I finally got my pictures developed from Halloween. The night before, i went to a costume party at Don Rickles' house. I dressed up as your fat mom. Somebody crapped on my patio last Halloween, so to keep it from happening again this year, I put up a sign that says "No Asians."

I think I'll keep that up for a while.

Somebody told me that George Washington's teeth were made out of tampons. I carefully researched this matter, documenting every piece of data I could find. None were conclusive. Several weeks later, I wrote a letter to President John F. Kennedy, demanding he address my campaign to resolve this controversy. I guess you could say I lost interest. So let's dance like this. Oh right.... you can't see my dance.

Okay then, let's dance like this. Oh right.... you can't see it.

Tolstoy said it best;

"My tummy makes poo-poo and it goes out my butt."

His clever wordplay advanced the modern notion of "genius." One of my all-time favorite Tolstoy stories was told to me by some Indian I met on a reservation which I was barfing on. I can't repeat it word for word because the Indian smelled funny and I couldn't concentrate, but what I got out of it was that Tolstoy drank spermacide and poured it in his eyes on purpose. Which is cool.

Other than these facts, very little else is known about Tolstoy.

I was walking home from the store and some lady asked me to be in a commercial for a sports drink called "Fuck You, I'm Thirsty."

I'm like, "Yeah, what do I have to do?" And she says, "Just look into the camera and say, 'My nads are achin' me, mama.'" So I do like she says and she hands me $100 cash. Anyway, I got a call from Britney Spears this weekend, and she's like, "Hey, I sar your commercial for Fuck You, I'm Thirsty, and I just want you to choreograph my new music video which is called, "Zoom In On My Camel Toe... Okay Good, Good, Now Fade to My Breasts."

I just hung up the phone because my dance routines are fly, but they are not for sale.

My neighbor was digging out a tree stump in his back yard yesterday. I rushed over to him and hollered, "Hey! I wouldn't do that if I were you!" He stopped digging and I could tell that a sense of panic had come over him. "Why not?" he asked nervously. I made my way across the line of bushes between us and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Because I'm lazy," I explained.

When I was in Elementary school, a boy named Franklin taught me how to customize my pencils with an ingenious method of paper clip inscription that he developed. He dressed business-casual and had the finest posture that a tiny boy could ever aspire to exhibit. At the end of the day, I imagined him driving himself home in a station wagon powerwheel.

I was jealous of Franklin. He'd color-coordinate his lunch while I'd drool on my desk, afraid to close my mouth at the risk of dislodging my loose teeth. Now Franklin's making electronic dictionaries, and I'm scratching the "DON'T" off of my drug war pencil. I wish he would have taught me something profitable.

Your school district is reassessing their free-lunch roster and.... just so you know.... you're gonna get cut. You'll have to get a part-time job after school so you can afford Meat-load Mondays, Taco Tuesdays, and Pomegranate Wednesdays. I tried talking them out of it, but they said their budget is just too tight. They "have to make cuts," and you're one of them. It has nothing to do with your grades, behavior, or even your family income. It's because you're Mexican, and they simply don't want to give poor Mexicans free lunches anymore. In fact, they've stopped serving wealthy Mexicans altogether. At the meeting I attended, your school board referred to wealthy Mexicans as "Mind-boggling Conundrums."

"How could a Mexican be wealthy?" one cabinet member wondered out loud.

I'm just the blonde-haired, blue-eyed messenger, and I hate that my message is so sad. But don't sweat it. Mexicans will someday rule this country. When that day comes, the only thing you'll need a green card for is a free lunch and a good laugh.

Muggy's dad left early on. His mom was a plus-sized model for Elder-Beerman's. I remember counselors and hypnotists struggling to connect his crappy home-life with the way he behaved, which was often scary or mad or hungry for soup. They weren't the least bit hesitant to cast random theories, but Muggy never cried.

That little guy excelled at everything. I think he fancied himself a jack of all trades. He had natural ability and motivation to conquer the most trivial odds. Hot for a challenge, he joined the army upon graduating high school and injured a testicle during the second barbary war, gratefully returning home with a serviceable pair (though one was later removed and kept in a hollowed-out bible). Muggy was honorably discharged after 4 brave years of service. He spent the next 20 driving movie stars to glamorous openings in a twinkly limousine. During his lunch hours, he enjoyed soup and practiced writing, hatching brilliant ideas and polishing his words along the way. His first treatise began as follows:

"Always wear a stethoscope. To bag a parous lass, claim that you're a corpsman, then gently check her dilation. Herein you shall not fail. A female weanling is a potential client. Always wear a stethoscope."

It was a huge success.

Though rarely provoked, his insults were pristine:

"Dear sir, I must recommend a strict regimen of heterosexual sex instead of the kind you're accustomed to. By observing my stethoscope, you'll note that I'm a corpsman and that my advice is valid."

Sadly by age 40, Muggy found nothing much to live for. He tried passing movie scripts along to Hollywood big shots. They were GREAT, but the agencies used them to line Tori Spelling's kennel. Lost and dejected, Muggy retired to the shores of Tripoli one fateful eve where he swore to end his life. Now... he wasn't a coward; that's not why he failed to die so please don't ever say that. It's just that... he wasn't very good at suicide. Of all the things he practiced and excelled at, killing himself was never on the list. Suddenly his life had meaning. A glimmer of hope cut through the wreckage. Conquering new frontier is what kept him going all along. So Muggy turned the dice, perched fast upon an island stone that night, practicing suicide and loving life, if only for a little while.

From the dust buster to the atom bomb, Hopey's Consumer-Grade Products make life easy for the modern American. Don't touch that lid, Betty! Your brand-new Hopey Natural Ether-Powered Stove Top Assembly superheats those pots and pans faster than ever. Thinking about hiring a ballroom dance instructor? Perish the thought! Simply connect Hopey's Asbestos-Powered Dancin' Buddies to your uncoordinated house-wifey limbs and you'll be a-jitter buggin', baby-huggin' and gasoline chuggin' in no time. Are you still drying your pasta in the oven? HOW COME?!?! Hopey's Imported Italian Sunshine gives your meals an authentic touch that the Joneses certainly don't need to know about! How many times have you purchased a dartboard only to spend hours sanding and de-burring the edges? Never again! Hopey's dartboards are PRE-SANDED. Ich rikey, rikey señor!! Waiting for a train used to be a depressing ordeal. Say, Billy... how would you like to control the trains with Hopey's own Transit Signal Mechanism and Station Clock?! Just set the time on your miraculous station clock, and marvel at the wonders of modern technology! It works because it has GYROSCOPES. Hard to explain.

Which movement are you counting on? Feminism? Masculism? Egalitarianism? What-ever-else-there-ism? Some kind of revolution or something? Be still, afflicted fellow. Downtrodden housewife. Persecuted brother. He who be stereotyped and she who be stigmatized. Hopey is the honey in your pie.

The Case Against Snorty Buttkins

Mr chairman, on behalf of Wellsville, I present you with this letter regarding our town's notorious eccentric, Snorty Buttkins. With the new year approaching, we feel it prudent to reevaluate his his place here. We ask that our grievances be seriously considered, and that Snorty be reprimanded or expelled from Wellsville at once.

A brief list of complaints:

- Every halloween, Snorty's costume illustrates a common english expression. This year he went as "a chink in the armor" and I probably don't have to mention the ways he offended our diverse, ethnic population.

- He brings a boom box to church. Although he turns it off during sermons, he keeps his finger on the button so he can slam it on if the pastor pauses for a drink of water or to locate a passage.

- He sends greeting cards to new residents, which is fine, but the cards have pictures of crucified mermaids, and he signs them as "The Community's Crippling Scorpion."

- We truly appreciate his salting of the sidewalks during winter months, but we find his summertime buttering of the sidewalks counter-productive.

- He casually calls our children "chungroids." Nobody knows what that means, but it's unsettling.

- As you know, Wellsville takes great pride in its few remaining loose-toothed caribou, and we feel that no one has the right to taxiderm them. Mr. Buttkins' grandiose estate is decorated with a number of endangered species, INCLUDING our caribou. Why is that necessary? Also, his heavily modified SUV (christened "The Emasculator") runs on dolphin blood. Gasoline is much cheaper, but he refuses to use it. He says dolphin blood just burns cleaner.

- Snorty convinced city council to replace the library's Dewey Decimal System with something he invented called the "Luey Eskimo System," wherein mammoth blocks of ice are bartered for books and library wares.

- He also used his incredible skills of persuasion to convince Crest to replace the floss dispensers on their new toothpaste tubes with pez dispensers.

The list goes on, but we trust this summary is adequate and will prove useful in your decision making process. You should know that our strength is tested daily. Snorty's antics have driven a number of our elderly citizens to leap from cliffs.

Sincerely,
The People of Wellsville