My Text Conversation with Heather

Monday, I had an interesting conversation via text message with everyone’s favorite Heather.  It has taken me a couple of days to post this, as I have been sleeping in the woods and howling at the moon in an effort to get closer to my inner beast.  I would have posted sooner, but unfortunately the woods only have mid-speed DSL and I like to listen to Santana on Slacker while I write. 

Anyhow, to set you up for the conversation, I will tell you that Heather had lost her car the previous night in a borderline lesbian adventure which involved alcohol and more women than Tiger Woods has bedded.  Her car was located on the other side of town and she didn’t want to walk to get it.  I, on the other hand, was anxious to get to the woods for homoerotic loincloths, campfires of Freudian proportions, and all the poison ivy I could wipe with in a lifetime.  Thus, I needed a ride to the middle of nowhere and offered to bring her car to her in return.

Grady

7:07pm

Get your car back by any chance?

Heather

7:08pm

Not yet.  She’s still fucked up.

Heather

7:08pm

I’m working on finding a ride.

Grady

7:09pm

:( My feet are killing me.  Definitely not up for hitching.

Heather

7:11pm

Yeah.  I considered walking to get my car... but decided against it.  If it were a little warmer I would...

Grady

7:11pm

Wear a jacket?

Heather

7:11pm

Nah...

Grady

7:13pm

That makes sense.  What was I thinking?

Heather

7:13pm

It won’t be enough...

Grady

7:14pm

Not that cold.  I should have just taken your keys.  I was in that area an hour ago.

Heather

7:17pm

I thought about that... Oh well.  No one can give me a ride though...

Grady

7:18pm

Guess I’ll just have to go get your keys...

Heather

7:27pm

If you feel like walking...

Grady

7:29pm

I don’t, but if we can work out a deal... I bring you your car and you leave me in the middle of nowhere.  We’re both happy?

Heather

7:30pm

If you keep your phone on all night.

Grady

7:32pm

Of course.  Unless the wolves eat this one, too :(  I barely got away last time...

Heather

7:39pm

Well let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

Grady

7:40pm

Kidding, Heather.  I don’t believe in wolves.

Heather

7:41pm

Ok, well I do considering I have a dog.

Grady

7:42pm

There aren’t any wolves in northern Illinois...

Heather

7:43pm

Well I still believe in them.

Grady

7:44pm

You really don’t get my sense of humor, do you?  I blame Oprah.

Heather

7:44pm

I don’t watch her.

Grady

7:46pm

I knew there was something I’d like about you.  It certainly isn’t your personality, but whatever.

Heather

7:51pm

Haha... thanks.

Grady

7:53pm

This conversation is being monitored by Socialists...

Heather

7:54pm

Where are you?

Grady

7:54pm

The number 3 bus.  They made me put on pants.

Heather

7:56pm

Stop it.

Grady

7:56pm

Putting on pants?  Ok, but you’ll have to explain to them how this was your idea.

Heather

7:59pm

Haha...

Grady

8:00pm

Blame it on your misshapen head.  Cranial compression could lead to poor decisions.

Heather

8:02pm

Very funny.

Grady

8:03pm

Eh, what do you know?  You don’t even believe in wolves...

Heather

8:55pm

Just checking up on you...

Grady

8:57pm

Walking as fast as I can.  Few more blocks.

Heather

8:58pm

Carie just called me... and said she would come get me...

Grady

9:00pm

Almost there.  Didn’t walk this far for nothing.

Heather

9:00pm

I know...

Grady

9:01pm

Your doors WERE locked.  On my way back.

Heather

9:02pm

Well YAY!

Grady

9:03pm

Haha just kidding.  Your car isn’t here.

Grady

9:05pm

I’m assuming it WAS locked though because there’s broken glass.

Heather

9:06pm

Yes it is... don’t lie to me.

Heather

9:06pm

Stop with the jokes and be for real...

Attention, Employers (Part 2)

Due to the positive reactions from my first post and because I have, regrettably, gotten no job offers in the areas for which I requested, I have decided to broaden my job search by adding a few more possible careers in which I believe I am more than qualified.

1. Ice Cream Truck Driver
I understand that summer is approaching quickly and what better way to celebrate than an overpriced Cornetto and a creepy smile?  The need for ice cream truck drivers must be about as high as the need for nurses and such, considering that every day more and more men are barred from ice cream truck compatibility by court-ordered restrictions on proximity to children.  But, as I have pointed out on numerous occasions, I am great with kids and have a zero percent chance of touching one in inappropriate ways.  I would make a great ice cream truck driver because I have an impeccible driving record and I happen to love music which is scientifically designed to melt the average man's brain.  It is probably the ice cream truck song that drove all of those men to finger small boys and girls.  But I'm immune to it and I would probably come up with profound lyrics to compliment the song.  And I would sing it to the children in a fun voice (and to their mothers in a seductive voice).  The lyrics will probably be wrought with double entendres.  The only problem I have... Is it true that your drivers only get paid by commission on what they sell?  If so, you will have to make an exeption in my case as I don't particularly intend to sell any ice cream.  I will probably just give it away to the children who look the poorest.  Or to thin children who have a fat friend so that when the fat friend wants ice cream I can tell him he's too fat.  Then I can watch him cry as I start the ice cream truck song all over again and drive away.  Also, I will give free ice cream to attractive women in hopes that it triggers some sort of ice cream-related sexual fantasy in which I can partake.  And more likely than not, if there are no poor children, thin children, or attractive women around, I will park the ice cream truck at a bar and get drunk for the majority of the day.  So, naturally you will have to pay me hourly wage or, more conveniently, a weekly salary for my performance.

2. Forest Ranger
This entry goes not only for forest rangers, but also for forest preserve police because I understand there is a difference between the two, due to the spelling.  Again, the onset of spring and summer has undoubtedly spiked a rise in forest ranger necessity and I'm more than willing to fill those shoes.  As long as they are size 12, black, and with non-slip treads on the bottom in case I step in something slick.  Also, suction cups on the toes and heels would assist me in climbing smooth surfaces while making spiderman-web-noises.  Other than my excellent climbing skills, I believe a career in forest policing is more than ideal for me and I could perform a variety of tasks in this vein, certainly better than your current forest police.  When was the last time one of your current officers cited a tree for loitering?  Seriously, those trees stand around like homeless people at 711.  They don't even collect cans.  If you hire me to police your forest preserves, you can count on an immeasurable change in tree loitering.  As a matter of fact, you should probably start me off with two citation books rather than the customary one, as I will make an example of every loitering tree I find on the grounds.  Is there something ironic about passing out paper tickets to trees?  Would that be like issuing a jaywalker a citation printed on a dismembered finger?  Furthermore, I would be on constant lookout for illegal campers during the night time hours.  I wouldn't remove them from the premises immediately as that would only validate their rebellious actions, but I would instead terrify them to the point of utter humiliation by making eerie noises in the darkness and placing Blair Witch stickmen around the area for them to find.  Perhaps, if the campers were drunk or stoned, I could stumble into their campsite and convince them that we had all been transported to the past as a sound effect tape of dinosaur mating calls played in the distance.  Also, with the arrival of autumn and the usual cessation of forestry policing, my job could continue on as I would have my hands full issuing littering and public nakedness tickets to the leafless trees.  I will gratefully accept this position on the grounds that I am allowed to carry a standard-issued Colt 45 1911A handgun, as there will undoubtedly be sightings of squirells and such out past their curfews.

3.Door to Door Salesman
I recognize the fact that the mobile sales associate has nearly blinked out of existence since the arrival of the internet, but I assure you that I can single-handedly bring the market back.  I admittedly have no sales experience outside the "commodities" I used to sell to my hippie friends in high school, but I am superb in the scheme of "bullying."  While most salesmen beg their potential clients for a little clemency and a few bucks, I don't take the panhandling approach.  My technique is to strongarm stubborn people who don't know what's good for them and heckle them into making decisions that they wouldn't make unless under social distress.  Furthermore, I am a logical salesman, as I would approach the prospective clients while the men were at work, because women are generally not as smart as men and are more likely to make poor decisions with their husband's money.  Also, this would be a great relief to the women of the world because it would give them a break from vacuuming and cooking and also because I am a veritable god of cunnilingus.  In case I run into a stubborn client who is not willing to abide by my strongarm tactics, I can supply my own collection of sharp knives to deal with the situation appropriately.  Once word gets around, no one will resist buying whatever product it is that we sell.  Even if it is a Snuggie.  On top of all this, I plan to generate a lot of unrelated revenue which does not come from the sales of our product, as I will unfailingly steal a small item of moderate value from each residence I visit.  While these trinkets will not individually amount to much, the yearly profit from such acquisitions will widen our fiscall margin at literally no outlet cost.  Also, I will wear a tie, as long as it has a bright red incandescent arrow pointing to my genitals.

Again, I believe I'm being more than fair in my addressing the job market in this way and you will thank me later for not submitting a personal resume with this request, as it will save you a lot of time and effort in contacting previous employers who don't know anything about the world we live in.  Their assinine opinions and "photographic evidence" would only hinder your making the right decision.  Thank you for this opportunity, and tell your daughter I said to stop calling me.

-Grady Richards

To the Lesbian I was Making Out with Last Night

Dear Random, Anonymous Lesbian,

My name is Heather and apparently things got pretty hot and heavy between us last night.  I, of course, have no recollection of this, as I was wasted and it was my birthday (YAY, me!).  But I came into work today to find out from my rather amused co-workers that you and I made some sort of a connection.  With our tongues.  I don't know who you are and this makes things pretty awkward for me, as I don't know what you look like or where your mouth has been.

I'm not saying that I mind having met you last night, but if you could make yourself known to me that would be great.  I'm not a lesbian, nor am I bisexual, but since I can't seem to find a decent man made entirely out of penis, money, and chocolate, I'm interested in exploring my options with you.  I am particularly intrigued about the part where your hand was up my shirt as, from my experience, men don't know how to properly stimulate a nipple, or anything else for that matter.  Apparently, you and I disappeared for a little while and no one knows where we went.  I'm sure we were just talking about my dog and swapping stories about bargain-shopping at Target, but then again, I don't know for sure.  By the way, you probably thought that my bra was from Victoria's Secret, but I actually bought it at Target for eight dollars.  Please don't think less of me.

Like I said, I'm not sexually interested in females, but the first thing I remember when I woke up this morning is that I was wearing all my clothes and my coat, but not my pants.  I know it's incredibly unlikely, but there is a chance that maybe you decided to celebrate my birthday with a little cunnilingus, and then left before I woke up.  If that's the case, I would really like to know who you are so that I can find out when your birthday is and maybe return the favor.

But I'm not a lesbian.

Kisses!  Heather.

How to Spot a Criminal (According to a Suburban Housewife)

Hello Blog readers, my name is Emily Popavich and I'm a proud parent of four brilliant, beautiful children.  I became distressed today, when a man wearing all black clothing approached myself and my children in the park.  He was clearly a criminal (I have a sixth, or even a seventh, sense when it comes to detecting them) and I was terrified to see that he was trying to approach us as we played on the swings.  Before pepper-spraying him and running away with my puzzled children in tow, I managed to snap a single photograph.

BEWARE THIS MAN!

Because of my expert's eye on how to detect a criminal, I have decided to compile this list of traits which ALL criminals UNFAILINGLY possess.  There is no need to thank me, as I feel it is my civic duty and creating defensive awareness is, of course, its own reward.  The first thing to look for when trying to spot a criminal...

1. Criminals Wear Black

As I have pointed out in my introduction, black clothing is a vital clue in the true identity of the person you see in the office, on the street, and yes, even in our own neighborhood playgrounds.  Criminals wear black clothing not only because of the benefits of hiding their location when the sun goes down, but mostly because it reflects how they feel about themselves and how they feel about the world we live in.  I once ran into a gathering of some of the most dangerous criminals in the area and, once again, I managed to snap a single photograph.  

 The one in the skirt is clearly the syndicate boss.

I was shocked and enraged to find that some of the men and women in the above picture live descreetly in my own neighborhood.  Needless to say, I won't be inviting them to our next dozen barbeques.  

2.  Beware African Americans

Before I get a barrage of mail describing me as racist, I want to point out that I once knew an African American child in grammar school.  And her family relocated after her father was cited for littering a public park.  Not all African American's are criminals.  That thought is simply uneducated supposition.  But the fact (FACT) is that African American's are responsible for more than 98% of all crimes in the United States.  Another 1% of crimes are committed by white people with African American in their recent ancestry.  I seem to have misplaced my citation on this one, but once I re-find my source, I will update.  There was an African American going door to door in my community just last week, and I'm pretty sure he was casing our neighborhood for the likeliest houses to burglarize so he could purchase crack-cocaine and malt liquor.  I didn't have my camera on me as I cowered beneath the desk in my husband's office, but fortunately, Jen Hanscom of the Neighborhood Watch managed to take a picture.

 The bag is where he keeps his Glock.

3.  People with Pagers are Scum.

Everyone knows that the only people who use pagers nowadays are unforgivable drug dealers.  Drug dealers that push their nefarious products on innocent children in schoolyards.  If you see a man with a pager, call the police immediately, as they are most likely carrying large amounts of PCP and the reefer.  And you aren't safe anywhere.  Drug dealers, unlike the criminals I've mentioned already, are getting better and better at disguising themselves.  The man visiting your office with the briefcase?  That briefcase is a portable meth-lab.  The teenager walking home with the violin case?  That case is filled with psilocybin mushrooms.  The only thing that gives these pimps and drug-pushers away is their pager.  Be on the lookout.  I saw a drug dealer checking his pager just last week, at my own doctor's office!

That stethoscope converts to a cocaine-snorting apparatus.

Because these criminals have seemingly taken over every community in America, it is important- no, it is VITAL- that you memorize contact information to your Neighborhood Watch, local fire department, hospital, and police.  Furthermore, give YOUR contact information to neighborhood police officers.  I have even gone so far as to give my local cop the code to my burglar alarm and safe, so that he may check in on my home while my family is at the lake house this weekend.

The police are the only thing that makes me feel safe.

It's Heather's Birthday!

Hi, it's Heather again!  Today is my 25th birthday (I know, I'm getting so old!) and in the spirit of what is probably the most important holiday in the history of the world, I've decided to write about where I think I will be 25 years from today.

Well, as it will be my 54th birthday, I will probably be living in California (Go Packers!) and probably on an expensive beach-front property.  I will, naturally, have retired early from my extensive career in... whatever, I'm not going to worry about that for now, and I will probably be just returning from a long excursion to someplace overseas.  Probably Costa Rica.  I love to travel and I've never been to Costa Rica or anywhere else in Africa.  But I would really love to go.  If I went to Africa, I would probably bring my own toilet seat covers, so that I don't catch AIDS from African toilet seat covers. I would probably also bring an extra sandwich to give to the people starving in Estonia.

Because I'm most likely to be single on my 54th birthday, I'm probably going to borrow Grady's laptop for an hour while he's trying to write so that I can invite a few of my Facebook friends to meet me at the bar.  I borrow Grady's computer because calling my friends on my phone is less frustrating to Grady and is also an obsolete method of communication.  Especially in the future, when I'm 54.  When my friends meet me at the bar, I'm probably going to have a few drinks- but I don't want to get completely wasted.  After I pass out sitting backwards on the toilet in the ladies room, like that one time I took all that medication before going out, I'll probably slur a bunch of words that don't make sense even when spoken eloquently.  After that, when I get my second- or even my third- wind, I will stubbornly insist on having another shot, then sit at the bar telling the bartender repeatedly that he is gorgeous.  I will then convince my friends to ditch me at the bar so I can go home with the bartender, calling my friends an hour later to admit that I'm lost, alone, and frightened.  Once my friends have dragged themselves out of bed and started to look for me, I will tell them I'm fine and shut off my phone.

Being 54 is probably gonna be really gross.  I'm really into looking great and I just can't picture myself looking great when I'm that old.  Unless I'm far enough from senility when they put me in the nursing home that I can design new robes for the residents to wear.  Fashionable robes that conceal flab, wrinkles, and that white cream old people use that makes them smell like death.

But because I'm going to be wealthy from a life of success in... whatever field, I'm probably gonna be rich enough to buy lots of surgeries to keep me looking great.  Especially future surgeries that will probably be able to not only stop aging, but reverse it so that I can be 25 again.  But forever.  If I could live forever, I would probably buy a sword (from Target, for eight dollars) and stand on a hill in the rain, daring people to come sword-fight me.  Since I'm immortal, I won't have much to worry about, but I should probably get some of those chain mail gauntlets so I don't break any of my fingernails.  I wonder if Target sells chain mail gauntlets.  If not, I can probably talk the people at Maurice's down to eight dollars, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Also, if I was immortal, I'd have more time to visit places in the world (OMG, I love traveling!) but not Costa Rica, because I'm pretty sure one trip to Africa will be all I need.  Maybe while I'm there, I'll adopt a kid like Angelina Jolie, because I really like basketball (Go Packers!) and Africans are really good at basketball.

P.S. This is probably what I'll look like in 25 years, if technology doesn't create reverse aging techniques.

Oh!  And tomorrow is the second biggest holiday ever!  National Draw a Picture of a Bird Day!  So I drew a picture of a bird!

If you are what you eat, he must eat some really cool people.

The other day I had the privilege to meet someone who was, in my opinion, the coolest man this side of the Andromeda Galaxy. I am not one hundred percent sure what it was about him that made him on such a level that no one could even dream of touching him. Maybe it was his collection of leather jackets that matched the color of every crotch rocket he owned. On the other hand, it could very well have been his Tapout® t-shirts that were all two sizes too small. Then again, his amazing tan and charming resemblance to a moose could have been his selling point. I don't know if I could pick just one trait that describes 'moose' as a whole. What I can do is tell you about the amazing night he had in store for me, and that is just what I will do.

I think the appropriate way to start this story is to explain how little-old-me came to be so lucky. Every day when I was driving home from work I would pass this bar called the Toolbox. I had always wondered what type of people they let into a place like that. Then one day it happened, I got up the nerve to pull over and drop in. Little did I know, the makings of the most incredible day I will ever experience were beginning to brew. I think the flames on the front door were what had lured me in to begin with, not to mention how totally jacked the door man was. Once inside I immediately felt a tingling in my nether-regions. Just to be safe, the first thing I did was tuck my penis under my waistband, just in case these incredible excuses of men turned me on too much. After a few beers and a conversation about how 'I'm on a Boat' is the greatest song ever made, I decided it was time to go. On my way out I couldn't help but notice a fish bowl filled with business cards and a man chiseled from stone on the front. I felt like I was looking at the sculpture of David, if only Michelangelo had chiseled on a pair of sunglasses to be worn day and night. The bowl was a contest for a night out with this man who had just become famous on some reality T.V. show. I tossed in my business card and was on my way.

Later that day as I sat on my couch recovering from the Toolbox, my phone rang. I picked it up and was greeted with an exclamatory voice saying, "You are the lucky wiener." I immediately screamed like a man in his mid thirties at a Nickleback concert. I had won a night out with a celebrity, how lucky was I? After a few minutes of hyperventilation I gained enough composure to write down all the information needed. He was to pick me up the next day, and who knows what he had in store for me? I spent all night lying awake (like I used to the night before Christmas when I was so excited for the Jesus guy to break into my house and leave me presents).

T'was about a quarter after seven when the greasy, bulgy, hunk of a man came to pick me up. I heard him coming from a few blocks down the road. The ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ's become louder and louder until the annoying buzzing was stopped in my driveway. I walked out to greet him all fancied up in my pleated pants and Doc Martins I had bought a few days earlier just for this momentous occasion. He looked at me a little awkwardly when I threw one leg over the seat of his bike and held tightly around his waist. I was tempted to whisper 'I will never let go' into his ear, but for the fear that this might put a damper on the rest of a night with someone so much cooler than myself, I resisted. As I held on tightly he tossed down his sweet shades, even though the sun had just fallen below the horizon, and away we went.

As we drove down the street, I had never felt so cool- especially when he would put the bike in neutral and rev the engine so all the cars around us at the stop light could hear. After about fifteen minutes of this, the excitement died down as we pulled into the Toolbox. I was hoping this wasn't the night he had planned for me, but kept my spirits high. We walked in and were immediately met with a cheer and some guys barking. We sat at the bar and he order a drink for me, a vodka and cran. This made me feel special, a little like a girl, but special nonetheless. As the night drew later and the bar started to fill in, the excitement of hanging out with the coolest man in the world fell off. He had stopped buying me vodka crans and paid little attention to me. I didn't want to believe it was the girls with their ass cheeks hanging out the bottom of their dresses and a layer of what looked like Dijon mustard on their faces, but I know it was exactly that. After buying myself a few drinks I decided it was that time for me to head home. I found 'moose' at the bar and tried to get his attention, but I think he was distracted by his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I gave him a quick slap on his tight rear and took off as he tried to fight the other guy standing behind him.

    My night spent with the coolest man in the world had officially come to an end. I should have known I wasn't cool enough to keep up with him. I guess I have learned my lesson, and my days of sitting-in and building my model rockets are far from over. Time to do a few lines, cry, and use my tears to rub one out as I watch Girls Gone Wild commercials.

Attention, Potential Employers

Because I am borderline unemployed, I thought I would utilize my literary skills and social network to try and increase my yearly income via a new and improved profession.  Aside from being borderline unemployed, I am unfortunately borderline retarded and I have little-to-no applicable skills in the real world, though I feel there are areas in which I will excel beautifully if given a chance to blossom. The following is a list of positions I would be willing to work and why I believe I am qualified for each.


1.  School Teacher
I have stated that I have little understanding of the world- hell, I'm not even sure how to deposite money into my bank account, which explains why I am perpetually poor and drunk- but I believe this would be an incredible asset as a teacher in your educational establishment.  Because I don't know the square root of dick about the world, it makes perfect sense that I follow the curriculum to a tee.  No more worrying about overly ambitious faculty teaching outside-the-box material to the children.  In this sense- and this sense only- I am a perfect conformist.  I will teach only what you tell me to teach- as I will be learning it right along with them.  I'm incredibly good at reading from text books in a rehearsed manner which makes it seem that I already know everything.  Furthermore, I have my own business cards which say "Grady Richards: Freelance Baby Puncher," and becoming a teacher of children would be a perfect outlet for these cards to actually make sense.  I can hand them out to the parents during conferences and PTA meetings.  This will show the parents that not only am I professional, but I will discipline their unruly children sternly and that I don't take my role in society too seriously.  Plus, I have unfathomable experience in writing my own name on blackboards and this will come in handy when introducing myself to the unsuspecting students for the first time.

2.  Lumberjack
I know there aren't many logging areas in Northern Illinois, but I am willing to relocate on the grounds that there are some very upset and less than ethical organizations that are looking for me in relation to some of the scathing things I've written about their "Don."  I think lumberjacking somewhere in Canada or even in some of the larger forests on the moon would probably be suitable.  Other than my willingness to travel, I am pretty handy with an axe, as I once used one to open a gate that was locked.  I also have experience balancing one on top of my head, but I'd rather not exhibit that skill until I finish paying off the medical bills from the last time.  Also, I have a close relationship to trees as I once went on a date with a girl who claimed to be 1/8 Willow.  This kinship with trees will probably be traumatizing to me as I cut them down, imagining that I can hear their screams, but this will only encourage the other lumberjacks to be more sensitive in their deforestation efforts and will probably improve the image of lumberjacks considerably.  On a related note, I look remarkable in flannel and I can probably bring the trend back to the top of the fashion pyramid single-handedly.  I can provide my own beard, of course.  I understand that lumberjacks must utilize a number of tools other than the aforementioned axe and I believe I am more than experienced in each.  I have been using saws since an early age; a number of times I sawed the legs off of chairs for no discernable reason.  I also use them to make Hawaiian-sounding music in parks while people drop nickels and dimes into a hat for me.  I have a solid fanbase and they are more than willing to part with their spare change to further my career as a professional saw-player.  Lumberjacks also occasionally drive trucks.  I drove a truck (once) and you will find during my background check that my truck-driving record is impeccible, as I have only one insurance claim totalling less than 100,000 dollars.

3.  Rock Star
If you look into my interests, you will find that I am a mediocre musician with enough charisma to make up for my lack of talent.  I also thoroughly enjoy heavy metal and, therefore, I have an insight into what is expected from heavy metal musicians.  I am willing to grow my hair long and get more tattoos, if required.  Also, I am a big fan of reading because it makes people believe I have a personality and intellectual integrity.  Because I read things to mask my vapid and soulless void of a life, I'm quite knowledgable in occult writings and more obscure things, which is important in the heavy metal world.  I could make on-stage references to Dante's Inferno, as it is a story about Hell and heavy metal fans are into that sort of thing.  Also, I could write songs about Illuminati and construct a guitar solo with the sole purpose of brainwashing fans upon hearing it.  Another aspect of the heavy metal world is travelling and, as I stated in the Lumberjack Section, I am more than willing to relocate many times.  Also, I believe I am qualified to have unprotected sex with barely-legal fans, catch Hepatitis X, and sire more children than Elvis, providing that the record label pays for their upbringing and therapy.  I can also head bang in awkward situations which would make for great Youtube video opportunities.

4.  Birthday Clown
If you have read my article on Fun Games to Pay with Your Baby, you undoubtedly already know that I'm great with children.  However, my approach to my future position as a Birthday Clown is more original than that.  Thanks to Stephen King and John Wayne Gacey, people already despise and fear clowns, am I right?  It is my objective in my potential career as a clown to scare the utter bejesus out of children and parents alike- I can be rather creepy when the situation demands it.  Just ask the plethora of women with active restraining orders against me.  What is the purpose of this?  Simply to give foundation to the fear of clowns.  Everyone already loathes them, but it is almost entirely without merit.  Rather than trying to redeem clowns in the eyes of the world, I will simply give their abhorrance substance.  And I'm qualified for this position outside of innate creepiness.  I am also not in the least bit funny- though I amuse myself to no end while making things awkward, painful, or downright offensive to all others within earshot.  I know how to make balloon snakes, which is useful because if there's one thing people despise more than clowns, it is snakes.  Also, I would really like to squirt water in people's eyes through one of those flower-in-the-breast-pocket-things.

5. Podiatrist
This one is more of a Conglomerate Investment Opportunity, rather than a single position.  Let's say you own a respected foot clinic, but you just aren't generating enough revenue to pay for your car, house, and divorce all at once.  And remember that indoor, in-ground pool full of gold coins you've always wanted?  Grady's business plan can make it happen.  First, ally your business monetarily with a prosthetics company and a wheelchair company.  And if you have time, a pharmacuetical giant specializing in pain killers and antidepressants.  Second, hire me and give me an honorary PhD in podiatry.  Third, swim in your pool of coins like Uncle Scrooge in Duck Tales.  As I am a man with out a soul- save for the two soles on my feet (it's a podiatry joke, I have tons of them) I have no problem whatsoever "misdiagnosing" common foot-borne ailments as gangrene, instep cancer, or lower-sciatic parvo.  Each of these ailments require amputation, often times double amputation.  Now, I understand that people will research these things after the emergency-amputation and will likely sue you, but that's what malpractice insurance is for.  It wouldn't hurt to divert a fraction of your newfound income into the overseas bank accounts of several judges, either.  Because I have no morals, conscience, or understanding of feet, I will simply decide that every patient who hobbles into my office requires swift and inexpensive removal of their limbs.  Remember that conglomeration of your office with prosthetics and wheelchair manufacturers?  The profit sharing will make you richer than the Pope in an estimated six months.  And the pharmacuetical companies?  Each amputee will find themselves in a considerable amount of physical, emotional, and mental agony, requiring a veritable truckload of expensive drugs in order to accomplish even the most tedious of daily routines.  Stick with Grady and you will be in a Fortune 500 in no time.  Subsequently, you will also be condemned to Hell.  If you believe in that sort of thing.

I hope this reaches enough potential employers to ensure my success in locating an appropriate and preferably six-figure career for myself.  I think I have proven my ingenuity in fields which I have yet to know literally anything about.  And you can be certain that my ideas will only increase exponentially as I gain experience and enough money to continue drinking my inspiration.  Don't even worry about scheduling an interview.  I will start work tomorrow.  Thank you, and you will doubtlessly regret this.

Grady Richards 

Letter to Grady From The Future

Dear Grady from the future,

Or should I call you Dr. Zeitgeist, because I'm certain you have changed your name by now?  You probably don't remember me, but I am you from the distant past.  That's right, you are receiving this letter through an advanced method of time-travel that I thought up after nearly suffocating in my pillow when I was sleeping off a night of binge drinking.  But I don't need to tell you... certainly you remember the moment when you devised this method.

So anyway, how is the future?  Is it as great as we always imagined?  Who am I kidding, of course it is.  Tell me, did manufacturers ever perfect the flying car?  And did Toyota ever recover from the mass-recall?  Yeah, I didn't think so. I bet flying cars are pretty awesome... unless they are obsolete after the perfection of molecular transport?  I'm sure your knowledge of physics, engineering, and biology had a hand in its creation.  Either that or you greedily developed the entire process in the basement of some tenement warehouse, later selling the devices for cash to the Department of Defense and then suing them for patent-infringement when they mass-developed them in laboratories.  Because that's what I would do- and you are me after all, though probably more distinguished looking and admittedly wealthier.  After thousands of man hours on Photoshop, myself and my crack team of Scott and Rick have devised an approximation of what you undoubtedly look like at the time of reading this, so far in the future.

Anyway, I'm writing this to congratulate you on your recent cover-story write-up in Times, Forbes, and Rolling Stone magazines.  And of course your recent receipt of the Nobel, Pulitzer, and Hip Hop Artist of the Year awards.  You certainly deserve it.  You probably don't look so far back in your past, but you came from an impoverished background and a clearly dysfunctional family.  Your school teachers all admitted that you were "incredibly bright", but they thought your education was hindered by the fact that you were a "smart-mouthed little shit."  You had some hard times until your late twenties; times which involved moving from couch to couch, working simultaneous and menial part-time jobs which worked you beyond the scope of minimum wage, without bothering to pay you beyond the scope of sweat shop salaries.  You had a formidable drinking problem and you smoked two packs of Pall Malls a day, fighting with your increasing weight and decreasing sex drive, but you clearly got over it.

By the way, how is the White House treating you?  Is the Oval Office as big as it looks in television sets made in its approximate image?  And do you make prank calls from the red World War Three phone?  I guess it's the WWIV phone now, after that 'little' incident with the Morlock revolution, but hey, it couldn't have hurt your image with the press.  Nuking New Zealand probably didn't even make a second-page story in any paper world-wide.  And I'll bet Australia paid handsomely.  Discreetly, of course.

Well, I suppose I should be going now.  The case of beer didn't last as long as it should have and I need to go to the liquor store for a few bottles of rum.  It's Pirate Night here and I'm going to dress up and wave the Calico Jack flag around, pushing people off the balcony of my apartment building when they walk by.  This is as close as anyone can get to walking the plank on Pirate Night.  Anyway, congratulations for overcoming all of your vices, poverty, self-destructive behavior, and lack of any true talent in any applicable field and becoming pretty much Emperor of Planet Earth.  You really have exceeded my expectations and I therefore salute you with extra booze tonight.

Cheers!

Grady Richards

P.S.  I'm putting this letter in the mailbox today, April 6th, 2010 and it should probably be delivered here in two or three days, unless some long-dead president had a birthday I don't know about.  So you've got three-to-five days to accomplish the list of things I've mentioned before Grady from the future checks the mail.

Missing: Have You Seen This Man?

Name: Jesus H. Christ

D/O/B: 12-25-0000 (allegedly)

Height:  5'7''

Weight: 145 lbs.

Last Seen: In a cave near Cavalry, Judea, Roman Empire

Missing Since: The first full moon after the first day of Spring, year 30 AD

Presumed Undead as that is the most rational explanation.

Jesus Christ, a carpenter and revolutionary from Nazareth, disappeared three days after he was allegedly killed in what has been described as a 'domestic dispute' on the 300 block of Sugarcane Drive, Cavalry, Judea, 00777, nearly two thousand years ago.  Since his disappearance, there have been multiple sightings of Christ all of which have turned up no leads in the actual location of the missing man.  In the 1960's and 70's there were many reports that Jesus Christ had returned to public eye under the alias "John Lennon," but the rumors were found to be groundless.  Shortly thereafter, Mr. "Lennon" was allegedly killed and hasn't been seen or heard from since.

Coincidence?

We believe he is living somewhere in South America, as that is where the highest volume of statues of his mother have appeared in the last 500 years.  The above depiction of Christ's appearance has become outdated in the last several centuries, and a team of forensic artists have released an updated portrayal of what they believe Mr. Christ to look like today.

If anyone sees this man, approach him with extreme caution for he is believed to be quite adept at brainwashing and prestidigitation.  It would be best to avoid him at all costs and, instead, contact the proper authorities at RomanLegion666@vengeance.kil

My Letter to the Easter Bunny

Dear Easter Bunny,
That time has come around, you creepy fuck. That's right, you furry pervert- it's Grady Richards, here to deem you unworthy once again. Though I send you virtually the same letter every year, I have yet to hear back from you. It is peculiar, but I'm not put out by it. I only assume that there isn't a surplus of postage stamps available on the grassy hill you call home. And, since you have no fingers (freak!) it would be hard to respond, in the first place.


What the fuck are you, anyway? Okay, I understand that the Christians stole the Spring Festival from the pagans. That's why you're a rabbit who carries around a basket of eggs. Eggs are a symbol of fertilily, while rabbits are universally known for shagging. But I can't pretend that a six foot two pink bunny that smells like shoe polish, sweat, and Old Milwaukee is going to do a whole lot of the hibbidy-dibbidy, if you know what I mean. Seriously, are you supposed to have sex with other rabbits? Because if I opened up a Hallmark Card and saw, inside of it, a photograph of you sexually degrading a real rabbit, I would probably blow out a ten pound spew of projectile vomit. Or, since sheer mechanics of bestality are mind-numbing whilst wearing an anatomically inaccurate suit, are you supposed to get dry-humped by a prison inmate, or something? Because, honestly, I don't see many other types of people taking a look at you and thinking, "you know, I'd like to felate that guy!" Even prison inmates- the most universally hard-up and depraved perverts aside from priests and mailmen- would likely resist the urge to mate with you, for fear that the children would be horribly scarred by witnessing the event.


And speaking of children, haven't you learned yet that Santa Claus has the shopping mall turf pegged to a T? For rizzle, my nizzle. You certainly are good at scaring the shit out of half-wit Johnnys and Sallys. But as far as inspiring hope and morality into the next generation, you might as well dangle a baby from a hotel balcony, you creep. If an unintelligent child takes a look at you, it would think, "Oh, fuck it's a gigantic, furry monster that smells like Uncle Frank!" You frighten the stupid kids. More intellectual children gaze upon you and think, "That poor bunny. Nobody's shagging him! And while I feel bad for him, I'm certainly not going to shag him. What kind of mistakes did you make, to become what you are, Shopping Mall Easter Bunny? No amount of chocolate bribes can intice me to give you a pity-fuck. You need to learn to make better decisions."
It's true. I witnessed a child use these exact terms, just last year. You probably thought I hadn't heard... or that I might forget. But let me tell you, Easter Bunny: your life is a testament to the futility of symbolism. And you're probably the only fucker in the world that is more pathetic than me.

As I mentioned before, you are just a misguided metaphor for the Spring Festival. It sucks to be you; to have gotten such a short end of such a degrading stick. After all, there are many other non-religious holidays which have much better scapegoats than you. And as far as religious holidays go, Santa's got your number. How could you stand up against a fat old man in a bathrobe who stands out in the cold and watches kids sleeping, then promises them toys in exchange for being "good little shits." As a matter of fact, even child-molesters have more game and excell further in the art of the pick-up (or 'snatch') than you. Shame on you for trying to beat such odds.


But it's Easter. And Easter is about forgiveness... (well, I don't know- what do YOU get out of it?) and so I have decided that, rather than degrading you like I do every year, I might as well show you some kind of a kindness. And what is kinder than being in my thoughts? To prove to you that you are, indeed, in my thoughts, I have taken the time to write you a loving, freeverse poem:


"You are the Easter Bunny,
sad, disabled, little man.
No one wants to shag you
because you are a freak.
What do you have to do
with Jesus rolling back a stone?
You are a disgrace and failure
you should probably kill yourself."

There it is, E.B. I sincerely hope you like it.

Go Choke,
- Grady Richards

P.S. When I eat chocolate bunnies, I eat the ears last, so that they can hear their own pathetic screams when no one comes to stop me from devouring them.

Hi, my name's Heather and I'm really into being Swedish.

This is a picture of Sweden.  Sweden is located at the northern tip of Australia and is home to such historical greats as Joan of Arc, the Omega Man, Andy Dick, and Dogg the Bounty Hunter.  Sweden isn't all about being awesome, though.  It's ninety percent awesome, ten percent sweet, and twenty percent awesome.  But enough about Sweden, because if there are two things I'm more into than my heritage, it's my dog.

This is a picture of Roxi.  Her name is short for Rockstar, but you can call her whatever.  Her band isn't on tour right now.  

This is her stage outfit, isn't she cute?  Roxi is really into eating things.  Not just food, either.  She tries to eat... well, I guess pretty much everything.  When I take her for walks, she tries to eat mud and sticks and cigarette butts and foreigners.  I have to concentrate really hard on keeping her away from eating things that could make her sick.  Foreigners are okay, if they're Asian.  Asian is one of the healthiest diets in the world.  

This is one of my best friends.  He's really nice.  He tells me I'm beautiful and compliments my hair.  He's always really into what I am wearing.  I catch him staring at my outfit out of the corner of my eye.  I can't remember his name right now, but we're bffl's!  This one time, he took me to the lagoon to feed ducks and we brought a bunch of bread from Jimmy John's.  We sat on a bench and threw chunks of bread to the ducks.  He has a really great fashion sense because he was really into my outfit that day.  He kept staring at my blouse with his mouth open and breathing hard.  It was really flattering that he thought it was such a breathtaking top because I bought it at Target for eight dollars.  But you couldn't even tell.  If you looked at my top, you would probably think, "Wow, that must be a really expensive top because it looks great and makes that guy breathe heavy."

Another thing I really like that doesn't have to do with Sweden, my Rockstar dog, looking great, and bargain-shopping, is the Packers.  My dad loves the Packers and so do I.  Their uniforms are so fashionable and they're probably the most athletic athletes in professional athleticals.  In two years, when I graduate, I want to move to California so I can go to Green Bay Packers games every Sunday.  I'll bet Green Bay is the most beautiful harbor in the Pacific.  If you aren't a Packers fan, you should be because the Packers are the leading force in the NFL.  They have been since they moved here from Stockholm, Sweden in 1998, when the Stockholm Stuttgaards got tired of beating up all the football teams in Europe and Australia.  I met a Packer once.  He was really nice and probably the most athletic person I've ever met.  Here's a picture to carry in your wallet.

I can't wait to graduate and get my degree in whatever I decide on any given year.  I kinda like living out here because I get to have fun and meet new and interesting people, but I'm getting too old to be in college.  I'm almost 25!  Happy early birthday to me!  Two more days!  I'm gonna get really drunk at my birthday party.  I do that sometimes.  This one time, I was dancing on the bar and I jumped to get down and everyone was really worried, but I felt fine.  The next day I had some random guy drive me to the hospital and sit in the waiting room for two hours.  Here's a picture of my first time on crutches.  It wasn't as fun as I'd always imagined it would be.  

Well, that's enough about me.  I'm going to go get a coffee and maybe a salad because I'm a vegetarian.  Sometimes.  But I really want to hear about everyone else!  Like I said, I love meeting new and interesting people.  But don't expect me to respond because I'm really busy doing things I like.

Bye!

Games to Play with Your Baby

If there's anybody out there who loves playing games and not growing up, it's me. I'm like Peter Pan, but without the tights, fairy friend, happy thoughts, and entourage of merry orphans. So I'm nothing like Peter Pan, I'm just immature. And if you're immature, you are probably just like me. But more irresponsible in bed, which is why you have a baby. But, hey, I'm a generous guy and I've quite altruistically thought of some fun games you can play with your baby, when I could have just included a list of pet names women have given my penis.

Babies are not only a great way to ensure you stay broke and miserable, but they are also an outlet for creativity and great scapegoats when the time calls for it. Believe, me; I know. Every now and again some trusting and all-too-naive friend asks me to babysit for a day so they can go to therapy or get hair plugs to disguise their frustrated tearing habits and I've compiled a list of what I believe to be the most amusing and useful attributes of having a baby.

1. Napkin
So you're sitting on the couch, watching the Blackhawks beat the snot out of that other hockey team... the one that doesn't matter, when you sneeze disturbingly dark mucous all over your own chin or spill molten nacho cheese on your crotch. We've all been there, right? The great news is: that baby is there for you; the perfect accessory (both in crime and fashion terms). Not only can you pick up that child and wipe clean your face or crotch on his Bob the Builder T-shirt, but the baby will- in most cases- laugh right with you. He's just happy that you're happy. Furthering the usefulness of this trick, when someone else walks in the room, the baby's a typically messy baby with his stained shirt and you're looking sharp. No one ever questions a thing.

2. Chick Magnet
Be careful with this one: While it is true that your cuddly little baby is going to attract all sorts of attention from the opposite sex, he or she will simultaneously ensure an immediate cock-block right along with it. No woman in her right mind is going to have casual sex with a man who has a baby, as it is usually indicative of said man having a woman in his life. Luckily for us, guys, there are tons of women out there who aren't in their right mind. This is why I say proceed with caution. If the piece of ass you picked up while taking your kid through the park suddenly breaks your rib with a 40 ounce Steel Reserve and keys your car, you can't pretend to be surprised. Women with loose morals don't exactly have their heads screwed on. There is a positive side to this, however. Your baby is not only a chick magnet, but it seems to draw unmerited amounts of attention from grandmotherly old women with dead husbands, grown children, and plenty of time on their hands to babysit for you when you want to take the missus to the bar, just like the old days. Make friends with old women, just ask my room mate.

3. Subject Changer/Emergency Getaway
Let's face it, babies are already professional subject changers. You're sitting at the table having a conversation about something interesting, important, or otherwise applicable to your life, when little Johnny or Susie falls on his/her butt and starts laughing/crying like a loon. Say goodbye to whatever you were saying before this happened, because the other people in the room have had their attentions successfully diverted. And that baby did it on purpose. They are good at what they do and they understand that even Daddy needs to do this from time to time. And they'll never hold a grudge. The trick is this: You ran into someone you don't like at the grocery store, post office, or opium den and you're holding your baby trying to think of a single damn phrase that will end the awkward conversation and let you get a few steps closer to that six pack at the end of the night. Discreetly pinch the baby's leg and it will willingly start wailing like a banshee lost in a heavy fog. A screaming baby is always grounds to walk away- from any situation- without further word. Your baby might sound like it's in pain, but it's really just a great accomplice.

4. Carpet Cleaner
Now, I'm not saying you should use your child as a vacuum cleaner. That's what your lady is for. But imagine that sitting-on-the-couch-watching-the-Blackhawks scenario from number one. You've got a bowl of Cheetos, popcorn, whatever in your lap and you happen to notice a few morsels slip over the rim and tumble down to the carpet. Don't get up! Just take little Johnny or Susie from the cushion beside you and ease him/her down to the floor. That baby will be happy to oblige. The most important step in this trick however, is to act puzzled and mildly concerned when the baby doesn't eat much at dinner.

5. Doggy Hump-Toy
This one is similar to the last one, but instead of cleaning up one of your messes, your baby is kindly diverting the attention of your sister's little yapping dog humping the shit out of your leg every time you come over to borrow money. Just put the kid on the floor and it'll do all the work.

6.Stealing Small Products from Electronic Stores
This tip is by far the most valuable and you'll be kicking yourself for not thinking of it already. Your baby's diaper is like a cold sore on someone's mouth- or a person in a wheelchair who needs assistance over a curb- people just don't look at it. Examining someone else's baby's diaper is a good way to wind up introducing yourself to your neighbors every time you inevitably move to a new area. If you're at a store and you want to own certain small objects without the hassel of paying for them, simply slide them down into the underoos of your favorite partner in crime. If, on your way out, you happen to set off the electronic security devices, cooperate while Barney Fife examines the contents of your pockets, bags, and receipts. You're in the clear. Because if security does smell a rat and decide to check your baby's no-no areas, just scream "Pedophile!" at the top of your lungs and you will be ushered unscathed to your car before you can say "suckers."

Another tip I've recently heard is to line your baby's diaper with aluminum foil before going on your fun shoplifting date. This will allegedly hide any security devices from the detectors altogether.

I hope you have enjoyed these amusing and useful ways to play with your otherwise loathsome child. Because coming together with your offspring is probably rewarding, in some way or another. And there is nothing which brings generations together like mutual disrespect for authority, society, and propriety.

Happy playing!

My Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,
I know it's pretty early in the year to start writing you letters, but there is a lot on my mind and I wish to unload it before my usual string of moral mishaps have banished me indelibly from your "Good" list. First of all, those girls I allegedly made cry have all moved on with their lives- and let's face it: there are far fewer instances of me (allegedly) crushing people's hopes and dreams, this year. Along the same lines, I have turned down more than my share of dishonest bribes this year. Although it was for the joy of such Hope and Dream Crushing, rather than integrity, I feel the point is moot (and awfully hard to prove). I'm not normally susceptible to bribes in the first place, but this year I have taken (slightly) less joy in souring the human spirit. Furthermore, I feel that I have improved as a human being- although kindness is something I don't understand, I do at least pretend to possess it. Imitating life is something that we would expect from, say, an advanced robot. This year, I am like an advanced robot, whereas in years previous I imitated life about as well as a vacuum cleaner which is a bit too loud to justify. So you see? Improvement!
Also, I'm not writing this letter in the blood of an innocent. (That child was totally guilty!)

But as long as we're on the subject: Who the hell are you to judge me?! Seriously, Santa- I have had enough of your uppity bullshit. And I think I speak for all free-thinkers when I say it! What makes you so freaking perfect? What gives you the right to weigh all of humanity on your totalitarian scales of "Good" and "Bad"? Are you the son of some kind of God? No? Maybe you have risen to power through all sorts of saintly acts which deem you better than the rest of us. Oh, no? Not that either, huh? So, what exactly gives you the right to determine our fates with your holy list-making?

Oh. You break into people's houses, steal their milk and cookies, and leave them presents. Okay, I'll admit that leaving them presents is pretty cool... when they live up to your standards. But what child in the world hasn't done something to banish them from your "Good" list? I mean, is there some sort of consolation prize for those of us who are bad (but kind of want to be good) or those who haven't been bad, but didn't necessarily do anything good, either? Is there anything out there for those who sit on the moral fence- or sit on the bad side only because that fence is really hard to climb? Oh, you give out coal, don't you? Fucking coal. Now, I'm sure there was a time when a lump of coal could serve a purpose. But in this day and age, a child like me recieves a lump of coal and I can't do anything good with it. I can't even draw a picture with it. Okay, I probably could draw a picture with coal, but it would be a really crappy picture with only one shade and tons of those little fingerprint-smudges covering the white spaces. But the point is: If you give coal to someone other than those heavenly suck-ups on the "Good" list, what did you expect us to do with it? Therefore, it is your fat fault I fed coal to Mrs. Thatcher's poodle. It is your fault I threw coal through the fire station's window the year before. And the year before that... that alleged incident with the old people at the park? That one is your fault, too.

What did you think was going to happen? It's like putting a bottle of scotch in front of a drunk ten minutes before his DUI hearing. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy of badness that you inspire deliberately.

But we forgive you, Santa. Because one day out of the year, you lift your tubby ass off the couch to give back to those of us under your shoe. Thanks, fuck-face. Maybe you should show kindness more than once a year- and to everybody equally. Like Oprah. If you were more like Oprah, maybe you wouldn't be receiving hate-mail like this (though you probably would, from me). Charity has become a job for you. But it isn't a job you perform every day- or even once a week. You show kindness one time a year. And the rest of your days are filled with voyeurism, as you watch the children sleeping, and judgment as you decide which ones are "Naughty" and which ones are "Prudes." Or whatever the word was. And let's not forget your self-indulgent, gluttonous eating habits, you chunky bastard. Maybe you should turn that lightning insight and dazzling judgment inward, Grizzly Adams.

Oh, and shave the beard, Robinson Crusoe. The Zuess Look is out this year. You look like a homeless man. Or a bus driver.

Fuck you and your pedestal,
-Grady Richards.

My handicapped neighbor with melophobia

 

To whom this does concern,

    It has become very apparent to me that one of my neighbors happens to be a handicap who suffers from a very horrible case of melophobia. I wish this not to be true, but due to recent events that have occurred I must assume it is. This became very clear to me while I was outside cleaning my garage last week. I was taking advantage of the nice weather and enjoying some music while I cleaned. Not too long after I started on my journey towards cleanliness I received a visit from Joliet's finest. He informed me of a noise complaint that has been called in about me, and asked if I could turn down my music. I replied, "I most certainly will my good sir" and carried on.

Now, based on the events I previously described the only logical reason one of you wonderful neighbors would choose to phone the police instead of walking a few feet to ask a nice strapping young neighbor to please turn down his music would have to be because you are handicapped. I feel very sorry that you have to deal with such a terrible ailment, and for me to trip your fear of music into overdrive on top of that makes me feel that I have wronged you in such a terrible way. It must be terrible to be locked in your house stuck listening to whatever music your annoying neighbors decide to play for you. To make this up to you I vow from this day forth I will come over once a week to take you for walks to the pond. We can feed the frogs and listen to you complain about all the young rascals that walk by and bother you in some way. I would offer to whistle you a nice tune, since that is a specialty of mine, but I know what that does to your brain so I will resist. If you are lucky maybe we can play a game I bet you are very fond of, called 'let's stare at this fish tank and wonder what they would be doing if they could walk.'(They would probably line dance or prance around on stilts to make the poorer fish that can't afford stilts jealous.) I am getting excited as I write this, so we should get this ball rolling right away.

Since I don't know who you are yet, I will not be able to provide you with what I think is a very appropriate apology until you make yourself known. The fact that you can't make it over and greet me yourself serves to make this a little tricky, but I have a solution. I assume you own a pirate flag (who doesn't). Take said flag and hang it in your back window, this will help me differentiate your house from everyone else who receives this letter. When you decide to carry this out is up to you of course. When you do decide to I will be as happy as a unicorn skipping through a field of lollipops to stop by and get you out of that cramped ol' townhome and rolling down the street.

Your soon to be bestest friend,

Rick

 

P.S. I have included a picture of myself jockeying a dolphin for your fridge.