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.
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.
Clumsy in Cleveland
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?
Freaked Out in Florida
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.
Messenger in Moscow
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.
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?
Soccer Star in Sacramento
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.
Blast From The Past!!!
3 years ago