Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Letters...we got letters

The end of an era: The last letter to Melvin, tying up all loose ends, as well as letters to two of her friends...and a linkdump

Dearest Melvin:
I'm sorry I haven't been in contact with you. I have been very distraught. You see, my wife (Buronica) has decided to leave me. If you don't remember, Buronica and I met when I absentmindedly walked into her and left her paralyzed. As I completed my court-ordered care service of Buronica--changing her diapers, teaching her to walk, and whatnot--I decided that I probably loved this woman. Through a series of increasingly complicated blinks and droolings, I came to realize that she was declaring her true and undying love for me, as opposed to simply blinking and drooling.
While her walking lessons took a turn for the worse recently--she fell off of a cliff while running away from me for some reason--she still left me. While I was sleeping, she rolled her wheelchair straight out the door and into the police station. If not for the fact that she couldn't speak, I suspect that I could be in some sort of troubling situation.
With this turn of events, I've realized that Scientology is not for me. They promised me everlasting life and happiness in exchange for ninety-seven percent of my paycheck and three drops of my blood to provide for the rebirth of the intergalactic overlord of space Xenu. They refused to give my money back, but the blood was returned with interest.
I suppose that's it for this e-mail, as I have absolutely no motivation or brainpower left. I'm going to go and, in my depression over my lost wife, shoot a dog.
[SPOODLES], Big Spender


To Sarah B:
Oh, the summer is almost over. It is time again for us to look back with much fondness and pot pie at the sunny days and fancy nighttime dances that made up the months of May through August. While you have remained distant and detached from me, a sure sign that we are probably officially broken up or at least on a break, there is much to be said for all of the experiences and ice cream sodas we shared. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten to remember...the past?
Remember the time that you and I went to the Boardwalk in Mayfield, New Jersey? How the salty air blew through our salty hair? How we kicked sand in that fat kid's face just to watch him cry and, in depression, gorge himself with salt water taffy and fudge? Those were the days. We were carefree and happy, and we stole batteries from the dollar stores to plug into our kerchiefs and nightcaps.
Remember the time that you and I went to see a movie at the local multiplex? How I bought you a dollar-fifty worth of snowcaps for nine dollars and twenty-three cents? We snuck into a G-rated movie and held hands without anybody knowing. Pooh's Huffalump Movie will always be OUR movie, and nobody can take that away from us. Not even television's John Stamos!
Speaking of John Stamos, remember how John Stamos is a dreamboat? How, as Uncle Jesse on television's Full House, single strands of his hair were always dangling teasingly over his right temple. Aunt Becky never treated him right, no ma'am. He was a rebel, Sarah. A loner. He had a leather jacket and a complete set of Elvis records and memorabilia. He didn't need a woman to tie him down. And in fact, neither do I.
Yeah, that's right. I don't need you anymore. I don't care if you've forgotten everything we've ever said or done together. All of the skee-ball we've played. All of the juicing machines we bought on late-night infomercials. I. Don't. Care. I hope I never see you again, and that you send back to me all of my sweatshirts and notes and albums and scissors that I've left at your abode over the years.
-[SPOODLES], The King of Half-Arsed Last-Minute E-mails


To Kit R:
I have been implored to write to you, but I'm running out of steam here. I just don't have any drop of creativity left, nor do I have anything left to type. However, since I promised my sister that I would fulfill a certain obligation of e-mailing several of her friends, coworkers, and acquaintances, I will relate to you an entirely true story of my high-school life (one that, in some ways I am not proud of; in other ways, I am).
In a class of mine, I was completely and utterly disrespectful to my teacher in every way. The odd thing is, she got it. I liked her because I got yelled at for the very same thing by my other teachers, but she understood: she laughed, and she played along. I would make random outbursts of noise at ridiculously inopportune times--while she was teaching, during tests, and the like.
And she would make them back at me. One day, after a particularly weird outburst of my own invention, she leapt up onto her desk and made a noise back at me.
Anyway, it was always a treat to get substitute teachers in that class--not because she was gone, but because, knowing the way I am, she didn't give two shits about disciplinary reports. I would push their buttons, the same way I tried to push hers--random noises and grunts, loud outbursts; and it would always end the same way--they would stop the class and give me the attention they felt I was so duly craving, and they would yell and discipline me.

Except for one day, I had a teacher who didn't discipline me. In fact, with him, I went further than I even would have dared to go with the class's regular teacher. My outbursts began to contain swear words, like "shit," as opposed to the usual yellings of "balls" and "boisenberries." And yet he would still not pay it any mind. My friends looked at me, incredulously, as if saying, "How are you getting away with this?" I kept bursting out--"COCK!" "NIPPLES!" "ASS PANCAKES!"
If he was ignoring me, hoping I was going to go away, he didn't get his wish. People in the class who usually despised me were looking at me with awe and admiration. The period ended that day with absolutely no rebuff from the substitute, from the principal, from the system--none whatsoever.
When I arrived at class the next day, my regular teacher had returned. She greeted me with the largest grin on her face that I'd ever seen. Not knowing what the smile was about, I was frightened--had I pushed too far, and she would get her deadly revenge? Suspension? Expulsion? I had been truly vulgar, mind you--my censored version don't begin to do justice to my gutsy adventure.
And then, she thrust a note into my hand.

And it said...

Mrs. Grubb:
The class, in general, was well behaved today. I got through the lesson plan with which you provided me. The only thing extra that I have to add: ***I wasn't sure how to discipline the retarded boy, so I just let him go without saying anything***. Thank you.
-Mr. Alwine
Anyway, I think the story works better in person--where you can here the vocal inflections, and I can be uncensored in my outbursts. But it's one of my better stories. I hope you have had an excellent year at Camp Nawakwa, that your fruit flies are well fed, and that dancing turtles haunt your dreams.
-[SPOODLES] (is Alex P. Keaton)


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