Letters from Real Folks Part 5

Letters keep coming in, so I must share with you dear readers. This batch is particularly interesting as none of them arrived with death threats or anthrax. A refreshing change, to say the least (and I do like to say the least of all people I know). As always, these are letters from all over the universe from people who mostly can't stand the sight of my fat face.

Dear Friend,

How many times have you opened your window and just slowly fallen out of your house into your front yard? Mark me at three times. I got caught in a tree for a second until my underwear ripped and dropped me in the bushes.

Signed,
Clumsy in Cleveland

Dear Clumsy,

I will put your score down for posterity. You are currently in twenty-sixth place overall. Twit69 in Tallahassee remains our current leader at 47 times. You do get a five point bonus for “tree-hanging”. Keep reaching for the stars.

To Whom It May Freak the F Out,

My boss has been coming to work later and later each morning. Each day he walks in, he is wearing less clothing than the day before. At first it was just a sock missing, then both socks the next day, and so forth. As of today, he was 45 minutes late and without pants. My question is twofold:

1. Where are his pants? WHERE ARE HIS PANTS?
2. What can I do to stop this cycle from reaching its inevitable, and horrifying, conclusion?

Signed,
Freaked Out in Florida

Dear Freaked,

This man is obviously a Republican. Don’t panic, sometimes offices get infiltrated with these types of people. My advice to you would be to start a major land war in the parking lot of your office. Not only will your boss arrive at work early to watch the war and cheer loudly (albeit safely in his 30th floor office), he will be fully clothed again in red, white and blue garments; possibly a tall Uncle Sam hat. Take pictures and please send them with your next letter. Godspeed.

To that which hath been spawned from Hell,

I know you think you are being clever here with your “blog”. Your fatal flaw has been exposed, however. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Millions of Atoms is a code phrase for “Riotous Flatulence” that has been used in the military for eons. Clearly, this blog is a military blog that holds many codes and phrases that are being stolen by the Russians. The cold war may be over, but the fart war rages on even now. Consider yourself exposed, Comrade.

Signed,

Messenger in Moscow

Dear Messenger,

First of all, I never expose my fatal flaw in public. I’m not very comfortable exposing it in private either, truth be told. Everyone tells me “it’s fine” and “it’s normal” but they also tell me my love handles are “cute” and my bald spot is “shiny…and cute”, so you get the picture.

Anyway, I’m no stranger to the fart wars. I have been on the front lines for many years and taken my share of damage. I have dropped too many bombs to count on unsuspecting soldiers. I lost a lot of good people at the Taco Bell Offensive of ’96. A lot of good people. The title of my blog is in no way a military reference. It refers to the tiny beating hearts of all lovers who share one love: The love of making fun of people who slip and fall on the ice and pinwheel their arms comically before doing so. Nothing more. Bark up some other tree, Russian puppy, I ain’t your dog.

Dear Sucknut,

This is my last letter to you. I know you have posted letters from other readers in the past, and mine has never been one of them. I am deeply offended, of course, but have decided to try one last time to get through to you.

Anyway, I attempted to kick a soccer ball in my front yard one morning and much to my chagrin my pants split right up the back and I slipped and fell in a pile of deer excrement. Adding insult to injury, my neighbor came out of their house at the exact second my pants split and said, “Hey Pele, nice kick! It went a mile!” and proceeded to mimic looking off into the distance to see where the ball went. While he was mimicking shielding his eyes from the sun and looking down the street, I evacuated my bowels onto the hood of his Porsche. He didn’t think I was Pele any more, but he also called the Police.

My question to you is: are you a lawyer and have you ever handled a defecation case involving soccer and foreign automobiles?

Signed,
Soccer Star in Sacramento

Dear Pele,

I have handled three such cases, all unsuccessfully (and all involving yours truly as the defendant, LOL ROAOVEALRWMF Guilty as charged! ROFLMAAOF!) In all three cases the soccer ball strangely was an insignificant part of the case. My advice to you would be to try to blame the maker of the soccer ball for not being “shit repellant” and then scream in your neighbor’s face about conspiracies and Brazilian soccer and the makers of your pajama pants being “in on it”. When all else fails, a blow dart to the neck works wonders and is surprisingly effective. Good luck to you.

Book of Ann: Verse 43, Chapter 3

And in the darkest hour, it was revealed to the brothers Cain and Abel by God that they would be hosting Christmas this year. Amidst much griping and sorrow, the brothers began to clean their cottage, putting aside their many differences for the time being. While cleaning, their puppy left a not so small crap in the middle of the kitchen floor. The brothers examined it and realized that the crap had been formed in the exact image of God’s head. They giggled madly for 3 hours and made jokes like, “Better clean the house, Crap-head will be angry with us!” And, “Uh oh, here comes Crap-face down from the heavens to stink up Christmas!” While cleaning, the brothers did not realize that God had indeed come down from the heavens and was waiting for them in the living room, smoking a cigarette. He ordered them to explain their behavior, after which he said simply “Knock it off, Tits.” and flew back up to his heavenly kingdom. Cain and Abel did not know why they were called ‘Tits’ but suspected that God had been drinking again.

Praise Tits.

Sexy Talk

Outlaw Barbers

We don’t get along, barbers and I. I view walking into a barbershop the same way Clint Eastwood probably feels in every western he ever made when he’s walking down that prototypical dusty main street and tumbleweed bounces across his path. At the other end of the street is the villain (barber) holding his six shooters (scissors and comb).

Clint says: “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Villain says: “Draw, pardner.”

Clint shoots Villain. The End.

Except in my case, I don’t shoot the villain. I sit in a hydraulic chair with a blousy sheet attached around my neck and meekly say “take a little off the top” to the villain. Who then proceeds to do whatever he/she damn well pleases. That’s why the barber is the villain, and I’m not Clint Eastwood. I’m not even Clint Howard.

I am neither of these people.
In my experience, barbers listen to what I request, nod sagely while clicking their scissors open and shut, and then proceed to do whatever they feel would be best for my porcupine-like head of hair. I once got the “Flock of Seagulls” haircut unknowingly after asking for a “trim”. By “Flock of Seagulls” haircut I mean my head looked like a flock of seagulls shit on it after fluttering around a Taco Bell dumpster.

Another fun time, I got a “flattop” after requesting a “trim”. The top was definitely flat, but the top was also approximately seven feet high. Donald Trump was trying to sell apartment space on it because of the amazing views.

Yet another smashing day in barber town, I walked in cautiously and immediately said,

"Please just trim the sides and the back and leave the top long.”

I sat down in the chair suspiciously looking from side to side. The front desk girl said,

“You will be having Greg cut your hair tonight.”

“OK,” I said, not knowing who Greg was and not really caring. So, out comes Greg from some back room. He declares with a laugh “Another victim!” and all of the other haircutting girls start laughing.

“Greg never does what you ask!” one girl said with a giggle and a smack of her gum.

Needless to say, I walked out of there with a 1974 talk show host head and tear streaks of shame drying on my cheeks.

I don’t like barbers.

Bathroom Banter

Fun things to do when you are bored

1. In a crowded public place, turn towards a particularly large group of people, shout “Hey Joey!” and start walking toward the crowd smiling. Instead of stopping and greeting someone, just keep walking and looking into the distance saying “Joey! How are you! Wow!” until you are completely through the crowd. Just keep on walking. You would be amazed at some of the reactions you get. Some people will put their hand out as though you are going to greet them, even women who couldn’t possibly be named Joey. Some people will duck. Some will look nervous. Some will tentatively smile. Some will inexplicably look angry. It is a great experiment. Try it sometime.

2. Eat as much pudding as you can in 1 minute. The flavor isn’t important, but you better plan on having a ton of pudding at your disposal. That shit is tasty.

3. Try to balance a prostitute on your nose. Tougher than it sounds.

4. Sit on the floor with your legs straight out in front of you. Now, slowly take one foot and try to bring it up behind your head. Now slowly take your other foot and bring it behind your head also. If you made it this far, bend forward and kiss your own ass you jive turkey.

5. I am a big fan of Hospital Emergency Rooms (who isn’t? The lights, the spectacle, the music!) Walk into an emergency room very slowly looking as melancholy as possible. Speak to the nurse, and when she asks you what the problem is, tell her that Suzie broke your heart and that you were hoping a doctor could mend it. If the nurse nods knowingly and writes your name on the sign in sheet, then make sure you avoid Suzie at all costs, wherever she may be. She is obviously a whore.

6. Do Math. Do Math until your sides hurt from laughing so much.

7. Snort cocaine like no one is watching, dance like you have never been in an asylum, work like you have never been fired and live like there are approximately 354 tomorrows. I think that’s how the quote goes…

8. Call up homeland security and say in a low voice “There is a bomb in my toilet.” Wait 10 seconds and say “courtesy of Taco Bell! High Five!” Warning, you may not have time to pause 10 seconds before the hilarious punch line. Homeland doesn’t exactly have a “department of humor” if you know what I mean.

9. Lead a marching band through your local supermarket. Smash every watermelon you see with your oboe (please tell me you have an oboe). Hey, I don’t know where you can get a marching band! I’m the idea guy, do your own leg work!

10. The next time you have to renew your driver’s license, when the time comes to take your picture, jump up and try to get your ass in the frame. Then, speed home as fast as you can and hope you get pulled over by a police officer. Get ready for hilarity as the officer sees your new license! If he can stop laughing long enough, I’m sure he will pat you on the head and send you home without a ticket for being so innovative.

There, ten solid ideas for you to do the next time you are bored! Wait, I just did a top ten list. I hate top ten lists. Let me give you one more (top 11 list! Copyright, trademark):

11. Get into a crowded elevator. Say out loud very seriously, “Hey everyone, do you hear that? If you listen really closely, you can hear the ghost of Tom Jenkins telling his sad story. He used to work here until he fell down the elevator shaft and died tragically. Listen. You have to be very quiet. Shhh.” Then fart as loud as you can. Someone will probably scream in terror, but that’s OK. Ghosts are scary.

Lyric Analysis Master Class

Welcome to Lyrics Analysis Master Class where I will be your guide through the somewhat baffling world of popular music lyrics. Many modern artists embed hidden meanings and riddles in every lyric they write, forming a varied and rich tapestry of delight in their songs. In this class, I will take some excerpts from these popular songs and attempt to decipher the true meaning behind what has been written and recorded. I hope you will be enlightened by what the bards of our age are trying to tell you through song. Pencils ready...

“Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel

Show me round your fruitcage
'cos I will be your honey bee
Open up your fruitcage
Where the fruit is as sweet as can be

Analysis: Peter Gabriel wants to fuck a fruit cage. I can’t think of any other thing the “fruit cage” may represent, in this case.

“Viva La Vida” by Coldplay

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Analysis: Coldplay shit himself after an all night binge at a two dollar buffet.

“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police

Do I have to tell the story
Of a thousand rainy days since we first met
It's a big enough umbrella
But it's always me that ends up getting wet

Analysis: Sting’s condom broke one thousand days in a row. This represents a startling instance of all-time bad luck, even for a police officer.

“Loser” by Beck

Forces of evil in a bozo nightmare
Banned all the music with a phony gas chamber
'Cause one's got a weasel and the other's got a flag
One's got on the pole shove the other in a bag
With the rerun shows and the cocaine nose job
The daytime crap of a folksinger slob
He hung himself with a guitar string

Slap the turkey neck and it's hangin from a pigeon wing
You can't write if you can't relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax, fallin' on a termite
That's chokin on the splinters

Analysis: Self-explanatory really. Open your friggin’ ears.

“Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band

Every time you call my name
I heat up like a burnin' flame
Burnin' flame full of desire
Kiss me baby, let the fire get higher

Abra-abra-cadabra
I want to reach out and grab ya
Abra-abra-cadabra
Abracadabra

Analysis: Steve Miller is a Vampire Magician. An alternate take on these lyrics: Steve Miller has a faulty hearing aid that combusts upon any contact with sound.

“Back In Black” by AC/DC

'Cause I'm back
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back, back
(Well) I'm back in black
Yes, I'm back in black

Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back
Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back
Well, I'm back, back
Well I'm back in black
Yes I'm back in black

hooo yeah
Ohh yeah
Yes I am
Oooh yeah, yeah Oh yeah
Back in now
Well I'm back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back
Back in black
Yes I'm back in black

Analysis: This is clearly a denouncement of the Marxist regime of the early ‘30s. Note the use of the color Black and how it relates to where the singer is located at the time (Back). The fact that the singer is wearing Black should not be lost on the listener as it clearly represents his attempts at cloaking his latent homosexuality in a color that is generally thought to make the wearer look “thinner” in this case meaning “less gayer”.

That will be all for today. Your homework for next class will be a 10,000 word essay on this lyric’s meaning (from The Beatles):

Yeah, you got that something
I think you'll understand
When I feel that something
I want to hold your hand

I want to hold your hand
I want to hold your hand
I want to hold your hand

Please write the essay in Latin and use at least 20 sources to back up your hypothesis. Good day to you.