Thursday, January 21, 2010

Letters from Real Folks Part 4

We are back with some more letters from my faithful followers. My mailman and I patched up our differences and I found that he had a whole stack of letters that he had been withholding. He then tried to give me an awkward hug which I immediately shunned and responded by shoving him into a compost heap. This may be the last batch of letters for a while…

Dear Horseface,

You have the face and teeth of a horse and you smell like horse. You probably were born in a horse house. It makes me want to throw sugar cubes at you and gently feed you carrots.

Disgusted in Denver

Dear Disgusted,

Hey, this comes across as slightly negative! Why would I like sugar cubes and carrots so much? And I think I’m very handsome! Are prostitutes known to have different kinds and shapes of teeth? Oh, you said horse face…

Dear Doctor Love,

You can join my gang any time. The way you lay it down and shape it up? BAM! The ladies all be doggin’ you and the brothers all be sweatin’ you. I know you know what I know. DING DING! We have a winner, and it ain’t on the Price is Right! Plinko, my man. Plinko.

Admirer in Almira

Dear Admirer,

I have to say, your letter has touched me. Inappropriately. You can expect a call from my lawyer.

Dear Richard Dawson,

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You kissed my mother. Prepare to die.

Swordsman in Seville

Dear Swordsman,

I think this is a clear case of mistaken identity. I am not British, I do not have an oversized alcoholic’s nose, I never hosted Family Feud and I ain’t done never kissed no mothers. Back off.

To Dad,

The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man in the moon. When you comin’ home son, I don’t know Dad. We’ll get together then, Dad. You know we’ll have a good time then. You know we’ll have a good time then.

Lonely in Louisiana

Editors Note: No response due to uncontrollable sobbing from everyone in the office.

To Whom It May Concern,

When I read your blog, I get so much information about clubbed thumbs that I don’t know what to do with it all. So, I have catalogued it and made it available for the entire world to see. I never knew that someone besides me was so concerned with slightly bulbous thumbs that appear as though they were flattened by a steam roller.

Clubby in Columbus

Dear Clubby,

Well, I know this letter is for me because I am deeply concerned. Don’t waste your life on chubby thumbs. There are so many more appendages that deserve your attention, like rough elbows or spiked nipples or mismatched legs. Open your mind and you shall see that humans are mostly freaks.

Dear Doctor Emmet Brown,

Are you tryin’ to tell me you built a time machine…out of a blog?!?! This is heavy…

Flying in Fairbanks

Dear Flying,

I’m going to have to have a talk with my mailman because I’ve been getting a lot of mail not meant for me lately. Granted my blog could be seen as a ‘time machine’ of sorts, but I haven’t gone out of my way to actually build a time machine here. I would like to go back in time, though, and rethink my breakfast of Oreos and a week old burrito...

Dear M.O.M,

I find myself caught in a sticky situation. I’m writing to you from a hot air balloon (with internet). The entire Indiana State Police force is after me for a crime I didn’t commit. This balloon will eventually lose altitude and I have no idea where I will end up. Once I land, the police will surely take me into custody. What is my crime you ask? I followed your Catastrophe Preparedness Plan to the letter. And now I’m in a balloon. Help!

Floating in Findiana

Dear Floating,

I did say that the police may become involved and you should just ignore them. Anyway, I have a plan for you to get out of this. What you do is,

*A child arrived just the other day…came to the world in the usual way…*

Uh…like I was saying (can someone turn off that damned radio). What I was saying was, you have to pick a safe place to land and

*…but there were planes to catch and bills to pay…*

Someone please turn off that God. Damned. Radio! As I was saying, the police have a hard time tracking dirigibles, so

*He learned to walk while I was away. And he was talkin’ ‘fore I knew it, and as he grew, He’d say I’m gonna be like you, yeah. I know I’m gonna be like you…*

I…I can’t do this anymore! I’m sorry; your floating ass is toast. I have to go, uh, call someone.

2 reaction(s)::

JenJen said...

Alright. That song makes me cry.
And crying makes the mascara run.
And THAT makes me mad.


Dan said...

What do I have to say about this?

Just funny.

Nothing more to be said.

Just really, really, funny.

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