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Tales From The Westside
When I was living in New York a few years back, everywhere I turned I'd see these tiny dogs. Minidogs. They weigh about three ounces, a pound max. Their little hearts beat ultra-quick. People stick little sweaters on them because they're always shivering. The smaller they are, the harder they shiver. They yap like car alarms when you get near them, but they're really cute.
Cute, that is, until you get up in the middle of the night to use the washroom. BAM! You stepped on one. But that's okay -- aren't they disposable?
Are they even real? Or have they been genetically engineered for portability and ease of use?
You give them little names. "Sheppie". "Dixie". "Twinkle".
You're embarrassed to admit that you used to play catch with them in your younger days. Once you toted one to school inside your backpack for Show-and-Tell. You picked one up by its tail just to see if you could.
I have nothing against these little guys. I'm all for fake dogs. I fully support burgeoning industries, and fake dog manufacturing will no doubt at some point be huge.
Maybe they could breed a minidog that can't feel pain -- for little kids, so the kids can't hurt it.
Should we call them "dogs"? How about "doggettes"? "Dog-lites"? "Puplets"? Or maybe we could use their traditional name, but spell it differently: "Dahgs".
You're living in Los Angeles. You wake up and Mr. Sun's shining through the window. But he's not saying "Good morning! Happy day!" He's saying, "Don't let me see your lazy self unless you are running, swimming, roller skating, or biking."
Mr. Sun makes me feel guilty, especially when I hear that POG-sized snowflakes are falling on Queens in April.
When you meet Mr. Sun in New York, he's got a different attitude. When I'm there during the hot, sultry summer, he stings, and I suspect he's somehow poisoning me with his pointy rays. But at least in New York he isn't a slave-driver.
I feel awful complaining about Mr. Sun, particularly because he wasn't around much where I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. But sometimes I wish he'd let me stay inside and just read a book.
It's not easy for me to elicit much sympathy. I'm a 29-year-old, straight, white, reasonably-well-educated male. I've never been oppressed.
I've lived in California most of my life, so I haven't been oppressed by climate. I'm not too tall or too short. I'm not overweight or too skinny. Everything happened pretty much when it was supposed to during my adolescence, so not much trauma there. I don't lisp. I don't share a bathroom.
I guess the biggest complaint I can come up with at this point is that, even though I have an ugly car, when policemen stop me I know I'm going to end up with a ticket. No matter how polite or cooperative I am with them. No matter what. I suppose I could try crying or pleading, the way many women I know have gotten out of tickets, but I suspect that would be futile.
At least I've finally got a valid gripe.
Houseguests are wonderful. I host as many as I can get away with as often as my roommate will allow. But every so often I love to shock those houseguests.
So, on a recent shopping expedition, I snatched up a bevy of useful products that should keep my future guests guessing for months.
I'd tell you the name of the fine establishment at which I obtained these rare and obscure brands, but I'm afraid it has since gone out of business.
I'm sure you'll discover these products, though, if you look carefully.
Don't spread this around, but I have a theory that men are being phased out.
Let's look at the sitch. Women are more empowered today than ever before. They hold higher-paying positions with more authority. They balance children and a career.
Yet there's still a long way to go. Women have yet to achieve real equality with men in most careers. Child care is still an issue in politics and in many major corporations. And the percentage of female CEOs heading up the Fortune 500 is still embarrassingly slim.
That worries me.
You see, I figure one of these days women are going to take over the sperm banks. The final frontier will then be reached -- they will possess a viable means of getting around that one leetle theeng that only the male of the species can provide. Then they'll announce that men are obsolete. Unnecessary. Out of style. Trite, even.
What will happen after that is the stuff of science fiction, territory into which I am loathe to venture. Instead, I'd like to offer food for thought to reverse this bleak trend before women take their cue from the bee kingdom and realize that the workers are females and the drones are males.
What started all this confusion is that, in my opinion, men are secretly jealous of women. What? you ask, shocked. What could they possibly be jealous of? PMS? Water retention? The agony of childbirth? Hardee-har-har.
But those things are exactly what makes them jealous. Women ride lovely rhythms and cycles which have no real counterparts in male physiology. To my eye -- that of a clumsy, undereducated oaf -- those rhythms, uncomfortable though they may sometimes be, must serve as a constant and delicately beautiful reminder to a woman of her sacred place in the natural circuit.
In contrast, I rarely can look inside myself and sense changes that coincide with the phases of the moon. I can sense indigestion, but that isn't cyclical unless I'm on an extended KFC binge. I can sense weight gain, but that isn't rhythmic because the weight doesn't go away after 28 days. I do feel a creeping unease once a month, but that is governed by the billing cycle of my VISA card.
Men don't experience these cycles because men cannot give birth. Period. If you were born with certain equipment, you are without certain other equipment, and them's the breaks. And that, I think, is the ultimate fuel for male chauvinism: Uterus Envy.
Don't let them tell you different, ladies: men would love to try having a baby, if for no other reason than simply to prove that they can do it ("Check this out, dude: eight pounds, ten hours, and no painkillers!")
Besides, men would probably like to make a more... lengthy contribution to procreation. They feel guilty! After all, they got their part over with early on, and probably had a nice time. To see their mate putting in so much overtime while nothing happens to they themselves -- yet to still share the baby -- just seems... unsportsmanlike.
Ladies, please: before you declare the male defunct, let's all remember a crucial fact: up to a certain point in embryonic development, there is no physical difference between boys and girls. They're made of the same stuff, same parts. Then boys are suddenly robbed of the ability to add new life to the world. No womb; doomed to be a groom.
I suspect boys are still smarting over it -- whether they'll admit it or not.
Dick Gronk, VP of Direct-To-Video for Sprawling Pictures, invited me into his office recently to pitch movie ideas.
I have to admit I'm a little nervous. Dick's known for his keen and uncanny ability to spot schlock a mile away. I'm not sure whether that will work for or against me.
Anyway, I thought it might be a good idea to run the idea by a few knowledgeable colleagues before putting Dick through it.
A black screen. Then, a window shade is yanked down by an unseen hand. In a bedroom, a pair of curtains is whipped closed.
In a kitchen, a woman looks terrified. A bathroom shower curtain is dragged shut. A man in a shower cap quakes with fright.
A man dashes through a set of lacy curtains and is violently grabbed by them. He continues to struggle and release muffled screams.
A large area rug rolls up of its own accord.
In a grassy park, a couple having a romantic picnic freaks out when the picnic blanket rolls up of its own accord -- with them trapped inside!
A couple is imprisoned in bed by the covers, screaming. Their feet stick out at one end, wiggling frantically.
A woman is rolled up inside a shower curtain. She struggles.
As a woman opens her dryer, bedsheets and towels fly out and attack her.
A man tries to run through a line of laundry, but is grabbed by a bedsheet.
A gang of towels and washrags slinks menacingly toward the camera...
A terrified boy dashes past a set of long curtains, which leap out and grab him.
In a linen closet, a cleaning woman and a maintenance man both struggle in the grip of towels, draperies, aprons, cook's hats, lab coats, etc. Both stare in abject terror because a towel is advancing toward them brandishing a steaming iron.
I'm going for an "R" rating. What do you think?
I suspect Dick will appreciate how easily we could launch a sequel, using paper products or recyclable plastic ("Doom From The Dump"!) Maybe there's even a franchise in this.
I also see many chances to incorporate sex and violence. Maybe we could shoot it with silk for the Middle Eastern market. Or the Asian version: "Killer Rice Paper".
Anyway, I'm meeting with Dick early next week, and I know he's anxious to hear what I have to say because he's already tried to reschedule three times -- I simply haven't returned his calls.
Please don't tell me this has already been done.
A disreputable publication contacted me recently and requested that I interview mega-starlet Ashley Chrome, who is in Los Angeles promoting her new film, Passion and Perjury (which I simply could not lower myself to see).
I accepted the demeaning assignment because I needed the cash. But I beg all my loyal readers to rest assured that I'm far above such menial footwork as jawing with the glitterati.
Unfortunately, during the assembly of my notes and research in preparation for the interview, a draft blasted through my office and knocked my clippings all over the place, even mixing them in with other files. I gathered up what I could and barely made it on time to the meeting spot, a ridiculously trendy juice bar on Santa Monica's Montana Avenue.
Happily, my mixed-up notes caught Ms. Chrome off-guard and made for a terribly candid conversation, herein recorded word for word.
Emmett Loverde: Is it true that Passion and Perjury director Hercule Clymadia at first refused to meet with you, and only consented after you appeared on "60 Minutes" dressed in a shiny vinyl frog suit and showed up on his doorstep to display for him your newly-acquired breast implants?
Ashley Chrome: Of course not! Where did you hear that nonsense?
EL: Some have alleged that you scrambled so fiercely for this role mainly as an antidote for heartache after you were unceremoniously dumped by television star Matthew Perry. Talk to me.
AC: I've never even met Matthew Perry!
EL: I also understand that Viking Press refuses to publish the diary they commissioned you to keep during the filming of Passion -- they feel that it's "too far below adult reading level" -- and are even demanding that you return the $1.1 million advance. Any comments?
AC: I received no advance for any book!
EL: Do you have any nude scenes in Passion?
AC: No, I --
EL: A-ha! A body double. Tell me, why this shame about your figure?
AC: It's not shame -- the film's rated "G"!
EL: But what about that uncensored "European print" that's even now making the rounds at film festivals?
AC: There's no 'European print'! There are no nude scenes!
EL: Then why the breast implants?
AC: Are you sure it's me you're supposed to interview?
EL: Don't play games, Ms. Chrome. After all, I suspect you've gathered from Hugh Grant's example that a little candor can spell dollars at the box office.
AC: I'm here to discuss my film, not to feed irresponsible rumor-mongering.
EL: Those are your breasts?
AC: Oh my god.
EL: Please don't duck the issue.
AC: They're mine, okay? What magazine are you from, anyway?
EL: Oh, so you're a writer now, too?
AC: I never said that!
EL: You do your job and I'll handle the verbiage.
AC: I'm the one answering questions!
EL: And I'm the one asking them. Can we get back to the nudity issue?
AC: Read my lips: No. Nude. Scenes.
EL: Ms. Chrome, it's common knowledge that British actor Hugh Grant's obsession with you began with your performance as a codependent stripper who's offered a million dollars to sleep with Elvis in an airplane in last year's film Showgirls Leaving a Honeymoon in Vegas --
AC: I don't know Hugh Grant.
EL: May I continue? Anyway, this obsession led him to attempt a rendezvous with you on Hollywood Boulevard, where he and another fellow were arrested assaulting a purple dinosaur.
AC: Are you insane?
EL: Come on, we've all seen the footage.
AC: That was a scene from a movie!
EL: Are you okay, Ms. Chrome? You seem a bit flustered.
AC: Can you blame me?
EL: I'm not here to assign blame -- that's the jury's job.
AC: Jury? I'm not on trial!
EL: Oh no? What about the report that you allegedly stole the diamond necklace that you wore to your film's opening last month in New York?
AC: Me? That was sharin' stone!
EL: "Sharing stones" doesn't mean you get to keep them, Ms. Chrome.
AC: This is absurd!
EL: And this is the end of the interview, if you'll excuse me.
I'm only now starting to recover my temper. Pray, gentle reader, that I will never have to rub shoulders with such conscience-free lowlife again.
Columnist's note: The following is reprinted from an obscure weekly paper entitled The Informed Denizen which caters to the over-educated and underpaid. The craftspeople and their works referred to herein have not, as of yet, been located. Readers with information regarding same please contact someone of importance at this publication.
The rooted, undying works of the master of Pre-Postwar Eastern European cinema, Muscraven Gutlag, tug at the low-draped extremities of the awareness. A master of the obvious, Gutlag's surprising revelations about the unobtrusive pepper the ripe salad of his work.
Known primarily for his greatest works, Zeinfarg, The Turnip Man, and, of course, Holy War, Gutlag's death in 1958 rocked the screen. These three films, his last, raised the collective eyebrow of Berlin's Cafe Society (though they did not, interestingly, register at all with the artistic elite), and without meaning to Gutlag ushered in a new school of cinematic finesse which inspired Winslow's Gnash, Roisarch's Raincap of Blood, and, ultimately, Jahbrecch's Black Day.
We pause to recall the frantic search for the second reel of Holy War, missing since Gutlag's suicide. The failed plan to exhume his remains in an effort to recover the lost footage is documented in Richarde's Dig, Dig, a painful exercise which destroyed all hope in that part of the world for several years, until Moisto's "Wasted Time" series began publication in 1963.
The revival of Gutlag's entire filmography last November provoked protests from the local arts community because of the Museum's decision to exclude the Droopy Dog cartoons that accompanied Zeinfarg upon its original release. This oversight fortunately failed to mar an otherwise exhaustive cataloguing of the master's work. Indeed, anticensorship zealots were quickly pacified because the Museum announced it would not remove from Antface Gutlag's haunting but graphic depiction of two peasants attempting desperately to mate inside a vat of aging cheddar.
Despite the success of the Gutlag screenings, very few people attended them. All seemed lost, and future programs of that ilk dangled in the noose... until the current release of Rudolfo Antagoni's The Death of Love.
The Death of Love concerns the efforts of a nearsighted proctologist (Repito Per Favore) to reunite with the ghost of his former lover (Zaino Giallo), whom the proctologist killed when she left him for the postman (Hans Rotini).
The proctologist's agony is keenly felt, and his fourth attempt at suicide ends tragically with him disfiguring his eight-year-old niece with hair tonic. The driven man's hopeless yet honorable crusade to reclaim love from someone who wants nothing to do with him rings true. Antagoni proves himself a master, and is clearly gearing up to replace Gutlag in the minds and hearts of many.
Indeed, even in the film's slowest moments the lover of cinema squirms with rapturous recollection of Gutlag's Beast of Envy, a leisurely-paced but immensely pleasurable work. And when Death comes alive, it flowers: one can safely imagine Gutlag himself behind the bullhorn.
Further proof of Antagoni's Gutlagesque genius lies in the fact that, on a deep level, The Death of Love is a farce. It recants almost point for point the discovery of the Canary Islands in 1742, including the tragic hunt for the Red Mynah Bird (which was to prove fruitless after three years) and the curious romance that flowered between Sir Everett Marshall and a patch of quicksand.
The very idea, the discovery of something that at first seems substantial yet ultimately is worthless, is at once mirthful yet tragic. And Rudolfo Antagoni chose to bury this mammoth truth inside the already astounding plot of this film. Incredible.
For readers not fortunate enough to have seen Gutlag's retrospective last winter, grieve, for none of his films will probably ever be shown again. But the master's loving fingers still tickle the nimble minds of artists such as Rudolfo Antagoni.
Q: Am I cutting-edge?
A: If you think you are, you're not. If you know you are, you are. If you think you're not, people will sense your uncertainty, mistake it for detachment, and begin to imitate you, which will then make you cutting-edge.
Q: How much does being cutting-edge cost?
A: You're asking the wrong questions. Others should always pay your way.
Q: How should I dress?
A: With commitment. Find a look and commit to it. For example, if you prefer black, wear nothing but.
Flip through reading matter containing interesting pictures (Guitar World, Beverly Cleary's Ramona the Pest, Webster's New Collegiate). Poke your finger between the pages at three different places, being careful not to break a nail. If you don't find pictures at any of your stopping places, use a book that's less complex.
Commit to the three pictures, whatever they are (e.g., weeping willow tree, a disheveled child, a Spotted Owl). Your look will be based on a combination thereof. For example, you could style your hair like a weeping willow, dress like a ten-year-old, and complete the look with a spotted feather boa and three-toed sandals.
Q: But I have trouble with commitment!
A: Get over it. Your commitment to Coolitude should take precedence over any other relationship, especially with a significant other or your mother. Lovers are a sign of weakness anyway, so drop them (see below for instructions). Relations with mothers are to be maintained only to the extent that they be available for hanging-up on and soaking for birthday gifts.
Your commitment to image should also replace religion, since religion is mainly a source of picnics and free coffee, both of which are fattening.
Q: Do I have to buy a whole new wardrobe?
A: Probably, but not necessarily. Much of your image lies not only in what you wear, but how you wear it. For example, plaid Bermuda shorts say one thing when they're on your waist, and quite another when worn as earrings.
Treat your wardrobe in accordance with your image. If you fancy yourself a guitar god, tear your clothes. If you're a librarian, iron them. If you're sporting a sheepdog motif, soil your clothes and experiment with flea collars (many come in fascinating colors).
Q: What should I do about my Significant Other?
A: Dump him or her. Give them the boot. Don't bother calling to tell them they've been axed. Just drop out of touch. This will make you seem stunning and heartless, which is excruciatingly cool.
Q: What is the Coolitude theory?
A: Coolitude teaches that your time is more valuable than anyone else's. If you spend your time with others the way you want them to spend their money on you, you will seem commonplace.
If your time is perceived as precious and expensive, people will be afraid to waste it, which will make them nervous and jumpy in your presence. This is desirable. Glance at your watch periodically to maintain the effect.
Mid-May features probably the most eagerly-awaited of all the world's film festivals. Historic Boar's Groan, California -- just outside of Fresno -- is magically transformed for five days into the Dream Capital, the Artistic Oasis, the Pit of Celluloid Passion.
I'm talking about, of course, The Boar's Groan Film Festival.
Now in its third year, the Boar's Groan Fest is thankfully free of much of the stifling scramble and fluff of those other film festivals, which have putrefied into little more than extended back-patting sessions for Hollywood hopefuls feverishly aggrandizing each other before their films are finally unleashed on the ticket-buying public -- which nurtures its own ideas regarding "quality" movies.
Boar's Groan, on the other hand, emphasizes the "lyrical economy" of its entries. The controversial requirement that films be budgeted at no more than $500, though initially greeted with shock and derisive chortling, has emerged as a Red Badge of Courage among maverick directors. Indeed, the financial ingenuity with which many of this year's entries were executed demonstrates that the low end of the Hollywood monetary teeter-totter is by no means an artistic poor relation.
Below I list several of the more noteworthy entries. Look for them at your local multiplex. If they don't appear, keep looking.
Brooding Desire depicts the decade-long obsession of a dentist (Christopher Portovino) with one of the rear molars of a beautiful 23-year-old patient (Jamie Sunpaste). When the patient carelessly shatters the molar while sucking on a Sugar Daddy (rampant symbolism), the dentist, also shattered, turns his drill on himself.
Brooding Desire is exemplary among this year's entries not only for its heart-wrenching plot, but also for the extraordinary pains taken by its makers to judiciously shave its budget, which resulted in a movie that looks to have cost hundreds of dollars more. For example, because the cast and crew were not allowed to eat at all during the grueling 21-day shoot, the film closes with all the characters looking sickly and gaunt. In addition, many of the later scenes feature bad focus and/or unintelligible sound, probably due to the failing faculties of the hungry technicians. The effect is gradual deterioration, with the patient's final betrayal of her tooth and her dentist -- excruciating.
An intriguing footnote is the fact that Ms. Sunpaste and three of the crew members died of starvation during production of Brooding Desire, which adds to the breathless timbre of this ode to, well, brooding desire.
Abandoning a coherent storyline in favor of an arsenal of passionate bombshells engineered to wring agonizing emotional outpouring from even the most granite-like of audience members, Black was Camp's final statement before succumbing to the poisonous lure of corporate life: he is currently directing episodes of "Friends".
Black employs an entirely black screen throughout the film's 78-minute length. Interestingly, the soundtrack itself contains only three minutes of dialogue, four minutes of sound effects recorded at a kennel for abandoned house pets, and six minutes of music stretched out over the entire running time. The result is a riveting tapestry building to one inescapable conclusion.
Tragically, I failed to discern this conclusion because the dialogue was in German, for some reason (Camp is Canadian). (Subtitles were not used because their added cost would have disqualified the film's budget for Boar's Groan. Also, "creative differences" emerged between Camp and the titling house because Camp demanded that the subtitles be in black, while the technicians argued that the words would be invisible against the black screen. Camp threw a tantrum. The master battles those who would profane his vision!)
A&CMA delivers exactly what its title suggests: Bud and Lou come face to shrieking face with Giger's most famous nightmare, acidic yellow blood and all, and rollicking outer-space chaos ensues.
Bembo, an editor-turned-director, is third in a family of editors who filch unused footage from movies on which they work. Carefully choosing outtakes from his father's and grandfather's extensive private libraries, Bembo assembled this riotous comedy, which had its worldwide premiere at Boar's Groan. See it soon, because its release is expected to be extremely short-lived due to impending legal difficulties.
Happily, whatever the fate of A&CMA, Sprawling Pictures has hired Bembo to reshoot the film as an erotic thriller.
This heartwarming tale of five white aspiring basketball stars trying to scrape together some self-respect while growing up in the suburban jungle outside Baraboo, Wisconsin introduces TyRone (just "TyRone") as a kindly but aging black coach who takes pity on the rich white boys and tries to teach them basketball while building their confidence. Naturally, "Da Boyz", as they come to be known, pull out all the stops at the State Championships and also manage to expertly perform a rap number at half-time. As the credits roll, they're deciding between full-ride scholarships to major universities and a contract with Broken Recordz. And they owe it all to TyRone, Da Brotha Who Believed.
This exhilarating film was "inspired by a true story", and the press kit assures viewers that the white boys actually played their own basketball. A real crowd-pleaser.
Have you ever wondered how those high school cafeteria food fights begin? This penetrating three-hours-plus documentary explores the anatomy of a typical culinary melee in excruciating detail. It opens by introducing the instigators, examining the torturous peer and parental relationships that drove them to such a horrifying outburst of violence. Next the camera lingers lovingly on the innocent and not-so-innocent bystanders, luckless souls whose lives and clothes are soon to be soiled perhaps beyond repair. Then are shown interviews with cafeteria professionals and security personnel whose main role is to prevent or contain eating area disorder as efficiently as possible. Then comes the fight itself, in all its splattering, drippy glory. And, finally, the aftermath, when the victims struggle to piece together their battered, buttered psyches.
Quartz reportedly spent two years researching Food Fight! before filming it in a whirlwind three days. Amazingly, he accomplished such a feat while a full-time student at Brutus High School in Lancaster, California.
Quartz originally wanted to document a prison riot, but was unable to obtain a permit to actually start a riot, so he opted instead for a food fight. He hopes to earn enough money from the film's release to settle a number of lawsuits filed by other Brutus students demanding that Quartz clean or replace various items of ruined clothing. Quartz maintains that the lawsuits are purely coincidental.
Interestingly, the judges panel declined to choose a recipient for the coveted Boar's Groan "Palm Odor" statuette, the Festival's overall award, because they deemed all the entries to be "of such high quality that choosing one to the exclusion of the others would introduce an undesirable spirit of competition into the proceedings," stated one judge who begged to remain anonymous.
Another reason for the lack of an overall winner (voiced only behind closed doors) was that the Festival sponsors didn't feel like paying for the costly Palm Odor statue, preferring to use the saved funds to make a film of their own "because it looks so easy."
America, you are there.
Editor's note: The following is reprinted from the March 1996 issue of MaleSmitten magazine, a publication devoted exclusively to urging a woman to make the most of her assets while there's still time.
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Your man cancels a date with you for the third time in a row. How do you react?
Your man informs you that he prefers women with larger breasts. Do you:
Your man complains that you're the wrong sex. Do you:
Your man calmly informs you that he'd sooner marry a Shetland pony. Do you:
Your man complains that he spends too much money on you. Do you:
Your man complains that you're not smart enough for him. Do you:
Your man worries that he's "losing himself" in your relationship. Your response:
Your man wonders aloud how you'd look as a blonde. You:
Your man calls you by the wrong name during sex. Your reaction:
Your man tells you that he's having an affair with your best friend. You:
Your man admits that it disturbs him that you are taller than he is. You:
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Subtract five points for every "1". Score zero points for every "2". Add five points for every "3".
Less than zero points: Completely unreasonable. When are you planning to get married, after you retire? Men don't grow on trees, you know.
Zero to 25 points: Too independent. You're not really a "keeper"; you're a "loaner". Keep this up and you'll definitely be a loner.
26 to 50 points: Worth a look. They'll come a-knockin', if they haven't already. Just be sure to let 'em in.
Over 50 points: Stepford Wife. You have your pick of the litter! Just keep in mind that all those surgical procedures can wear a girl out -- and men like their women fresh.
Columnist's note: God called me a few days back and asked if He could fax over answers to letters that He's received from Los Angeles-area children whose addresses He's misplaced. I said sure, why not?
I'm flattered by your interest, but I'm afraid I haven't any stock that you can buy because I am not incorporated. And yes, I do know everything, but please understand that giving you and your friends "hot tips" would violate SEC regulations.
Yours very truly,
God
No, the platypus wasn't a joke. I had definite reasons for making him look that way, though I can't recall them at this moment. And yes, I did mean to make the Emu grey, though I don't find him as ugly as you do. Anyway, I didn't give him that silly name; your scientists did.
Fondly,
God
When I made it, the sky was blue. Talk to your congressperson about what's happened since.
Sincerely,
God
Yes, I did make the people who made the Puppy Chow that poisoned little Sparky. But you're not going to get a dime out of me, so please call off your lawyers.
Regards,
God
Thank you for the kind letter and the photo. I'm fresh out of eight-by-ten glossies, so I'm afraid I can't send you a picture of me right now. The one at the Sistine Chapel's pretty dandy, though I don't think it shows my playful side.
My best,
God
Thank you for your business card. I never thought about setting up a Website, but now I know whom to call.
Since I'm not currently online, I'm afraid I have no e-mail address to give you. You will have to contact me via the old-fashioned "prayer-net".
Yours,
BIG_G@heaven.gov
(just kidding)
I'm sorry he cries so much, but please trust me that your little brother will be good for something eventually.
I don't think your mom would like it if you sold him to the circus as "a mutant hairless hamster".
Lovingly,
God
I agree that Jesus looks pretty good in that painting, but I'm afraid He doesn't have any brothers who "play around". Thanks, though, for asking.
Affectionately,
God
Actually, I was already offered a talk show on UPN, but it seems as though all the top acts would rather appear on "Letterman", so I turned it down.
Regardless, I suspect that if I had my own weekly show, church attendance would probably decline and a lot of clergy would be out of work. So I'm holding off for now.
It was nice of you to offer to package my show for only eight percent, however.
Sincerely,
God
Yes, I suppose priests and rabbis are "publicists", in a way. A monk is more of an accountant than a middle manager, however. And a bishop... let's just say "Internal Affairs" and leave it at that.
How did you get to be this cynical by second grade?
Curiously,
God,
President and CEO
P.S. We don't plan on downsizing any time soon, so hopefully you'll still consider us a career option.
Yes, I am well aware of the content of "Song of Songs". No, Solomon wasn't punished for writing it -- in fact, he did so at my suggestion.
It is "juicy", isn't it? But maybe you shouldn't read it aloud at your eleventh birthday party.
Always,
God
I am familiar with the advertisement you saw in the comic book. I don't think the pills will have quite that effect, no matter what the company claims.
Also, please tell your sister that those exercises may help her a little, but not as much as she hopes.
Each of you please be patient. You'll both turn out fine. I do nice work when people let me.
Take care,
Big G