissy, but I quickly got over it.
LETTER 28:
Dear [adult swim],
I don't want to be funny anymore. I want to be a giant instead. A big, mean giant who doesn't care if you laugh at me; who sits on houses and scares children; who eats whole cows with one bite and squishes Englishmen into jelly for scones; and who looks really ironic reading poetry by Longfellow. But I am just little me and I have to be funny to be seen. *sigh*
Here is my theory of why we are who we are. In Heaven, before we are born, we wait in clearly marked queues to choose our lives. There is a line for adventure, a line for fame, a line for wealth, and a line for power. There are even lines for combos of these things. And then there is the bargain line; the express line.
As you might imagine, there is no one in the express line. Though it promises a fast and hassle-free connection of soul to body it will not guarantee you will be satisfied with the results. Still, every couple of seconds someone jumps through the door.
There are two things you need to know about Heaven to fully appreciate the problem I've discribed. 1. The liquor is free and unlimited. 2. There are no bathrooms.
Sure, everyone starts out in line to be a famous baseball player cum senator, or the blonde bombshell archeologist, but it gets pretty warm up there, what with the sun and other stars and things. It doesn't take long before you are really craving a whiskey sour. And then another. And another. Before you know it you are doing the pee-pee dance, waiting in line to be Ted Turner's next kid. But you can't wait anymore. If you don't get a body soon your soul is going to explode all over the Lord's pretty white carpets.
Finally you give up waiting and you run out the express door. "Maybe," you tell yourself, "I'll be able to get a job at one of Ted's companies."
signed
[clever picture]
Just before I wrote letter 28 I started getting depressed about my writing. I don't really know what I expect sometimes, or why I expect it, but I always get these dreamy fantasies that my work is going to be so fantastic that the person I make the work for will drop everything and focus all of their praise an adoration on me. Just before letter 28 I was getting depressed because I hadn't heard from [adult swim] yet. Keep in mind that at this point I had not given them any kind of contact information, save the return address on the envelope, and let's face it, people are too busy to take the effort to write a letter. So anyway, this letter started off kinda pissy, but I quickly got over it.
LETTER 28:
Dear [adult swim],
I don't want to be funny anymore. I want to be a giant instead. A big, mean giant who doesn't care if you laugh at me; who sits on houses and scares children; who eats whole cows with one bite and squishes Englishmen into jelly for scones; and who looks really ironic reading poetry by Longfellow. But I am just little me and I have to be funny to be seen. *sigh*
Here is my theory of why we are who we are. In Heaven, before we are born, we wait in clearly marked queues to choose our lives. There is a line for adventure, a line for fame, a line for wealth, and a line for power. There are even lines for combos of these things. And then there is the bargain line; the express line.
As you might imagine, there is no one in the express line. Though it promises a fast and hassle-free connection of soul to body it will not guarantee you will be satisfied with the results. Still, every couple of seconds someone jumps through the door.
There are two things you need to know about Heaven to fully appreciate the problem I've discribed. 1. The liquor is free and unlimited. 2. There are no bathrooms.
Sure, everyone starts out in line to be a famous baseball player cum senator, or the blonde bombshell archeologist, but it gets pretty warm up there, what with the sun and other stars and things. It doesn't take long before you are really craving a whiskey sour. And then another. And another. Before you know it you are doing the pee-pee dance, waiting in line to be Ted Turner's next kid. But you can't wait anymore. If you don't get a body soon your soul is going to explode all over the Lord's pretty white carpets.
Finally you give up waiting and you run out the express door. "Maybe," you tell yourself, "I'll be able to get a job at one of Ted's companies."
signed
[clever picture]
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Hind sight (Letter 27)
About half way into my letter writing campaign I realized it would be a good idea to get photocopies of my letters since they were hand written and occasionally included drawings. If I'm really lucky I'll be hired by [adult swim] and I'll be able to get my letters back. If not, I'll live.
When I'm a bit better at HTML, which I am not exactly skilled at now, I'll try and post these pictures I've drawn. I think they add a lot to the letter. Letter 27's pic was one of the funniest in my opinion. It really looks slap-dash, but that was the intent.
LETTER 27:
Dear [adult swim],
I suffer from insomnia some nights. It mostly stems from a sincere feeling that my life is slipping by me and I haven't accomplished much. I taught myself how to juggle. I painted an army of little plastic men that now sit in a box. I wrote and recorded and album that I never got around to producing. And I guess the family thing.
Sometimes I think about getting a tattoo. You have to be pretty tough to get most tattoos. A nancy like me can't really pull off the "LOVE/HATE" across the knuckles. Vines around the bicep is cliched, and I haven't much of a bicep. My wife has a butterfly on her ankle and a cat on her shoulder. I clearly can't do that. I'd instantly grow a vagina. My friend has a panther. It looks kinda gay, but I can't say anything. He got it when he was an airborne Ranger for the Army. The last time we wrestled, just goofing around, he threw me across the living room and about broke my couch with my back. I don't mention the gay panther anymore. So I don't know what tattoo to get.
So anyway, I stay up late thinking about how to further my career and I almost always wind up thinking about what kind of tattoo I should get. Because clearly my stagnation on the ladder of success is a direct result of me having no body art. All my art is aromatic.
signed
Ps. Tonight I actually brought home work from the office to do while I couldn't sleep. But when I logged onto the computer our system servers were down. I stared at the wall for a while. Then I drew a guy on my arm and named him Probably. He watches [adult swim]. He thinks I would rock as a writer there.
Ad:
Black
It's the new white.
-paid for by Cheap Ass Bleach
The Dollar Market Brand
When I'm a bit better at HTML, which I am not exactly skilled at now, I'll try and post these pictures I've drawn. I think they add a lot to the letter. Letter 27's pic was one of the funniest in my opinion. It really looks slap-dash, but that was the intent.
LETTER 27:
Dear [adult swim],
I suffer from insomnia some nights. It mostly stems from a sincere feeling that my life is slipping by me and I haven't accomplished much. I taught myself how to juggle. I painted an army of little plastic men that now sit in a box. I wrote and recorded and album that I never got around to producing. And I guess the family thing.
Sometimes I think about getting a tattoo. You have to be pretty tough to get most tattoos. A nancy like me can't really pull off the "LOVE/HATE" across the knuckles. Vines around the bicep is cliched, and I haven't much of a bicep. My wife has a butterfly on her ankle and a cat on her shoulder. I clearly can't do that. I'd instantly grow a vagina. My friend has a panther. It looks kinda gay, but I can't say anything. He got it when he was an airborne Ranger for the Army. The last time we wrestled, just goofing around, he threw me across the living room and about broke my couch with my back. I don't mention the gay panther anymore. So I don't know what tattoo to get.
So anyway, I stay up late thinking about how to further my career and I almost always wind up thinking about what kind of tattoo I should get. Because clearly my stagnation on the ladder of success is a direct result of me having no body art. All my art is aromatic.
signed
Ps. Tonight I actually brought home work from the office to do while I couldn't sleep. But when I logged onto the computer our system servers were down. I stared at the wall for a while. Then I drew a guy on my arm and named him Probably. He watches [adult swim]. He thinks I would rock as a writer there.
Ad:
Black
It's the new white.
-paid for by Cheap Ass Bleach
The Dollar Market Brand
Sleepy Week (Letter 26)
Perhaps it is because of day light savings, but I am having a really hard time staying awake this week. I just want to curl up and sleep. I wrote a little story to some friends about falling asleep on the job. I'd post it here, but this format doesn't allow cut and paste, and I'm just too tired to type that whole thing again. So all you get is another letter.
Quick side bar; I don't have a printer at my home, so I am not able to print the fancy ads and clip art that I can from work. The letters 26 to 29 have hand drawn ads.
Oh yeah, PARENTS: Please watch out for explicit use of the word "pussy." Some of you pussy parents may want to protect your pussy children from reading such language.
LETTER 26:
Dear [adult swim],
I always fall behind on my letters over the weekend. Those lazies down at the post seem to think every Sunday is a sick day. So I have to suffer and catch up on Monday.
Today was hard though because I had training all day long. These trainings are awesome. They basically tell you: This is how to turn this program on, now go figure out how to use it. I'm sure I'll get a certificate of completion of training in a year or two. By then I might understand the program.
Actually, what I meant to say was I'm a very fast learner. By the end of the class I was teaching the instructors applications for their own program they hadn't ever considered. Everyone in the class hoisted me on their shoulders and chanted, "Michael for Commissioner!" Before long the crowd had grown beyond my control and they were storming the sixth floor to oust the Commissioner.
The battalion on the sixth floor was easy enough to get by. There were just one hundred of them and half of them switched sides when they saw me. The Commissioner, however, was a different story. He burst from his office outfitted in wizards robes and a shriner's hat. On his chest he wore a pin that belied his membership in the Order of the Hand. In ten seconds he squelched the unintended rebellion. I pretended to be a passer-by and Joe Shannon got fired instead of me for trying to over throw the Commish, which was a real shame because he really liked his job.
signed
Ps. So when you guys decide to hire me, would it be a problem to hire Joe too. Afterall, I got him fired kinda. It should be pretty cheap as he's fictional.
Ad:
Hand Drawn Ads.
Because owning a computer is for pussies.
Quick side bar; I don't have a printer at my home, so I am not able to print the fancy ads and clip art that I can from work. The letters 26 to 29 have hand drawn ads.
Oh yeah, PARENTS: Please watch out for explicit use of the word "pussy." Some of you pussy parents may want to protect your pussy children from reading such language.
LETTER 26:
Dear [adult swim],
I always fall behind on my letters over the weekend. Those lazies down at the post seem to think every Sunday is a sick day. So I have to suffer and catch up on Monday.
Today was hard though because I had training all day long. These trainings are awesome. They basically tell you: This is how to turn this program on, now go figure out how to use it. I'm sure I'll get a certificate of completion of training in a year or two. By then I might understand the program.
Actually, what I meant to say was I'm a very fast learner. By the end of the class I was teaching the instructors applications for their own program they hadn't ever considered. Everyone in the class hoisted me on their shoulders and chanted, "Michael for Commissioner!" Before long the crowd had grown beyond my control and they were storming the sixth floor to oust the Commissioner.
The battalion on the sixth floor was easy enough to get by. There were just one hundred of them and half of them switched sides when they saw me. The Commissioner, however, was a different story. He burst from his office outfitted in wizards robes and a shriner's hat. On his chest he wore a pin that belied his membership in the Order of the Hand. In ten seconds he squelched the unintended rebellion. I pretended to be a passer-by and Joe Shannon got fired instead of me for trying to over throw the Commish, which was a real shame because he really liked his job.
signed
Ps. So when you guys decide to hire me, would it be a problem to hire Joe too. Afterall, I got him fired kinda. It should be pretty cheap as he's fictional.
Ad:
Hand Drawn Ads.
Because owning a computer is for pussies.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
How I Write (Letter 25)
I have several different methods for writing, but one of them is to take a piece of something that is true and use it as a base for a story. I take that kernal of information or truth or conventional wisdom and then I basically ignore it. From there the story writes itself. Now you can be an undiscovered world class writer like me.
A couple of months ago I heard about a study that found that if you have eggs for breakfast you are more likely to feel replete throughout the day. In other words, you will be less likely to want to snack. This information is primarily for people who struggle with their weight because they can't stop snacking. People like Americans. Anyway, that was my kernal of truth for Letter 25.
Take note of the awesome self promotion.
LETTER 25:
Dear [adult swim],
There is an ancient proverb that says: Eat eggs for breakfast and eggs for lunch and the afternoon staff meeting will stink. I live my life by these words.
I was looking through the Book of Runes, Spells, and Michaels, which categorizes all of the runes, spells, and Michaels throughout history, placing them in order of their importance to the human race, as determined by the Order of the Druid when they wrote and enchanted the book 2600 years ago, and I noticed a new entry; My-Khal Xergliburp. Apparently he is from another solar system in our galaxy, but his name is sufficiently close to Michael, so he made the list. Anyway, he too is a wannabe writer in a dead-end job for the government. And like me he is trying to land a job with his favorite entertainment group by sending them letters.
There are some differences though. I develop business rules for department programs on a daily basis, whereas My-Khal peels the flesh off of his master's enemies. And where my entry reads that I have two kids and a wife with a boyfriend, his reads that he ate a pie. I'm not sure what kind of pie it was, but it must have been pretty special. Aside from the flesh peeling and eating of that pie My-Khal has done nothing and the book still shows that he has made more of a contribution to the human race than I have.
I am three places above Michaels Arts and Crafts, two places above Ned Needlander, a fictional character whose middle name was apparently Michael, and one place above the rune that means Butthole. It may not be obvious, but most Michaels consider this a place of honor. I am just below My-Khal, Michael the waste Jones, a gospel singer who was struck dumb by the Lord while singing on the 700 Club because, as the Lord's voice attested, he was just god-awful, and Michael XXXXX, who apparently shares my name, is my age, has a wife and two children, and works for the government in Florida, but is just slightly better for the human race that me.
I'm not a very competitive guy, but if I had a job as a writer for you, I feel certain I could move up past Michael the waste Jones, and maybe even the other Michael XXXXX. Think about it.
signed
Ad:
Michael XXXXX
He's got some stuff that you wish you had.
A couple of months ago I heard about a study that found that if you have eggs for breakfast you are more likely to feel replete throughout the day. In other words, you will be less likely to want to snack. This information is primarily for people who struggle with their weight because they can't stop snacking. People like Americans. Anyway, that was my kernal of truth for Letter 25.
Take note of the awesome self promotion.
LETTER 25:
Dear [adult swim],
There is an ancient proverb that says: Eat eggs for breakfast and eggs for lunch and the afternoon staff meeting will stink. I live my life by these words.
I was looking through the Book of Runes, Spells, and Michaels, which categorizes all of the runes, spells, and Michaels throughout history, placing them in order of their importance to the human race, as determined by the Order of the Druid when they wrote and enchanted the book 2600 years ago, and I noticed a new entry; My-Khal Xergliburp. Apparently he is from another solar system in our galaxy, but his name is sufficiently close to Michael, so he made the list. Anyway, he too is a wannabe writer in a dead-end job for the government. And like me he is trying to land a job with his favorite entertainment group by sending them letters.
There are some differences though. I develop business rules for department programs on a daily basis, whereas My-Khal peels the flesh off of his master's enemies. And where my entry reads that I have two kids and a wife with a boyfriend, his reads that he ate a pie. I'm not sure what kind of pie it was, but it must have been pretty special. Aside from the flesh peeling and eating of that pie My-Khal has done nothing and the book still shows that he has made more of a contribution to the human race than I have.
I am three places above Michaels Arts and Crafts, two places above Ned Needlander, a fictional character whose middle name was apparently Michael, and one place above the rune that means Butthole. It may not be obvious, but most Michaels consider this a place of honor. I am just below My-Khal, Michael the waste Jones, a gospel singer who was struck dumb by the Lord while singing on the 700 Club because, as the Lord's voice attested, he was just god-awful, and Michael XXXXX, who apparently shares my name, is my age, has a wife and two children, and works for the government in Florida, but is just slightly better for the human race that me.
I'm not a very competitive guy, but if I had a job as a writer for you, I feel certain I could move up past Michael the waste Jones, and maybe even the other Michael XXXXX. Think about it.
signed
Ad:
Michael XXXXX
He's got some stuff that you wish you had.
Letter 24
I really liked this letter. It came to me very quickly and it reminded me a lot of a propagandist movie I saw in elementary school. It was some silent/black and white film about a girl with a red balloon. The balloon was actually red, so the film did not have to be black and white, though it was. Her balloon was larger than the balloons she passed on the street and it was self aware. It followed her around like a dog. Anyway, she walked into a play yard where a bunch of boys were and they all threw rocks at her balloon until it deflated. That's when she took a bump of meth and capped each boy with her pistol. Just kidding, she went running away crying. But aparently the spirit of the balloon stretched out across the city and called all the balloons to her. Suddenly all of those balloons had color and they gathered around her and she was carried away in a cloud of balloons.
I may have some of the details wrong, but that is essentially how I remember it. I'm sure it had some hidden communist message.
LETTER 24:
Dear [adult swim],
Yesterday at lunch I watched a plastic grocery bag floating around in the air. It was almost magical the way it rose, in defiance of gravity, up the side of a 20 story building and then out into the open air. And it hovered there for several seconds, as if trying to decide where it should litter itself.
As it hung there I wondered what the odds were that it would land on my boss's head and smother him nearly to death. I wouldn't want him to die. I just want him to know that I am not the only one who disagrees with him. The bag is on my side, and perhaps the wind.
Then I saw two more plastic bags rise into the air with the first. They danced around each other in a synchronized flying show. They dove and twisted and rose, and I know my boss was getting worried. My plastic army was growing. Soon the skies would be filled with my minions, dancing and twisting and falling upon anyone who stood in my way.
But alas, my three pplastic compatriots were impaled upon a Ginko tree. They hanged there, like lynched rebels, as an example to other bags. Sadly I took them down and tossed them in the trash. As I walked back to work I saw an empty Doritos bag floating in the air and I wondered what the odds were that it would find its way...
signed
Ps. Man this city is a dump.
Ad:
Jack's Off Brand Wieners
Wieners that stick in your soul.
I may have some of the details wrong, but that is essentially how I remember it. I'm sure it had some hidden communist message.
LETTER 24:
Dear [adult swim],
Yesterday at lunch I watched a plastic grocery bag floating around in the air. It was almost magical the way it rose, in defiance of gravity, up the side of a 20 story building and then out into the open air. And it hovered there for several seconds, as if trying to decide where it should litter itself.
As it hung there I wondered what the odds were that it would land on my boss's head and smother him nearly to death. I wouldn't want him to die. I just want him to know that I am not the only one who disagrees with him. The bag is on my side, and perhaps the wind.
Then I saw two more plastic bags rise into the air with the first. They danced around each other in a synchronized flying show. They dove and twisted and rose, and I know my boss was getting worried. My plastic army was growing. Soon the skies would be filled with my minions, dancing and twisting and falling upon anyone who stood in my way.
But alas, my three pplastic compatriots were impaled upon a Ginko tree. They hanged there, like lynched rebels, as an example to other bags. Sadly I took them down and tossed them in the trash. As I walked back to work I saw an empty Doritos bag floating in the air and I wondered what the odds were that it would find its way...
signed
Ps. Man this city is a dump.
Ad:
Jack's Off Brand Wieners
Wieners that stick in your soul.
Letter 23
Dear [adult swim],
Cowboy hats as an accessory have really gotten a bad rap. They really are quite attractive, but tragically often misworn. A cowboy hat should never, ever be worn with jeans. It's been overdone. And they shouldn't be worn with cowboy boots, which incidentally should not be worn at all unless you are riding a cow.
A cowboy hat should only be worn by men wearing shorts or by topless women. Topless women can really wear anything on their heads, men don't care, that's not where we're looking.
Let me take a moment to clarify, topless HOT women can wear whatever they like on their heads. Topless ugly women should probably stick to the traditional rules of coiffure accouterment.
That is not to say that men will not look at a topless ugly woman. Au contraire, we will ogle until we embarrass the woman and ourselves. It is how we are wired. That said, a topless ugly woman in a cowboy hat is not doing herself any favors. As soon as the novelty of her nudity wears thin the discerning man will count her down for her stupid cowboy head. Then he will return to looking at her ugly boobs. Don't judge.
I suggest a baseball cap. It's cute and ever-so-slightly homo-erotic. When a man sees an ugly woman in a baseball cap it's almost like he's looking at his friend, but with boobs. It's as though it is suddenly ok for him to fool around with his softball teammates. All those years of repression can take a temporary trip to the surface. Her stubble will become his stumbling block.
That's not me, though. I'm totally into women.
In summary, if you are a hot chick then you should definitely be wearing a cowboy hat. And if you are wearing a cowboy hat then you should definitely be topless. I expect to see a lot more topless women in the future.
signed
Ad:
Eat Food
It's foodalicious.
Cowboy hats as an accessory have really gotten a bad rap. They really are quite attractive, but tragically often misworn. A cowboy hat should never, ever be worn with jeans. It's been overdone. And they shouldn't be worn with cowboy boots, which incidentally should not be worn at all unless you are riding a cow.
A cowboy hat should only be worn by men wearing shorts or by topless women. Topless women can really wear anything on their heads, men don't care, that's not where we're looking.
Let me take a moment to clarify, topless HOT women can wear whatever they like on their heads. Topless ugly women should probably stick to the traditional rules of coiffure accouterment.
That is not to say that men will not look at a topless ugly woman. Au contraire, we will ogle until we embarrass the woman and ourselves. It is how we are wired. That said, a topless ugly woman in a cowboy hat is not doing herself any favors. As soon as the novelty of her nudity wears thin the discerning man will count her down for her stupid cowboy head. Then he will return to looking at her ugly boobs. Don't judge.
I suggest a baseball cap. It's cute and ever-so-slightly homo-erotic. When a man sees an ugly woman in a baseball cap it's almost like he's looking at his friend, but with boobs. It's as though it is suddenly ok for him to fool around with his softball teammates. All those years of repression can take a temporary trip to the surface. Her stubble will become his stumbling block.
That's not me, though. I'm totally into women.
In summary, if you are a hot chick then you should definitely be wearing a cowboy hat. And if you are wearing a cowboy hat then you should definitely be topless. I expect to see a lot more topless women in the future.
signed
Ad:
Eat Food
It's foodalicious.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Letter 22
LETTER 22:
Dear [adult swim],
I have a confession to make. I don't have a degree in cartoons. My degree is in history.
Did you know that one of the favored tactics of the samurai was to go to the house of his enemy, set three sides on fire, and wait at the fourth side to kill the people as they fled. You don't see this tactic employed much on [adult swim] cartoons.
Yesterday I set fire to three sides of my resume hoping that all the jobs I hated would go running off the fourth side so I could kill them. They didn't.
I didn't get to meet Joey Ramone before he died. That bothers me sometimes. And I didn't get to meet Elvis Costello before he sucked. I wrote a song about how sad these circumstances make me. I don't want to show it to you though, because you'll laugh at it. Especially the part where I make love to a dragon out of sympathy because she's fat and hugely ugly. And how we have hundreds of scaly monkey babies that hop around on my back like that old George Michael song. And how they eventually tear me apart to get at my creativity, and then they feed me to all of the dried up artists in the world, and it brings about a Renaissance in pop culture art, but sadly I'm too dead to witness it.
I don't want to tell you about that song. It's too close to my heart.
I also don't know how to play the piano. That may be another deal breaker, but I want to be up front and honest with you. I can play some scales on the piano, and I can tell you which parts of the piano are real and which parts are imaginary. Aside from that, nothing.
I think that's all I need to confess to you. All of my principal visits are documented in my permanent record, which I'm sure you have a copy of.
signed
Ad:
HERBAL DEATH
The all natural alternative.
Dear [adult swim],
I have a confession to make. I don't have a degree in cartoons. My degree is in history.
Did you know that one of the favored tactics of the samurai was to go to the house of his enemy, set three sides on fire, and wait at the fourth side to kill the people as they fled. You don't see this tactic employed much on [adult swim] cartoons.
Yesterday I set fire to three sides of my resume hoping that all the jobs I hated would go running off the fourth side so I could kill them. They didn't.
I didn't get to meet Joey Ramone before he died. That bothers me sometimes. And I didn't get to meet Elvis Costello before he sucked. I wrote a song about how sad these circumstances make me. I don't want to show it to you though, because you'll laugh at it. Especially the part where I make love to a dragon out of sympathy because she's fat and hugely ugly. And how we have hundreds of scaly monkey babies that hop around on my back like that old George Michael song. And how they eventually tear me apart to get at my creativity, and then they feed me to all of the dried up artists in the world, and it brings about a Renaissance in pop culture art, but sadly I'm too dead to witness it.
I don't want to tell you about that song. It's too close to my heart.
I also don't know how to play the piano. That may be another deal breaker, but I want to be up front and honest with you. I can play some scales on the piano, and I can tell you which parts of the piano are real and which parts are imaginary. Aside from that, nothing.
I think that's all I need to confess to you. All of my principal visits are documented in my permanent record, which I'm sure you have a copy of.
signed
Ad:
HERBAL DEATH
The all natural alternative.
Letter 21
So I'm sorry about that ad. It was lame. The next ad I liked a lot, though it was significantly smaller. Incidentally, I have no idea where I-95 is, or if it exists.
LETTER 21:
Dear [adult swim],
So I went to the dentist today. Not much to report except that my dentist is a babe. By that I mean that she is an intelligent and successful woman, who also happens to be attractive. Anyway, this babe had her hands in my mouth for half an hour. It's not the traditional beginning of a romance, but traditional romance blows.
When she sat down next to me she recognized me immediately. I thought she must have recognized me from my illustrious singing career, which happens quite a bit, but it turns out we went to high school together.
Anyway, while she was elbow deep in my mouth she commendted on what a good brusher I am. She said it shows that I know what I'm doing. "Not too hard, not too soft," she said. It was clear that she wanted me. Then, just as I thought she was about to kiss me, she said, "Still, you have nine cavities."
"Aaaaahaah?" I asked as she was waist deep in my mouth, slamming one of my wisdom teeth with a twelve pound maul.
"What?" she asked, pulling out of me.
"Nine?" I asked again.
"Well, yes," she said. "Only two of them need filling, and I'd like to take out that wisdom tooth, but yeah, nine. The other six just need to be watched. And you could stand to floss more."
"But I thought you said I was a good brusher," I said. "I thought we had something."
She laughed so I laughed too. It was clear to me that she was disturbed. Who gets nine cavities? She must have been a compulsive liar. Except when she said she wanted me.
It woudn't have worked between us anyway, what with me being married. She was just your typical dentist home-wrecker. I should have spotted it the moment I saw her.
signed
Ps. I can't wait to have my cavities filled.
Ad:
Come See Cigarettatopia
Where everyone smokes.
Just take I-95 until it hurts.
LETTER 21:
Dear [adult swim],
So I went to the dentist today. Not much to report except that my dentist is a babe. By that I mean that she is an intelligent and successful woman, who also happens to be attractive. Anyway, this babe had her hands in my mouth for half an hour. It's not the traditional beginning of a romance, but traditional romance blows.
When she sat down next to me she recognized me immediately. I thought she must have recognized me from my illustrious singing career, which happens quite a bit, but it turns out we went to high school together.
Anyway, while she was elbow deep in my mouth she commendted on what a good brusher I am. She said it shows that I know what I'm doing. "Not too hard, not too soft," she said. It was clear that she wanted me. Then, just as I thought she was about to kiss me, she said, "Still, you have nine cavities."
"Aaaaahaah?" I asked as she was waist deep in my mouth, slamming one of my wisdom teeth with a twelve pound maul.
"What?" she asked, pulling out of me.
"Nine?" I asked again.
"Well, yes," she said. "Only two of them need filling, and I'd like to take out that wisdom tooth, but yeah, nine. The other six just need to be watched. And you could stand to floss more."
"But I thought you said I was a good brusher," I said. "I thought we had something."
She laughed so I laughed too. It was clear to me that she was disturbed. Who gets nine cavities? She must have been a compulsive liar. Except when she said she wanted me.
It woudn't have worked between us anyway, what with me being married. She was just your typical dentist home-wrecker. I should have spotted it the moment I saw her.
signed
Ps. I can't wait to have my cavities filled.
Ad:
Come See Cigarettatopia
Where everyone smokes.
Just take I-95 until it hurts.
Letter 20
I was going to explain this letter to you, but then I thought better of it. I didn't explain it to [adult swim], so why should you guys get any special favors.
I will, however, apologize for the ad. It is pretty lame.
LETTER 20:
Dear [adult swim],
I know that I should never succumb to the evil lure of advertisers and their blood money, but these people were paying so much. I am ashamed. But, I am ashamed with a pocket full of money. So today's letter is pretty much all advertisement. Enjoy, and buy their product.
signed
Ad:
Folks, we all know the truth. We're all honest, grown up adults here. And we like to pick our noses. Yes we do! We enjoy the feeling, no, the pleasure of accomplishment when we dig a good, mostly solid booger from the cavernous depths of our nasal passages. But how many of us are blessed with chronic sinusitis? Very few. The tragedy is most of us have to wait weeks in between each discovery of gold.
Well not now!
We at Acme Bodily Functions have invented the wave of the future. We call it, the Goober Dam Pill. Take this pill and within three hours your nose will begin to fill with the most pickable boogers you ever tasted. Easy to roll and easy to flick. Not too sloppy, and they won't stick to your finger forever. You'll get great distance with these Acme boogers, and the fun doesn't stop for twelve hours. Yes, that's right, twelve hours of a glacial like snot slide, seeping forth from your nose. You'd better pick 'em or it's "Jeronimo Booger!" and who knows where they'll turn up? It's hours of fun for everyone.
Act now and we'll throw in the bottle of fake boogers. You can roll and flick while you wait for the Goober Dam Pill to take effect. A $50.00 value, yours for free.
Just call 1-800-BLOODYFINGER for your order today.
Do not take the Goober Dam Pill while on antihistamines or any kinds of allergy medication. The Goober Dam Pill is a congestant. Do not take this pill with cold or flu symptoms. Do not take this pill if there is any change you might fall asleep within 12 hours. The Goober Dam Pill causes drowsiness. Goober Dam Pill may cause brain swelling and hair loss. Not recommended for anyone.
The Goober Dam Pill
From the makers of the
Mega Dump Laxative
I will, however, apologize for the ad. It is pretty lame.
LETTER 20:
Dear [adult swim],
I know that I should never succumb to the evil lure of advertisers and their blood money, but these people were paying so much. I am ashamed. But, I am ashamed with a pocket full of money. So today's letter is pretty much all advertisement. Enjoy, and buy their product.
signed
Ad:
Folks, we all know the truth. We're all honest, grown up adults here. And we like to pick our noses. Yes we do! We enjoy the feeling, no, the pleasure of accomplishment when we dig a good, mostly solid booger from the cavernous depths of our nasal passages. But how many of us are blessed with chronic sinusitis? Very few. The tragedy is most of us have to wait weeks in between each discovery of gold.
Well not now!
We at Acme Bodily Functions have invented the wave of the future. We call it, the Goober Dam Pill. Take this pill and within three hours your nose will begin to fill with the most pickable boogers you ever tasted. Easy to roll and easy to flick. Not too sloppy, and they won't stick to your finger forever. You'll get great distance with these Acme boogers, and the fun doesn't stop for twelve hours. Yes, that's right, twelve hours of a glacial like snot slide, seeping forth from your nose. You'd better pick 'em or it's "Jeronimo Booger!" and who knows where they'll turn up? It's hours of fun for everyone.
Act now and we'll throw in the bottle of fake boogers. You can roll and flick while you wait for the Goober Dam Pill to take effect. A $50.00 value, yours for free.
Just call 1-800-BLOODYFINGER for your order today.
Do not take the Goober Dam Pill while on antihistamines or any kinds of allergy medication. The Goober Dam Pill is a congestant. Do not take this pill with cold or flu symptoms. Do not take this pill if there is any change you might fall asleep within 12 hours. The Goober Dam Pill causes drowsiness. Goober Dam Pill may cause brain swelling and hair loss. Not recommended for anyone.
The Goober Dam Pill
From the makers of the
Mega Dump Laxative
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Letter 19
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!
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!
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
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.
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