How to Fix the Oil Spill

The peeple at BP (hereinafter, "Beeple") are obviously retarded. They're going to fix a leaking oil well with a junk shot? Or a top kill? Or relief wells? Are these really the best ideas those Beeple could come up with to plug the hole?

Earth to Beeple: everyone knows that natural disasters are caused by zombies. So obviously, the solution this problem is brains. Duh, beeple. Or as a zombie would say, "brains."

Chuckle chuckle chuckle vurp.

If you wanna get serious, the solution to this problem is Jack Shephard from LOST. If anyone knows how to put a cork in a hole that's leaking poison into the world, it's that guy.

And look how happy it makes him!

(Thanks be to videogum for the pics.)

Dear Teh Obama,

Forget about Jack Bauer. His show got canceled anywhoop. CALL JACK SHEPHARD. He's on an island somewhere.

Also, brains.

Brains,

Smokey

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear Diana Ross (aka Sandy Arugula, for purposes of remaining anonymous on this here blog which you are the only person not reading),

I believe I have gone on record as to how I feel about them apples.

Your pal in Jolie,

Smokey

And now, an offer for FreshDirect...

Dear FreshDirect:

You did it!

I am so excited and so proud of you for finally managing to deliver me my eggs without cracking any of them in the course of said delivery. I admit, I was less than optimistic when I opened up the box and saw one of the egg cartons lying on its side. Oh no, I thought. Here we go again.

Actually, that's not exactly what I thought. My inner monologue tends to be a great deal more profane than that. I think it's because one of my personalities is a sailor who swears like, well, a sailor, frankly. What I actually thought was, oh fucking no. Here we fucking go fuck a-fuck-gain. Fuck.

Please excuse the language. Also, please excuse the low expectations. (My sailor personality is also very jaded about 21st century customer service. Sorry.) I'm just being honest here, though, which I hope will give you greater insight into the FreshDirect customer experience, which, believe me, can be a profanity- and pessimism-inducing experience even if you don't have an alternate personality with a maritime background and a bitter streak.

Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on finally getting the egg thing right. This is the third time I've ordered eggs from you, FreshDirect, but it's only the first time I've actually gotten all the eggs I ordered intact. Both of the other times, various amounts of egg breakage in my orders have resulted in my account being credited for the full value of all the eggs. In other words, I have not yet actually paid for a single egg.

Until today. And believe me when I tell you that I am fucking happy to do so.

As a matter of fact, I even feel kind of guilty, probably because one of my other personalities is an abusive parent with an overdeveloped sense of remorse. I feel guilty about everything.

But I especially feel guilty about having eaten so many free eggs. So, FreshDirect, in the spirit of quid pro quo (Is there a spirit of quid pro quo? What does that even mean?), I'd like to credit you $5.00 on my next order. If you could please just add a random $5.00 charge - not in return for a product, not for a service, but just because I asked you to - I would be very much obliged. It's my way of saying, "good job, fucking FreshDirect! Thank you for all the free goddamn eggs. Oh, and I'm sorry I hit you - please don't tell your mother."

Yours truly,
Smokey Robinson.

Behold, The Printed Blog.

I have just discovered a site known as The Printed Blog, which I refuse to link to out of principle. (I think it's principle. It might be out of principal - I can never remember which of those is which.) If you want the link, send me a SASE (that's a self-addressed, stamped envelope, to any Nickelodeon fans from the mid-80s who happen to be in the audience today!), and I'll send you the link by US Mail, which is like the Pony Express with a massive carbon footprint and stamps that no longer need licking.

Sorry, getting back to my point. The Printed Blog (not pictured) (or "hyperlinked").

I thought one of the nice features of blogs was the drastic reduction of our US Mail-sized carbon footprint, wasn't it? I mean, wasn't the whole point of "zines" and "weblogs" and the "intranet" to conserve paper? Wasn't that at least part of it?

And now comes a service willing to print out the good parts of the internet and deliver it to you. This is not progress. This is not change blah blah blah-ieve in. This is what was missing from Alanis Morisette's song "Isn't It Ironic:" this is IRONY.

I propose that we all start a letter-writing campaign to The Printed Blog to tell them how ridiculous they are and how much paper they're wasting. And be persistent - they usually throw out the first 500 or 1000 pieces of hate mail - you have to really want it, people! Be with me on this! Letter-writing campaign to conserve paper!

Dear Fozzy Bear:

Per our agreement, enclosed above please find your one (1) corny joke. Your payment is due in ten (10) business days. Please don't tell Kermit about this. Or Jesus.

For services rendered.............................................$8,000

Your pal in Jesus,
Smokey.

Reports of Advancing Ice in Hell...

Dear Clay Aiken,

Okay.

I can deal with the Fannie Mae collapse. I can deal with the government buying AIG. I can deal with the entire economic sector on the verge of meltdown. But you? Teh gay?

This, sir, is too much.

This is a time to set aside our partisan blinders, to forget that we are Republicans and Democrats, to ignore the bitter schism between those of us who voted for you and those of us who voted for Ruben Studdard. This is a time for idle Americans and American Idols to come together as one to solve our nation's problems, and then to vigorously massage our nation's shoulders with warm oil, like you did to me at that party in Seattle when you swore that you weren't gay.

Seriously, what the fuck are you thinking? Is this really the time to make shocking announcements? Haven't we - meaning you and me, but also all of America - been through enough this week? Mortgages are going bad. Banks are failing. Must we also now face the knowledge that you, Clay G. Aiken, are a member of Dumbledore's Army? Must we now also be forced to learn that the G is for Gay, and not for Gilbert, as was previously reported?

For shame, sir.

I think you should suspend your homosexuality and fly back to Washington, DC to meet with the president and the other leaders of Congress about how best to handle the current economic crisis.

Oops, I meant, I think you should suspend your homosexuality and fly back to Washington, DC to meet with the president and the other leaders of Congress about how best to handle the current economic crisis, you homo.

Seriously, I can't believe you're gay. You swore to me that you weren't. You swore, Clay. I am so never making out with you again. I hope you drop dead, but in a very prissy and obviously homosexual way.

But I do have a question: are gay people capable of finding themselves attractive? Because if so, ew.

Okay, bye!

Love and kisses, but in a totally manly and appropriate way,
Smokey.

Vote for Oscar, Or This Could Happen to You

John McCain's campaign staff was up in arms about this unwarranted, unprovoked, and irresponsible attack on the candidate's ankles by a row of jars of Mott's brand applesauce. Imagine how pissed they'd be if they discovered that this attack was politically motivated, though.

That's right, folks, the Oscar campaign funds are finally going to use!

Sadly, the applesauce barrage is about as high profile as we can afford. In fact, after the $8 bribe we paid the ham-fisted stock clerk to stack the jars just so, the Oscar '08 campaign war chest is now down to a quarter, two nickels, and a parking token from the West Windsor Parking Authority intended for use at the Princeton Junction train station.

We would obviously have vastly preferred for McCain to be buried underneath an avalanche of Oscar Meyer hot dogs, bologna, and other packaged cold cuts (available in your grocer's refrigerator section - ask for them by name!), but that would have cost an extra dollar, and we just didn't have it.

So you probably won't be seeing any national ad buys (or any regional or local ad buys, for that matter), unless those stingy rat jerks at the Children's Television Workshop come through with the donation I have been begging and pleading for, but obviously in a very dignified way.

As for Obama, he's been a little bit harder to get to, what with all the muscular, athletic, rippling-muscled Secret Service men he surrounds himself with. I wonder why he likes to be around so many chiseled guys? And also, why did he need to go to a gym full of similarly mouth-watering dudes on his overseas trip, instead of going to visit our hot and sexy American soldiers?

Audible gasp! Could Obama be teh gay?

Dear Obama,

Ha ha ha ha ha, I just convinced America that you are teh gay. Now you will never win the president because everyone will be scared that you are going to sodomize their children and make them marry other children in the same sex as they are.

I am laughing all the way to the bank, in the sense that the bank is politics and the money inside the bank is Oscar the Grouch winning the president and you not winning the president.

You are not winning the president though. No-bama.

Go check out some more guys!

Love,
Smokey D. Robinson
Chairman
Campaign to Get Oscar the Grouch Elected President, or at Least to Make The Other Candidates Look Stupid and/or Gay

Nine blogless days later...

Dear everyone,

I wasn't going to blog today either, because you can fuck off, that's why. I'm cranky. This whole possible non-existence thing has thrown a wrench into my plans for world domination through the establishment of a highly successful global chain of frozen banana stands, an idea that was inspired mostly by watching the canceled Fox hit show, Arrested Development.

I'm also cranky because the Oscar campaign is going nowhere and fast. Big Bird backed out of VP talks, and we were counting on his electability with preschoolers to pretty much seal the deal. So now what do we do?

The best idea I've heard so far is to resurrect Mr. Rogers and the fabulous styles of his hairs, and put him on the ticket. But the campaign coffers are seriously adwindle these days. We consulted with a resurrection specialist named Jesus something (he had amazing references... Michael Jordan AND Frankie Avalon!), and it would appear that the best-known celebrity we can afford to resurrect is Eddie Rabbit, of "I Love a Rainy Night" fame.

Frankly, I don't think a Grouch-Rabbit ticket is going to get the job done.

So, as I said, I wasn't going to blog today either. (I believe I also mentioned something about fucking off, but I take that back.)

The reason that I decided to break my blogradio silence on this, the day of the Lost season 4 finale, is to make fun of this woman's pants:



I don't know how clearly you can see it, because I was laughing pretty hard when I took the pictures, and I'm sorry about that. What you can or can't see is that this woman's pants have flowers on them! But just on half! It's as if the designers themselves got halfway through and thought, "this is stupid. These pants are awful and ugly, and nobody in their right mind will ever wear them in public ever. Let's just make the top half black and call it a night." Seriously, these pants look like something the Salvation Army would reject.

This is how I imagine her train of thought went that morning:

Oh, boy! Another new day. But what to wear? Well, let's check that bag of clothes that the Salvation Army rejected and see if there's anything there... PERFECT!

I know, it's cynical and mean of me. I told you I was cranky. I also told you to fuck off, but again, I take that back.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson.

Letters from The Corn Rebellion

Antietam, Maryland
June 17, 1864

Dearest Willamina,

There is no news from the front to-day. We held strong against the insurgency yesterday, though we were assailed by the enemy from mid-day till dusk, and our regiment lost about half its strength in men by the time we cleared the wounded and dead from the field of battle. Rain came in last night, and by daybreak today, only twenty-eight of us were fit enough to answer the muster call.

I am beginning to believe that war is not the noble enterprise it was during the time of our fathers' fathers, when this nation, now divided, fought for its very existence. The differences that separate us seem so slight as to merit little more than supper table conversation. To think that this country, and all these men, could be so torn apart by something as trivial as corn sometimes strikes me as utterly ridiculous. I would scarcely even believe it if, in fact, I had not seen with my own eyes the sight of grown men swearing blood oaths about their corn preferences before sticking each other with their bayonets. Indeed, my love, even you and I have been philosophically separated on this rather pivotal point, and so it pains me greatly to have to confess some of the deeds I have done in the name of defending the free eating of corn, as I am sure they will disappoint and disgust you.

Nevertheless, my dear Willamina, whose hair is as yellow as the silk of the vegetable at issue, I must admit that I have partaken of several corn-only meals during the course of this war, and that I have, in many cases, thoroughly enjoyed them. Why, just yesterday, the regiment cooks prepared for our supper a meal of corn bread with corn soup and a side plate of corn. The day before that, we set to a table of corn pone and corn cakes. Worst of all was the evening, now a fortnight past, when we drank corn liquor from sunset till long hours into the dark. I got out of my wits and tried to heat corn in oil in a metal pan over our camp fire, to see if the corn would pop, as some of the legends say. My hand was gravely burned so that I could not properly lock the flint of my rifle for nigh on a week.

Of my adventures with corn, I know it must give you great distress to read them, and I am great pains to write them to you. But though many foods have crossed the transom of our national discourse during the long years of our troth, none have been so hard on us as corn. Because I have sworn an oath by God himself to defend the Republic, President Lincoln, and the freedom to eat or not eat corn as any individual may see fit, it would therefore be wrong of me not to confess all to you; for if and when I come home, you may find me a different man, a man changed by the ravages of combat, and by a diet that consisted mostly of those delicious yellow orbs which you find so detestable and loathsome.

I am not wholly unsympathetic to your point of view, Willamina, my love. Indeed, privately, there have been days during the recent past when I have come to despise corn for the bloody toll it has taken on the sundered brothers and cousins of this land. I hope to come home to you very soon, so that we can prolong our corn-fed rivalry in the comfort and confines of our own bedchamber, even upon pain of being barred from that room if the argument should get too stiff. Until such time as my return may be orchestrated, I shall remain

Yours faithfully,
Jedediah.

Spotlight on my junk mail

From: Houlihan's [Houlihans@houlihans.fishbowl.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Wed, Jan 23, 2008 at 12:40 PM
Subject: We Messed Up


***

From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Houlihan's [Houlihans@houlihans.fishbowl.com]
cc: Jesus Christ [superstar@whatwouldido.org]
Date: Thu, Feb 28, 2008 at 3:17 PM
Subject: Re: We (Meaning YOU) Messed Up

Dear The E-mail Goofs at Houlihan's,

Yes, you certainly did "messed up" all right.

I can't even begin to tell you how insulted I am by the baseless and fraudulent misrepresentation you have perpetrated on me and the entire Houlihan's-cuisine-buying population - at least, those of us who live outside of the handful of teacher's pet regional markets where your new seasonal menu concept is being tested. This is a violation of trust, and to ask young men and women, to ask old men and women, to ask African-Americans, Native Americans; to ask Americans to simply dismiss it and continue to patronize your establishments would be a humiliation of the highest magnitude.

I received this email on January 23rd of this year. So great was my distress, however, that I have been unable to form a cogent response until now, more than a month later. For a while, I held out hope that this was yet another chestnut from the vast reliquary of practical jokes in the Houlihan's Headquarters of E-Mail Goofdom in Athens, Georgia. But, as I have discovered in each of my numerous subsequent trips to your local franchises, this was not a joke at all.

You have sinned against your customers, and against the American public. Indeed, you have sinned against your very God. You have, perhaps irreparably, besmirched the esteemed name of The E-mail Goofs at Houlihan's. And your shoddy attempt herewith to cover that besmirchment with a simple apology is, well, shoddy.

To be blunt, The E-mail Goofs at Houlihan's, I hate you.

I am not an unforgiving person, The E-mail Goofs at Houlihan's, as members of the Republican party, or any of my numerous ex-girlfriends (except Mary, that bitch) will tell you. Nonetheless, I find myself unusually hard-pressed to get past this. It seems to point to something larger and more sinister. There are ominous underpinnings here, perhaps foreshadowing something altogether more evil than merely a breach of consumer trust. I'm not sure yet if I know what I'm saying, but I'd lay all the money in my pockets against all the money in yours that YOU DO know what I'm saying, if you know what I'm saying.

In light of that, I feel that I have a responsibility to bring your transgression to the attention of the public by writing this letter to you, and by publishing it on my blog. I bet you didn't even know I had a blog, did you, The E-mail Goofs at Houlihan's? That's what you get for failing to properly research and understand your demographic - that and an unquenchable controversy over mis-sent email about a seasonal menu. Rest assured that once news of this hits the internets, and once word of this letter is popularized by a viral YouTube campaign starring an animatronic horse, a talking fish, and Nalts, no one will ever go to Houlihan's again ever. I wish I felt some remorse about that, but I think we both know that you brought this on yourselves.

Best of luck in your future endeavors, except for the ones relating to restaurants - particularly those with experimental seasonal menus that are only being tested in hand-picked special markets. Good day.

Cordially,
Smokey

P.S. I was totally kidding about the best of luck thing. I hope you get struck by lightning.

The Oscar Party

So I recently wrote culinary genius Jim Henson a letter asking him for a little more public support of my Oscar '08 campaign - not only because it's the right thing to do, but also because if I'm going to get anywhere, I'm going to need to start racking up the celebrity endorsements. Who better, I thought, than a man whose entire career was devoted to exploring the intricacies of Muppet cuisine, and also, breasts?

Henson had been suspiciously tight-lipped in the media about Oscar's fledgling candidacy which, frankly, struck me as a little bit rude. Like, hello, Jim Henson?! I was decent enough to make a candidate out of your meal ticket; the least you could do is acknowledge me! That was basically the gist of what I wrote to him (not pictured). And I fully expected him to come seek me out at my Detroit residence, hat in his hand, and beg my forgiveness, or at least to offer me his fantastic recipe for sauteed Fozzy Bear with shallots and garlic.

Turns out, he's dead.

Now I'll never know the secret to how he made his Kermit the Frog au poivre so moist. So I've got THAT going for me.

Then I saw a headline somewhere that Vanity Fair had canceled their Oscar party, scheduled for this past weekend. Okay, I admit, I wasn't invited in the first place - which is a little bit strange, if you think about it. Only, please don't think about it. Think about fruit, like I do, all day long, five days a week, 365 weeks a year.

The point is that even without me there, I am sort of in love with the fact that Vanity Fair was having an Oscar party to begin with. Although, you kind of have to ask yourself why they wouldn't invite me as a courtesy, if nothing else, since the whole Oscar thing was, after all, MY IDEA.

Sadly, the first I heard of the Vanity Fair party was the cancellation. So my invitation is kind of a moot point. And now, Vanity Fair won't return my calls or emails asking for their guest list either.

Jerks.

Then yesterday morning, I heard that former Green Party candidate Ralph Nader announced his bid for the presidency on Meet the Press. Not that I would watch such a dorky show to begin with, since I have a life and my Sunday mornings are usually spent snorting blow off some hooker's ass in the back bathroom of some trendy Manhattan club. This weekend, I happened to take a break from partying my brains out so I could assemble some Ikea furniture on my living room floor - the Expedit bookcase in black-brown, and the Norden gate leg table (both of which are quite lovely, and very well assembled). But even so, I didn't turn on Meet the Press, because unlike me, that show is dorky. I believe I already used the word dorky to describe Meet the Press earlier in this paragraph, so it must be true.

The salient point, of course, is that, with Nader in the race, Oscar might lose the green vote. And Oscar '08 is really nothing without the green vote. Without the green vote, Oscar the Grouch is just a guy in a trash can, which, I can only imagine would make his electability go down faster than a White House intern ten years ago. (Zing!)

Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I got all hopped up on all the green talk this year and just went a little overboard picking a candidate who was, quite literally, green. Maybe Fred Thompson's bid made me think a grouch could work as President. Though, come to think of it, if a grouch can't even finish higher than fourth in a Republican primary, what chance does he have in the general election? (Zing again!) America might be clamoring for change, but maybe they're just not ready for Oscar the Grouch yet. Lord knows there were enough Oscar headlines in the news this morning to make a person think otherwise, but maybe... just maybe... I was... wrong.

No, that's not it. This is all Judge Reinhold's fault.

Dear Judge Reinhold,

Shame on you, sir, for not standing up and immediately endorsing another candidate after Bill Richardson backed out of the presidential race. You have left me, and hundredths of thousands of impressionable voters like me high and dry. We don't know what to do, and we are looking to you, Judge Reinhold, because Jesus is voting Republican (again).

If I ever see your silly face in a movie again, which is doubtful (another zing!), I will refuse to laugh at your zany antics or the madcap high jinks you land yourself in due to some colossal and only remotely plausible misunderstanding of your circumstances.

How could you leave your public guessing like this? How could you, Here Come Da Judge Reinhold? Nay, nay, I won't even call you that anymore. You are no longer deserving of your nickname, which was a token of esteem and respect in a time and place where esteem and respect, like clean underwear, are in short supply. You aren't even worth of the capital letters put on all proper nouns and names. From now on, you are simply to be known as judge reinhold the blah, which will occasionally be spelled wrong, just to emphasize my point.

F*** you, judge rinegold the blah. And no, the asterisks do not stand for L-I-P, or O-I-L, or even I-R-E. They stand for something much, much worse. But I'm not going to tell you what it is, which is just like YOU NOT TELLING ME WHO TO VOTE FOR!

Yours in song,
Smokey R.

Next time you bend over to kiss your kneecaps, you know who to thank for them

What sucks about the Giants winning the Super Bowl this year is that no one has stopped to consider the bookies. New England was a 12-point favorite going into the game. That is some serious overdoggage, mis amigos. And the Giants won anyway, proving that oddsmakers, much like political pollsters, are about as useful as the Stocks application on the iPhone. Seriously, does ANYONE who owns an iPhone use that? Do iPhone owners even own stock? I thought the iPhone was the hallmark of just the sort of irresponsible consumer spending and thoughtlessness with money that has driven America to the brink of recession! Who the hell needs the "Stocks" application?!?! It's like the Eli Manning - but the Eli Manning of the midseason who was more likely to trip over his own shoelaces than complete a pass, not the Eli Manning who somehow managed to crap all over the first perfect NFL season in 35 years - of iPhone applications.

But getting back to the bookies (and you should ALWAYS get back to your bookies, peeps), did anyone stop to consider how depressing yesterday must have been for them? All their clients probably made long bets on the Giants (with the 12 points, obviously), knowing that if they were risking a more vicious smackdown than the Giants defense laid on Tom Brady's immaculately groomed ass if they were wrong. But, of course, they WEREN'T wrong. It was the oddsmakers who were wrong, just like the pollsters in Iowa and New Hampshire, and just like that bell-toting wacko with the sandwich board who accosted me on 7th Avenue in 1995 with the news that the end of the world was nigh. Which just goes to show you, the experts in this country are always fucking wrong. And so are the pollsters. And so are the bookies.

Seriously, how depressing must it have been to be a bookie yesterday? No kneecaps to break, no football for like six months, the Lost season premiere already four days in the rearview mirror, and still an entire day until Super Fat Tuesday. And TWO whole days before Ash Wednesday! AND, it was a Monday!


I feel bad for Monday this week. As if it wasn't bad enough that everyone hates Mondays to begin with. Please, if anyone has the email address for Monday, February 4th, 2008, please let me know, I'd like to send the following email:

Dear Monday, February 4th, 2008,

I just wanted to tell you how completely sorry I am about the shit job they did scheduling you this year. If I were you, I'd probably think about killing myself, except that it totally isn't your fault since the calendar is an entirely man-made contrivance. So I'd probably think about killing a few men then, just to make my point. But please don't actually do that, or else they'll haul me in for questioning, because my blog is very famous and well-read, and I am an incredibly influential person. (I correspond regularly with both Jesus AND Santa Claus!)

Anyway, I know you had a pretty rough life, being sandwiched between Mardi Super Tuesday Gras and Super Sunday - to say nothing of the hangover from Groundhog Day - and I just wanted to say that, to quote Chaka Khan's 1984 chart sensation, "I feel for you. I think I love you. Chaka Khan let me rock you, let me rock you, Chaka Khan. Let me rock you, that's all I wanna do."

I bet you probably thought it was cool, getting to be a day of the week and all, and then they pulled your lottery number and you were probably like "Monday?" with that look on your face like you just smelled a fart, but you still probably didn't see how it was all going to play out until about mid-January when all the Groundhog Day displays went up in the department stores and everyone in New York and New England wore competing shades of red-white-and-blue to represent their fairweather admiration of their favorite NFL teams. I for one would have called in sick if I were you, except that obviously, that's not really an option. So, I guess, oh well.

Anywhoop, if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask. Except, please don't ask me to put in a good word with Jesus. Me and J-Dog aren't on that level anymore ever since I used Parkour as evidence to prove that His Dad existed.

Lates,
Smokey R.

Spotlight on my junk mail...again

From: Madewell 1937 [madewell1937@click.madewell1937.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 10:33 AM
Subject: The dress you'll wear all spring.

***

From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Madewell 1937 [madewell1937@click.madewell1937.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 11:15 AM
Subject: Re: The dress you'll wear all spring.

Oh my god, I will TOTALLY wear this dress ALL SPRING. Bravo, Madewell 1937, bravo. You have struck gold again, you magnificent beast or beasts. I feel as if you have reached a finger up through my vagina and touched my very soul.

Love and kisses,
Smokey R.

Me, getting invited to like, the hottest party of 2008, and having to say no...

FROM: Beingirl.in [beingirl.in@zapak.com]
TO: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 12:39 PM
SUBJECT: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun

***

FROM: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
TO: Beingirl.in [beingirl.in@zapak.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 4:29 PM
SUBJECT: RE: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun

Dear BeingGirl.in,

This was really sweet of you to invite me to the party and all, and especially because although I am a (mostly) white, (mostly) male (mostly) American, I am, at heart, an Indian girl. This makes me feel so special, and so recognized for who I truly am. And also, the manner in which you have managed to market to my demographic, with the clever use of catchy colors, bubbles, speaker-like graphics, and the silhouetted image of a girl jumping (to say nothing of the hot Indian rockerz F4, who I absolutely LOVE!!!!!), also makes me feel special.

Sadly, I won't be in the Mumbai area on the 25th, since I have to go to a boring American bar mitzvah that day for my boss's nephew. But all I will be thinking about is the Music, the Masti, and the Rocking performance that I could totally be at instead, if not for the fact that I live thousands of miles away, which I'm sure you must have known even before you sent me this invitation.

But I really did want to take a minute to thank you, and to let you know how truly touched I was to know that you thought of me. Please keep me in mind for next time, even if I can't make it. Sometimes it's nice just to feel included, right?

Thanks a ton,
Smokey

But where will I turn for answers now?...

***

January 17, 2007

VIA OVERNIGHT MAIL
The Astrological Magazine
13 1/2 Condict Street
New Brunswick, New Jersey 08901

Re: Adequate notice of termination of service

Dear The Ass-trological Magazine (tee hee):

I write to you today in response to your letter of December 22, 2007, wherein you assert that we have, in some fashion, been negligent in our responsibility to provide you adequate notice of the termination of our services, in accordance with our contract dated May 4, 1936, as revised and amended December 22, 1998.

We respectfully point out that we fail to see an actionable issue under any common or natural law, up to and including the US Constitution which, as you may or may not be aware, has no actual jurisdiction in this matter. (Frankly, citing the First and Fourth Amendments left our legal department scratching their magnetic north poles.)

We would also like to refer you the following phenomena:

- Pluto conjunct with the rotational center of the Galaxy (December 2006)
- The full moon at 20 degrees in Sagittarius (June 2006)
- The moon in Taurus, Saturn conjunct Mars in Leo, and Jupiter in Scorpio, all less than 2 degrees of exactness from each other (Summer Solstice, 2006)

As you well know, the aforementioned events are harbingers of change and indicators of rigidity and difficulty with respect to negotiations, particularly in the field of astrological publishing (not to mention clear signs that Carol Channing needed a diaper change). However, when it seemed that you were resolute in your refusal to acknowledge said events, we arranged for Mercury to be in retrograde for an extended period of time during mid-2007. And, as if we hadn't been generous enough already, we even sent comet 17P (Holmes) into major outburst only months before your service was canceled!

There was also this item, as foretold by Ray Setti at AstrologerWeekly.com during Mercury's extended stay in retrograde:

"Watch carefully how the stationing of Mercury at these degrees influences your natal chart in order to understand the personalized impact on your life. Also, if you are affiliated with The Astrological Magazine, this would be a good time to jump ship, as the publication will cease abruptly in December of this year."

Therefore, while we respect your position and understand your grief, we feel that the points above are ample illustration of the baselessness of your claim against us, and we reject your reference to "unforeseen circumstances beyond [y]our control" as you have indicated on your website. (Yes, we have Internet access up here.) Better luck next time, I guess.

The foregoing is without prejudice to all rights, remedies, and defenses, all of which are expressly preserved.

Respectfully,
The Stars and Planets Whose Various Gravitational Forces and Orbital Eccentricities Govern the Lives of People Down There on Puny, Egocentric Earth

cc: Milky Way Galaxy Legal Affairs office
Alan Dershowitz, Esq.

Yes!

Dear Rod Stewart,

I want your body, AND I think you're sexy. I'm just letting you know.

Your brother in Christ Jesus,
Christopher Lloyd